Tap—tap—tap—tap!
Footsteps hammered against the wet asphalt. The night was thick with fog, street lamps flickering like dying candles.
Huff… huff… huff!
Leonhardt Weiss ran, one hand clutching his bleeding arm. His right sleeve was drenched crimson, the stench of blood and gunpowder filling the air.
Rainwater splashed beneath his boots, scattering ripples across the cobblestone. The alley twisted like a serpent ahead, dark and suffocating.
Behind him — chaos.
"Stop! Leonhardt Weiss! Drop your weapon!"
The shouts came from behind — familiar voices, men he had worked with for years.
Then —
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Bullets screamed past him, tearing sparks off the stone walls. One slug grazed his shoulder, burning hot through flesh.
He bit down a groan, staggering as he turned sharply into another alley. His boots slipped on the slick pavement — splash! — almost sending him sprawling.
His pulse pounded like war drums in his ears. Every breath scraped his throat raw.
Sirens wailed in the distance.
WEE-OOO! WEE-OOO! WEE-OOO!
Their red and blue lights painted the fog like the pulse of a dying city.
Leonhardt ducked behind a line of trash bins, his back pressed to the cold brick.
He peeked around the corner.
Flashlights swept through the fog — white cones of light, slicing the darkness.
"Sector Three! He's heading east!"
"Copy! Close the perimeter!"
Their voices echoed from the radios clipped to their vests.
Officers. His colleagues. His brothers.
Now his hunters.
He gritted his teeth. "Not yet… I'm not dying here."
He pushed off the wall and bolted again. His boots pounded against puddles — splash! splash! splash! — as he tore through a narrow side street.
Somewhere behind him, engines roared to life. Headlights flared.
The growl of a patrol car chased him down the alley.
He cut across the road, barely dodging a passing vehicle. Horns blared — HONK! HONK! HONK! — as he dived into another street.
Pain clawed at his shoulder. His vision blurred.
He stumbled through a maze of old industrial buildings — rusted pipes, shattered windows, and the distant hum of generators.
Steam hissed from vents, mixing with the rain.
For a moment, he ducked behind a stack of crates, panting.
His gloved fingers trembled as he checked his magazine — nearly empty.
Not that it mattered. He couldn't shoot them. They were his people.
A memory flashed —
Chief Albrecht's voice, calm but firm.
"Weiss, remember this — truth makes enemies faster than lies ever do."
Leonhardt's jaw tightened. "You were right, Chief."
He moved again, slipping through a chain-link gate. The metal groaned — creak… clang!
He landed in an alley lined with broken glass.
Bootsteps thundered behind. Shouts.
"Visual on target! Don't lose him!"
He leapt over a low fence, his boots skidding on impact.
Pain exploded in his arm again — his bullet wound tearing wider.
"Damn it…" He pressed his palm against the wound, leaving streaks of blood across his uniform.
A beam of light swept over him —
"Freeze!"
He ducked instinctively.
BANG!
A bullet shattered the brick beside his head. Dust rained down.
He sprinted, lungs screaming, body shaking. The world narrowed to motion — one heartbeat at a time.
He crashed through a wooden door into an abandoned warehouse.
The air inside reeked of rust and oil.
He crouched behind a metal shelf, listening to the chaos outside.
Footsteps. Voices.
"Check inside!"
"They'll corner me soon…"
He staggered toward the back exit, shoving the rusted door open.
Cold air hit him again — sharp as knives.
The street beyond was empty.
Just the rain, the flickering lights, and the hum of distant engines.
He forced his body forward, dragging his wounded arm against his chest.
His legs felt like lead. His breath came in ragged gasps.
The city blurred — brick, smoke, neon.
Everything he'd sworn to protect now hunted him like a rabid dog.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the sirens began to fade.
Either they'd lost him — or stopped caring.
Leonhardt stumbled into a side alley, tripping over debris.
He fell hard beside a rusted car, his shoulder slamming against the cold metal.
"Ahh—!"
The pain ripped through him like lightning.
