The tunnel was empty now. Dust settled in the dim light, mingling with the faint smell of blood and ozone. Silence pressed down on the aftermath, suffocating and heavy. Arthur's chest heaved violently as he knelt beside the spot where Kaito had been. But the boy was gone. Alexander had vanished like a shadow, carrying Kaito in his arms, leaving behind only the echoes of betrayal and rage.
Arthur's fists clenched, nails digging into his palms until the skin burned. His vision blurred, not from the tears he refused to shed, but from the sheer, unrelenting anger and frustration that surged through him. He had been too late. Too slow. And the boy he had sworn to protect — the one whose life he had risked everything for — had been ripped away by his own uncle.
"Why… why?!" he whispered, the words cracking under the weight of his fury. His voice barely carried over the silent tunnel. He wanted to scream, to run after Alexander, to tear him down, to reclaim Kaito by force if he had to. But his body refused to obey. His legs buckled beneath him, pain shooting like molten iron through his knees, thighs, and hips. Every movement, even the attempt to rise, became agony.
Alia's voice came, fragile and panicked. "Arthur… what's happening? Stay still!"
But he could not answer. He could only feel the pain, the betrayal, and the helplessness coiling together, a venom that seemed to seep into his very bones. His head fell forward, vision darkening as consciousness wavered. He collapsed fully, the cold concrete biting into his chest, the black aura of Kaito's absence pressing like a physical weight against him.
When he finally opened his eyes, it was not the tunnel he saw, nor the battlefield. White light stung his vision. Blinking rapidly, Arthur realized he was lying in a hospital bed. The sterile smell of antiseptic replaced the acrid smoke and iron of the subway. Machines beeped steadily beside him, the monotone rhythm grounding him in reality.
He glanced at the clock: 1:07 a.m. The night was deep, heavy, and silent beyond the muffled hum of the medical equipment. Relief and dread collided in his chest. He was alive. That much was certain. But… Kaito?
The room was dimly lit, shadows pooling in the corners, but his parents stood at the foot of the bed. Relief flooded their features, tempered by exhaustion. "Arthur… you're safe," his father said, voice cracking. He almost seemed on the verge of tears, and Arthur could feel the tremor of emotion radiating from him. His mother's hands shook slightly as she brushed his hair back, murmuring, "Almost cried… but you're here. You're safe."
Arthur wanted to speak, to tell them that safety felt meaningless without Kaito. But his throat was tight, dry, and raw. His body still screamed in protest, legs aching with phantom pain from the collapse in the tunnel. He tried to lift a hand, but even that small movement sent a shockwave of agony racing up his spine.
A small, sharp voice broke the fragile moment of comfort. "I told you not to stay with that Catherine boy. He only brings trouble," his sister Olivia said, smirking faintly, leaning against the doorframe. Her tone was cruel, but there was a thread of worry beneath the teasing edge.
"Olivia…" his mother scolded softly, exasperation and tenderness mingling. "Don't say that now."
Arthur's vision blurred again, tears welling, though he fought them back. The weight of betrayal, failure, and the unknown pressed on him. Kaito, the boy who had suffered more than anyone had the right to, had been taken, and all Arthur could do was lay in this bed while others comforted him.
---
Hours later, far from the hospital, Sui Hiroshi's home was cloaked in a heavy, oppressive silence. The air inside seemed thick, almost stifling, and every tick of the clock reminded him of what he could not undo. His wife, Mika, and their daughter, Ayaka, hovered near the door, anxious, fragile, the worry in their eyes cutting deeper than any blade.
"Where is Kaito? Is he safe?" Mika asked again, her voice trembling. Her hands clutched the edge of the table as though steadying herself from the weight of despair.
Sui Hiroshi could not answer. He stood frozen in the hallway, chest tight, eyes hollow. Every instinct in him screamed to rush, to search, to reclaim the boy he had loved like a son should. But the truth — the unbearable, crushing truth — would not leave his lips.
Ayaka's small voice quavered from behind him. "Where… where is Kaito,father?"
He took a sharp breath, shoulders shaking. Frustration and grief intertwined, forming a coil of raw, physical pain. "I… I failed to save him," he said, voice breaking. The words clawed at his throat, each one heavy with shame. "He was captured… I… I am a failure as a father."
Mika's hands flew to his arms, gripping him, trembling. "Sui… you are not a failure. We will get him back."
But he could not move. Could not think. Could not breathe. His own body betrayed him as much as his mind. Every step toward his room felt impossible, as though the walls themselves resisted him. Each heartbeat hammered in time with the gnawing ache of inadequacy.
