18th November.
Sanctuary City—its coastline swallowed by the black, restless Seraphim Ocean.
The night crouched low, thick with fog, thunder rolling like distant war drums.
Near the abandoned dockyard, a group of smugglers worked nervously, their shadows flickering under broken streetlights. Wooden crates sat stacked in uneven rows—each one filled with nothing except serums.
Not ordinary ones.
Not legal ones.
Vigilante Serums.
Unstable. Dangerous. Worth millions.
And tonight, even the smugglers feared touching them.
"Move faster," one of the men hissed, eyes darting restlessly across the darkness. "We shouldn't stay here for long—something feels off."
A few stood guard around the area, scanning every corner as their breaths fogged in the cold air.
None of them noticed the figure perched high above—
a silhouette,
silent,
unmoving.
Only the faint glint of predatory eyes watching… waiting.
THE FIRST TO FALL
One smuggler—young, jittery—realized his group had gone suspiciously quiet.
"Hey… boys?"
No answer.
He swallowed hard, his throat tightening.
"Guys, this isn't funny!"
When silence replied again, frustration rose in him.
"Where the hell are all of you?!"
But anger quickly shifted into fear.
He stepped backward, heart pounding, the wind carrying a faint metallic scent—blood?
He didn't want to believe that.
Then—
CRACK!
A thunderbolt tore across the sky, lighting up the scene with a harsh, white flash.
In that blinding moment… he felt it.
A presence behind him.
Heavy.
Cold.
A killing aura so dense it suffocated him.
He whispered to himself, trembling, "It's nothing… nothing's behind me… it's gonna be fine…"
But before he could take another step—
A hand like an iron claw wrapped around his ankle.
He screamed as he was yanked off his feet, dragged across the rough ground. His arm twisted—
SNAP!
—dislocating instantly.
Pain exploded through him. Tears blurred his vision.
Towering above him stood a man—face hidden in darkness, but his eyes burned with raw, unrestrained anger.
The stranger knelt beside him, voice calm yet deadly:
"Tell me… where is LIAR?"
The smuggler stammered, lips trembling.
"W-Who? I… I don't know anyone named—"
The stranger's eyes narrowed—an abyss of rage.
"If you don't talk," he whispered,
"I'll break your right leg… then your left… then your arms… your ribs… until you're nothing but dust."
"I DON'T KNOW!" the smuggler cried.
The response was immediate.
CRACK.
One leg.
CRACK.
The other.
His screams echoed across the empty docks as the stranger stood and slipped back into the shadows.
ONE BY ONE
He hunted the remaining smugglers the same way—swift, precise, merciless.
Each one beaten, interrogated, bones shattered under his relentless determination.
Each one giving the same answer:
"We don't know! We're just pawns!"
When the last man collapsed unconscious, the stranger stopped. Rain drizzled down, soaking his shoulders.
He lifted his face to the swirling storm clouds.
His eyes—glowing like lightning trapped inside—held a pain deeper than rage.
"I don't care if it takes an hour… a day… a month… or a year."
His voice trembled with a sorrow only he understood.
"I will find you, Liar… and I'll send you to the deepest hell imaginable."
THE ARRIVAL OF THE POLICE
Sirens wailed in the distance.
Blue and red lights washed over the docks as police cars screeched to a halt. Officers stepped out cautiously, guns raised.
From the front car emerged a man around forty-eight, hair white as winter frost—a hardened veteran, Commander Rourke.
"YOU! Turn around slowly! Get on your knees!" he shouted.
But the stranger didn't move.
Rourke tried again, irritation rising.
"This is your last warning!"
Still no response.
Lightning flashed again—this time revealing the stranger's face.
Rourke froze.
His gun slipped from his hand and clattered onto the wet concrete.
He whispered, breath shaking,
"…It's you."
His eyes widened in disbelief, fear, and awe.
"The saviour of our city… the man who came back from burning hell…"
"KNUCKLE."