He pressed his back to the car, rain soaking through his uniform.
Blood dripped down his fingers, mixing with the water running along the street.
His pistol slipped from his hand and clattered on the pavement.
He stared at it — the same weapon he'd once drawn to protect the innocent.
Now, it was just another symbol of guilt.
He let out a broken laugh. "I didn't do it…"
His voice cracked. "I didn't kill him…"
His hands trembled — hands that once upheld justice.
Now branded as a murderer's.
Rain poured harder, drowning his sobs.
He buried his face in his arms, shoulders shaking.
Then—
"Leonhardt."
A voice. Calm. Steady. Familiar.
He froze. Slowly, he turned his head.
Through the mist, two figures emerged.
Karl Richter — his best friend since the academy.
Anna Meinhardt — his fiancée, and fellow investigator.
Both still wearing the insignia of the same department.
Relief flashed across his broken face.
"Karl… Anna… thank God. You came."
He stumbled toward them, voice trembling but filled with desperate hope.
"Listen to me — I didn't kill Chief Albrecht! You both know I couldn't do that. Someone set me up. Please… help me prove it. You're the only ones I can trust."
Karl's expression didn't change.
Anna looked away.
Leonhardt's voice rose, pleading.
"You've seen me work, Karl. You know I'd never hurt him. He was like a father to me! If we work together, we can find the real killer. We can clear this whole mess!"
Karl stepped closer, boots echoing step… step… step… through the rain.
He stopped just in front of Leonhardt, his eyes calm and unreadable.
"Karl, please… tell them the truth."
Karl placed a hand on Leonhardt's shoulder — the same gesture of comfort he had given countless times before.
His voice was almost gentle.
"I know you didn't do it, Leonhardt."
Leonhardt blinked, disbelief flickering across his face.
"Then help me—"
Karl's tone didn't waver.
"Because I'm the one who killed him."
Leonhardt froze.
For a moment, his mind refused to accept it.
He laughed weakly, shaking his head.
"No… that's… that's not funny, Karl. Not now. You're just saying that to throw them off, right? You're covering for someone?"
Karl said nothing. Just smiled.
Leonhardt's breathing quickened.
"Stop it! You're lying! You wouldn't— you couldn't! You're my partner! You're my—"
The silence was heavier than thunder.
Anna's eyes stayed fixed on the ground.
"...Anna?"
"You… you knew?"
She didn't answer.
"Anna, look at me! Everything we've been through — tell me this isn't true!"
Still nothing. Just the sound of rain.
Karl chuckled softly, stepping between them.
"You really think she's crying for you?"
Leonhardt's heart froze.
Karl smirked, brushing a strand of Anna's wet hair from her cheek.
"We've been together for months now. She realized she prefers someone less righteous."
Anna flinched but didn't deny it.
Leonhardt's voice broke.
"I trusted you… You were my best friend…"
Karl tilted his head, amusement flickering in his eyes.
"I was. But friendship doesn't mix well with ambition. You kept standing in the way, clinging to your damn morals. Someone had to move you out of the picture."
For a long moment, Leonhardt said nothing.
The rain fell harder, each drop echoing like a nail in his coffin.
His lips parted, but no words came.
His throat tightened, his chest hollowed. He had no strength left to scream, no rage left to spend — only a crushing silence.
He stared at Karl — the man he once trusted more than anyone — and then at Anna, who still wouldn't meet his eyes.
Everything he believed in, everyone he cared for, had turned into strangers.
Karl watched him quietly, almost studying his expression. Then he sighed, as if explaining something obvious to a child.
"You and the Chief… you were both too clean. Too idealistic. You didn't fit in the system anymore. We couldn't move money, couldn't pull strings, couldn't climb ranks — not with you two watching every step."
"So, we cut out the problem."
He smiled faintly.
"You wanted justice, Leonhardt. We wanted power. Different dreams — same department. Only one of us could stay."
Leonhardt's gaze fell to the ground.
His fingers twitched, wanting to reach for his gun — but he didn't. What was the point?
The world that once made sense now felt like a cruel joke.