He reached his door at last. With a final, trembling effort, he closed it behind him, the click of the lock echoing like a verdict. He sank to the floor, back pressed against the cool wood, knees drawn up as if to hold himself together. His head fell into his hands.
The weight of the world — the loss, the failure, the knowledge of Kaito's suffering, the experiments, the horrors that had been inflicted upon the boy — pressed down until it was almost physical. He could almost feel Kaito's pain through every nerve in his own body. Every scream that Arthur had fought to suppress in the tunnel, every drop of blood spilled, every cruel test and confinement — it all converged here.
He didn't cry. Not yet. But the room seemed to shrink around him, the silence pressing into his ears, suffocating him. Each breath was ragged, punctuated by the memory of the boy who had been taken. He had been powerless. A father. And now powerless again, a man chained by the guilt of failing to protect the one life that mattered most.
Minutes passed, or perhaps hours — time felt meaningless. He remained there, pressed against the door, staring at nothing, seeing everything. Shadows pooled at the edges of the room, flickering as if aware of his despair. The weight of being a protector, a parent, a man who could not prevent the cruel experimentations that had shattered Kaito, bore down with relentless pressure.
Mika's voice called softly from the other side of the door. "Sui… we will get him back. I promise you… we will find him."
He did not answer. He could not. He only pressed himself closer to the floor, the air thick with shame, grief, and unspoken vows.
In the quiet, the world outside moved on. The streets slept under the night sky. The chaos of power struggles, experiments, and political storms continued without pause. But here, in this small, dimly lit room, one man sat, broken yet breathing, burdened by love and failure. A father who had seen his child endure unimaginable torment and could do nothing but sit, waiting, hoping, and hating the cruel world that had forced him into helplessness.
---
The streets were quiet when Alia finally reached home. The clock on the hall wall read 12:30 a.m., casting its pale glow across the otherwise silent house. The night was heavy, the kind of stillness that pressed against the skin and whispered of consequences yet to be faced. Every step she took felt like dragging a weight behind her—a weight of exhaustion, guilt, and lingering adrenaline from the chaos of the subway tunnel.
As she stepped into the living room, she noticed her mother, Siesta, sitting quietly on the sofa. Her posture was graceful, upright, yet calm, as if she were a silent sentinel watching over the home. Bruno, her father, stood nearby, both his and her mother's hair white, catching the dim light like pale flames. Their figures radiated a commanding presence—beautiful, striking, but heavy, almost suffocating in its authority.
Alia froze instinctively, sensing the weight of their eyes on her. The room felt smaller, tighter, filled with expectation. Bruno's voice broke the silence, deep and measured, yet edged with concern. "Sit."
Alia moved slowly, each motion feeling exaggerated under their scrutiny. She lowered herself into the chair directly in front of them, hands clasped in her lap, mind racing.
"Explain," Siesta said, her voice smooth but edged with steel. "Why are you late? Mina was home hours ago, by nine. And you… three and a half hours later. What were you doing?"
The words were calm but carried an undeniable weight. It was not anger, not exactly—it was authority, disappointment, and concern, layered over each other, pressing down on Alia's chest. She swallowed, feeling her throat dry, her tongue heavy with words.
"I… I went to help… Kaito," she began, her voice hoarse from exhaustion. "It… it got out of control. Alexander… Samuel… Arthur… everything… it was…" She trailed off, overwhelmed, as the images of blood, black aura, and screams flashed through her mind.
Her parents' gaze softened slightly, their white hair shimmering in the dim light. Siesta's fingers drummed lightly against the arm of her chair, a gesture that betrayed both thought and patience. Bruno's arms were crossed, but the tension in his shoulders eased.
"You did… good," her mother said finally, her voice warmer now, but still firm. "For a girl, you showed courage. I am proud of you. But as a parent, I cannot let you put yourself in such dangerous and… strange situations. You look exhausted. Go to your room. Sleep. Eat dinner before it, take a bath. We will discuss everything later."
Alia nodded numbly, her body heavy as lead. Words of relief and pride mixed with guilt and shame, a strange cocktail that pressed down on her chest like a physical force. She did not argue, could not argue—the exhaustion had won.
She moved up the stairs silently, each step slow, echoing faintly in the empty hallway. When she reached her room, the red walls seemed almost oppressive under the dim lamplight. Her books were scattered along the shelves and desk, volumes about energy manipulation, strategy, and history—all reminders of a world she now felt she was part of, a world that was far darker and crueler than her own safe home.
She sat on her bed, knees drawn close, hands running through her hair. 1:30 a.m. The silence of the room was absolute, punctuated only by the soft hum of the night outside. Her mind was far from quiet. Images of Kaito, Alexander, the subway, the screams, the black aura—they all collided in her memory, relentless.
