John's eyes cracked open.
A dim, trembling lightbulb swayed overhead, barely pushing back the shadows. He sat slumped in a wooden chair, both wrists locked behind him in cold handcuffs. The room around him was small—claustrophobic—with wooden walls and a wooden floor, all smelling faintly of damp rot. From outside, rain pattered heavily, sliding down gutters and dripping through unseen cracks.
He lifted his head, dizzy, disoriented. No one else was inside… but he could hear muffled voices. Whispers. Boots shifting. Something metallic being dragged across the floor beyond the door.
"Where am I?" he muttered, scanning the cramped box he was trapped in.
He pulled against the cuffs—once, twice, harder the third time. The metal bit into his wrists. The chair didn't budge. He groaned under his breath, forcing his shoulders forward, twisting his arms, but nothing gave.
He paused, then looked down at the chair's frame.
"…Wooden?" he whispered.
Everything was wooden—the walls, the table, the floor, even the damn chair. It was all wrong for a police station. Wrong for a Templar safehouse. Wrong for anything that made sense.
He leaned back, forcing his breathing to steady, and tried piecing together the fragments in his head.
"How did I even get here?" he murmured. "I was… outside. Sitting. Then a black car drove up… people got out… three of them… they grabbed me. One of them injected something into my neck…"
His fingers twitched, remembering the sting. He squeezed his eyes shut.
"But who were they? I couldn't see their faces. Could they have been Templars?" A beat. "No… they wouldn't drag me to a place like this."
He turned slightly, looking at the creaking wooden walls again.
"It can't be police, either. This isn't any kind of interrogation room I've ever seen."
His voice dropped to a whisper—more to himself than anyone listening.
"So where the hell am I?"
The door slammed open.
Two men stepped inside. John froze. He'd seen those outfits before — wool-lined hoods, metal-reinforced sleeves, pistols strapped to their hips. His stomach dropped.
Night Wolves.
For a second he thought his eyes were lying. Then the older one lifted his chin, and everything snapped into place like a nightmare he'd already lived. The Evans mansion. The treasure. The fire. The shadows moving through the halls while he'd been hiding behind that cracked wooden door.
Did they see me back then? Did they finally catch me for the gold?
The older Night Wolf pulled a crumpled photo from his pocket — John's broadcast picture from Day 1 of the killings. He held it beside John's face, compared for a heartbeat, then grunted:
"Yep. That's him."
A grim smile tugged at his mouth.
"Now we can finally hand him to the boss."
Then he pulled his hood down.
John's breath caught.
That face — stern, disciplined, the same eyes he'd seen through a door crack days ago.
Robert.
Leader of the Night Wolves.
Robert walked closer, grabbed John's hood, yanked it down, and took his jaw in one hand. He studied him carefully — the scar on his cheek, the redness in his eyes, the messy hair half-covering his forehead. Then he let go, stepping back as if measuring something only he could see.
"What's even the deal with you…?" he muttered.
John swallowed and forced his voice out.
"I ain't telling you where the money is. You people are the sick… rivals of Mike."
He looked down, voice dropping.
"He was supposed to have dealt with you…"
Robert froze. A full second.
"…What did you just say?"
His voice lost its control for the first time.
"And how do you know Mike had to deal with us?"
John blinked, confused.
"The money. From Evans mansion. Isn't that what you want?"
Robert's expression broke — shock, then amusement, then a laugh that didn't match his eyes at all.
He patted John's shoulder, too many times to feel friendly, and sat in the chair opposite him.
"Here I thought you — the so-called 'Murderer' the government and civilians scream about — was just some target we're hunting down for our Templar buddies."
He leaned back, grinning.
"But you're also the guy who ruined our Evans mansion mission?"
John's mind clicked.
Templars… Night Wolves… the treasure…
"You work for Templars?" he asked quietly.
Robert shrugged.
"We work for anyone who pays. So yeah — technically we work under them. Long-time partners."
His eyes narrowed. "You won't believe this… but we were the ones who took part in the legendary Evans fire."
He paused, voice dropping a register.
"You said you know about the money in that mansion?"
A beat.
"Our client has been rotting, waiting for his family gold. So tell me… where is it?"
John stayed silent.
He still remembered the 70% gold sitting untouched in the hidden basement. But he needed answers. Connections. Motivations.
Were the Night Wolves just mercenaries — or Templars themselves in another uniform?
"You're Robert, right?" he said suddenly.
Robert stiffened.
"How do you know?"
John's eyes hardened.
"I heard your name when I was peeking through that door in the mansion. If you'd searched a bit longer, you would've found me. And the treasure."
Robert's face twitched.
John leaned in, voice low, sharp as a blade:
"Mike was right… You people are so pathetic he didn't even bother seeing you as a threat."
Robert's façade cracked.
"…Mike?"
His tone wavered.
"You know him?"
"Oh, I know him," John said slowly. "I'm the one who told him that you people broke your deal with Day-Night Cycle."
The hit landed clean.
Robert's eyes trembled — hurt pride, jealousy, a familiar feeling he hated.
His ego buckled.
He forced a smile, ugly and loud.
"Mike? Do you think I care about Mike?! I'm leagues above him! I work for world-controlling Templars! I work for mayors! We're professionals!"
John tilted his head, almost pitying.
"And Mike? He works only for himself."
Something snapped.
"Y'know what?" Robert barked. "Screw you. Screw Mike. I'm sick of him having to deal with him for everything I do."
He jabbed a finger at John.
"I'll find that gold you know about. And then I'll hand your bastard self straight to the Templars."