Karl chuckled softly, voice low and cruel.
"Oh, and before I forget…"
"Anna and I will be getting married soon. A small ceremony, nothing fancy — but I'm sure you'd have given a wonderful speech if you were still around."
He tilted his head, grinning.
"Consider this my wedding invitation."
Leonhardt didn't respond. He just stared blankly at the rain as Karl raised his pistol.
"Goodbye, partner."
BANG!
The gunshot drowned in the roar of thunder.
Blood splattered across the pavement, mixing with the rain.
Leonhardt fell back, eyes wide, staring into the storm as it swallowed everything.
The sirens faded.
The lights dimmed.
And as his heartbeat slowed, one thought echoed through his dying mind:
Justice… what a fool's dream.
For a fleeting second, Leonhardt thought he saw light — not from the city, but from somewhere deeper, somewhere unreachable.
"Is this… death?"
Voices echoed in the void — whispers, memories, fragments of betrayal. Karl's laugh. Anna's silence. The gunshot.
Then—
"Why… why do the righteous always die first…?"
His consciousness sank, swallowed by darkness.
But before oblivion took him completely, a faint heartbeat pulsed in the distance.
Thump… thump… thump…
Each beat louder than the last, dragging him toward something new.
Light burst through the darkness.
When Leonhardt opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was a plain wooden ceiling, polished but unadorned.
He blinked, disoriented. The faint scent of steel oil and parchment lingered in the air — the smell of a disciplined knight's home.
He gasped sharply, clutching his chest.
The bullet wound—gone.
His heartbeat hammered in his ears, fast and uneven.
Thump… thump… thump…
He dragged in a shaky breath. The air was cold, tinged with dust and something faintly metallic.
His body felt wrong — smaller, lighter. His muscles weak, his breathing shallow.
He lifted his hands.
Thin. Pale. Trembling.
Not his.
"What…" His voice cracked — higher, younger. "Where—"
The bedsheet rustled as he struggled upright, breath quickening.
The room was quiet, save for the steady tap… tap… tap of rain against the window.
Old furniture. A sword stand in the corner. A wooden wardrobe.
Everything neat, organized — but cold. Lifeless.
Then, a sharp, bitter smell hit him.
He froze.
Slowly, his eyes traced the scent's source — a small glass bottle lying near the bed, cracked open and empty.
A faint trail of liquid glistened on the floorboards.
Leonhardt's throat tightened.
He shifted his gaze to his shirt — damp and discolored near the collar, a faint acidic odor clinging to it.
His stomach turned.
Vomit.
"…Poison," he muttered, voice rasping.
His pulse spiked. He looked around again, panic rising, searching for any sign of movement — but the house was silent.
Only the whisper of rain and the distant creak of timber answered him.
He stumbled toward the small mirror on the bedside table.
A pale, frail teenager stared back — messy black hair plastered to his forehead, lips pale, eyes hollow.
Leonhardt's breath trembled. He took a step closer, gripping the edge of the table to steady himself.
"That's… not me."
The boy in the reflection looked barely sixteen — weak, drained, like someone who hadn't smiled in years.
And the empty poison bottle beside the bed told the rest of the story.
He swallowed hard.
"…So this boy took his own life."
A heavy silence filled the room.
Only the rain answered, tapping softly against the glass — steady, merciless.
Leonhardt sat on the edge of the bed, hands still shaking. His thoughts churned, trying to find logic in the impossible.
He remembered the gunshot. The pain. The betrayal.
And now this.
Someone else's body.
Someone else's death.
He exhaled slowly, his voice barely above a whisper.
"…Someone died here," he said, staring at his frail hands.
"And now… I'm the one breathing in their place."
The candlelight flickered, shadows crawling across the walls like silent witnesses.
Leonhardt's lips curled into a bitter half-smile.
"Righteousness got me killed once," he muttered. "It did me no good."
He looked down at his trembling hands — fragile, but alive.
"This time…" His eyes hardened. "I'll live for myself. No ideals. No blind trust. Only what's beneficial."