Her hand went to her forehead, rubbing slowly as if trying to soothe the ache of responsibility and guilt. It's all my fault, she thought bitterly. If I hadn't… called Alexander… maybe… maybe he wouldn't have taken Kaito so far. Maybe none of this… Her chest tightened, a physical ache echoing the weight of the thought.
She shifted in her bed, staring at the ceiling. The red of her room seemed sharper now, almost angry, reflecting the turmoil in her mind. Every decision she had made, every act of intervention, every moment of supposed kindness—it had all contributed to this chaos.
It would've been better if I didn't call Alexander. The thought repeated, relentless, like a mantra carved into her brain. If I hadn't… if I hadn't tried to show kindness… Kaito wouldn't have been sent to Fern. Maybe… maybe I shouldn't have intervened at all.
Her body sagged against the pillow, the exhaustion overwhelming, but her mind refused to rest. She thought of Kaito, of the pain he endured, of the black aura pulsing through him like a living shadow. The memory of his screams, his agony, his fragile survival—the weight of it pressed on her heart with crushing intensity.
Tears burned the edges of her eyes, but she did not cry. Not yet. There was no room for tears in this moment, only reflection, regret, and the gnawing awareness that even the smallest choice could ripple into catastrophe. She had tried to do good, to protect, to help—but the consequences had been far larger than she could have anticipated.
The room was silent, but her thoughts screamed: I failed. I failed to keep him safe. I failed to control the situation. I failed…
Yet even in this guilt, there was a spark of resolve. She could not undo what had happened, could not bring back the moments lost. But she could learn, adapt, prepare. Kaito's capture had reshaped the world, dragged her into it, forced her to confront powers and dangers she had never imagined. And somewhere, deep down, beneath the guilt and the pain, she felt a burning certainty: she would act. She had to.
For now, though, all she could do was lie there, hand still on her head, thinking, replaying every decision. The red walls of her room seemed to close in, reflecting her inner turmoil. Outside, the world continued, dark, cold, and chaotic.
And she thought of Kaito.
He's far away now… and it's all because of me.
The thought echoed in her mind, relentless and unyielding, as the clock ticked toward the early hours of the morning. Her body was exhausted, but her mind refused rest. There would be time to sleep later. There would be time to cry later. For now, she lay awake, staring at the ceiling, hands pressed to her head, consumed by guilt, regret, and the knowledge that the world had just grown darker—and she had played a part in it.
The night stretched on, heavy and oppressive. And in her room, red and quiet, Alia resolved, silently and desperately, that she would find a way to fix this. Even if it meant confronting dangers far greater than herself. Even if it meant facing her own fears and mistakes.
For Kaito.
----
The ruined building creaked under the weight of time, its walls cracked and peeling, dust swirling lazily in the dim light filtering through broken windows. The air was heavy with the scent of mildew and rust, a faint metallic tang lingering like a warning. On the topmost floor, a group had gathered—a small, dangerous assembly of individuals whose names were whispered in fear across multiple continents: Kuro, 56, Billish, Sinon, Andreo, Samuel, and Michael. Each sat or stood in silence, their expressions reflecting both caution and curiosity, except for one figure who radiated calm dominance even in the shadowed room.
56 sat at the center, skull mask gleaming faintly under the fractured moonlight. His presence alone seemed to warp the air around him. Every movement, every slight shift of his head commanded attention. The group's tension was palpable, as though the building itself waited to hear what this mysterious figure would say.
Breaking the silence, Michael shifted his grip on his staff and asked quietly, but with a trace of unease, "Who… who is this person? The one called 56?"
For a long moment, there was only stillness. Then, in a voice smooth as steel and chillingly calm, 56 spoke. "I am your leader."
The words hit the group like a strike of lightning, sharp and undeniable. Billish frowned, tilting his head. "Leader? But… we didn't even know it was you. Why reveal yourself now?"
Kuro's lips twitched into a slight, knowing smile. "Because 56 operates in the shadows. He is a government officer who works behind the scenes, providing as much support as possible. That's why you never saw him openly act. His presence… was always there, but hidden."
Andreo's piercing stare didn't waver. "If that's true… then tell me this," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "On the battlefield, you didn't use your full power. You could have defeated Regan No. 2. And yet, you held back. And now… the eclipse boy was gone. Why?"
56's head tilted slightly, the empty eye sockets of his mask somehow sharper than human eyes. His voice, calm and dominating, cut through the air. "Because that is what I wanted."
Sinon, shifting uneasily, pressed further. "Why? Why would you do that?"
There was a silence that stretched unnaturally, before 56 spoke again, each word deliberate and heavy. "I have a very big plan. I could not afford for Brown to be interrogated, or worse… imprisoned, or to be drawn into international scrutiny. That would have indirectly harmed our group. I gave Kuro a mission: to separate the eclipse boy from the others and capture him. But he allowed him to roam free. That is why it happened as it did."
Kuro's eyes flicked briefly toward 56, curiosity mixing with cautious respect. "And why… why did you allow me such leeway? I made the situation chaotic, yes. But the outcome—"
56's hand raised slightly, palm facing Kuro, cutting the words off. "Because I know your mind, Kuro. You are brilliant, but reckless. You enjoy creating chaos. That is precisely why I warned you: next time, such recklessness will not be tolerated. If you ever threaten my plan again… I will kill you. Do not mistake my calm for weakness. You were recruited not to disrupt, but because your strategic mind is invaluable. Never forget that."
Billish exhaled sharply, the tension coiling tighter in his chest. "He… he threatened you… and spoke to you like that? How can anyone trust someone so cold, so calculating?"
56 let the words hang in the air, letting each syllable resonate in the room. Then, in the same calm, deliberate tone that carried authority over life and death, he finally spoke, addressing Kuro directly.
"Kuro," he said, voice low but unwavering, "make it clear to everyone.
Kuro, unshaken, smiled faintly, a ghost of amusement in his eyes. "You can trust him. More than anyone else I've worked with, 56 dedicates himself to the plan. More than any of us, he sacrifices, endures, and operates for a purpose beyond simple loyalty. Even if his methods seem… harsh, they are precise. Calculated."
Andreo leaned forward slightly, voice still sharp. "Yet his methods place us all at risk. That chaos, Kuro—did it serve the plan, or did it… amuse him?"
Kuro's grin widened subtly, though his voice remained measured. "A little of both. Yes, he allows chaos. But within that chaos lies strategy. Those who cannot see it will falter. Those who can… will rise."
The skull-masked leader shifted, his voice cutting through their murmurs, cool and commanding. "Samuel, take note. Your fellow scientists will bear responsibility soon. The eclipse boy is under Fern's watch for now. After a few days, we will recover him. Prepare yourself. You will play a key role in that operation."
Samuel's jaw tightened, eyes narrowing. He studied 56, weighing the words. There was no warmth, no trace of compromise in that gaze—only unyielding determination.
And then, just as suddenly as he had commanded, 56 vanished. The room felt emptier, colder, and heavier for his absence. The dust shifted in the faint draft, carrying the echo of his presence long after he was gone.
The remaining members—Kuro, Samuel, Sinon, Billish, Andreo, and Michael—looked at one another, the tension lingering like a living thing. Michael shook his head. "What kind of person is that? Cold… ruthless… yet brilliant. How can anyone follow someone like him?"
Sinon, arms folded, whispered, "And he trusts Kuro… after everything?"
Kuro's smile lingered, subtle and unreadable. "He can be trusted. More than anyone else. He has worked tirelessly for the goal. Even if it seems like cruelty, even if it seems beyond reason, 56's commitment is absolute. That is why I obey. That is why I follow."
Kuro's words hung in the air like a challenge and a warning. His smile shifted slightly as he thought privately, Betraying everyone… it will feel… exquisite. And with that, he, too, vanished from the ruined building, leaving the others in a tense, uneasy silence.
Sinon, Samuel, Billish, Andreo, and Michael stood in the shadowed remains of the building, each lost in their thoughts. The weight of what they had witnessed—the absolute control, the ruthless logic, the overwhelming strategy of their leader—pressed on them.
"Tomorrow," Samuel finally said, voice low, almost a growl, "we move. We relocate to a better hideout. We regroup, we plan… and we prepare."
The others nodded silently, the gravity of the statement grounding them. Each step, each breath, each movement now carried with it the unspoken acknowledgment that they were pawns in a game far larger than themselves—a game orchestrated by a mind sharper, colder, and more ruthless than any they had ever encountered.
The ruined building remained silent after their preparations, holding the echoes of a presence no one would soon forget. Outside, the wind howled through broken windows, carrying the scent of rain and dust. Inside, five figures lingered in quiet reflection, knowing that their journey—and the storm 56 had set in motion—was only just beginning.
The night pressed down, heavy and unyielding, as the shadows of the ruined building seemed to stretch, expand, and pulse with the memory of a skull-masked leader whose plan spanned continents, ambitions, and the lives of everyone in the room.
And in that darkness, one truth lingered: nothing, and no one, could escape the calculation of 56.