He stormed out, slamming the door so hard the lights rattled.
The younger Night Wolf remained by the wall, stiff, silent — but his jaw clenched. He wasn't as unaffected as he pretended.
John exhaled, finally alone with the guard.
Nothing made sense yet — but he was getting closer.
Much closer.
John slumped in the chair, breath leaking out of him in a long, defeated sigh. The guard in the corner didn't speak, didn't move, didn't matter. John felt alone anyway — alone in a way that scraped deeper than the cuffs biting his wrists.
He stared at the floor.
What the hell did I just say…?
The thought cut through him like glass. His chest tightened.
A few hours ago, you… bastard… you idiot… you killed hundreds of innocent civilians. You should've stayed on that damn bench and rotted there. And now? Now you're sitting here talking like— like this. Mocking. Smirking. Pitying.
Another sigh tore out of him, heavier this time, like it bruised his ribs on the way out.
You do realize you have to keep doing it, right? Keep fighting. Keep trying to survive whatever nightmare is next. That's why you snapped back at him… at least verbally. It just… came out. The mocks. The insults. Like it was nothing.
His eyes narrowed, staring at the ground.
I should feel like the lowest piece of garbage alive. After everything I've done… after all the blood…
His voice cracked under his breath — barely audible.
"…and yet I keep fighting for myself. Even after all of it…"
His fingers curled into trembling fists.
"I hate it," he whispered. "I hate myself for doing that."
The rain outside tapped harder against the walls, as if it agreed with him.
John slowly lifted his head, eyes drifting toward the Night Wolf standing guard by the door. The man didn't look at him — just stood there, rigid and silent — but that made it worse somehow.
"So… the Night Wolves," John murmured. His voice was barely a thread. "You work for the Templars. Which means you're tied together. Directly."
His mind started connecting pieces whether he wanted it to or not.
"They need the money from the Evans mansion… for some client. And they want two things from me: the location of that gold."
His wrists shifted helplessly against the cuffs.
"…and me. Delivered to the Templars."
The thought made his stomach twist.
"And Robert… he mumbled something about Mike having to 'deal' with them." John frowned. "Not just once — multiple times. For 'everything' Robert did. Guess he's been stepping on toes for a while already."
A frustrated groan slipped out.
"I don't care about him getting that money to his client," he muttered. "I don't. But I can't…"
His voice dipped, almost a whisper.
"I can't afford getting sent to the Templars."
His pulse throbbed in his neck, fast and frightened.
He inhaled shakily.
"I need to escape," he whispered to himself. "Any way I can."
John strained against the cuffs again, metal cutting into his wrists. No use. His dagger and sword lay tossed in a dusty corner like discarded toys. He let out a dry, bitter exhale.
"Great…"
But then—there it was. The one thing they hadn't noticed.
His hidden blades. Small, quiet, easy to miss. If he angled his wrist just right, he could snap the wooden chair apart and break free.
The problem was the Night Wolf standing guard by the door — motionless, armed, and way too close. One wrong move and John would end up with a bullet in his skull before he even stood up.
So he tried something else.
"Hey… pst."
No reaction. The guard didn't even blink.
John cleared his throat. "Hey. Dude. Look at me."
Slowly, the man turned his head, staring at John from under that matted wolf-hood. His eyes were tired — not the normal kind of tired, but hollowed-out, grey-socketed exhaustion.
"Shut up," the man muttered.
John blinked. That tone wasn't hostility — it was collapse.
The guard swayed, head dipping forward like he was about to fall asleep standing. He made a weird, startled grunt, caught himself, and stumbled back to his place by the door.
John watched him, eyebrows lifting. He's dead on his feet…
That was an opening — not for fighting, but for talking.
"Tired, huh," John murmured.
The man stared at him through blurry vision. "Can't relate? That bastard Robert has gone mad…"
"What happened with him?" John asked.
The man hesitated, sighed, then—maybe because he genuinely couldn't keep his eyes open anymore—answered.
"After the day–night agreement with Mike's gang, we only worked nights. Clean system. Nights for us, days for them." He rubbed his forehead. "We rested during the day. That was the deal."
"But Robert… he snapped. Started pushing back-to-back contracts. Said nights weren't enough. Said we had to match Mike's pace…"
…He stopped mid-speech, looking at John. "Why do you care? You're being shipped to the Templars anyway."
John's voice dipped, quieter. "Your Robert has… ties with Mike. A…" he stopped, a familiar pain struck his chest. He felt like something he was about to say wasn't totally true to him.
"A Friend of mine. I just want to understand their connection."
Another tired sigh. "Fine. Talking's the only thing keeping me awake anyway."
He leaned his head against the wall, voice low and scratchy.
"Robert and Mike — both gang heads, both criminals, both dealing in killing, robbing, kidnapping… same soup, different bowls. But Robert liked doing things properly. Take the contract, plan it, finish it cleanly. Slow but safe. And we all like it."
He lifted a finger.
"Then Robert made a contact with the Templars. Much to my surprise cooperating with an order from 1300s? .I didn't even know they still existed." He chuckled weakly. "After that, police stopped bothering us. We weren't legal, but we weren't hunted either."
He paused to yawn — a long, jaw-cracking one. He wiped his eyes.
"Robert cared about quality. Mike? Mike only cared about the quantity. He did everything alone, no outside influence. Sure, he failed a lot — forty-five percent failure rate, maybe more — but the successes he did pull off made him famous. He stacked wins faster than Robert could finish one plan."
John stayed silent, listening.
"Aaaaand Robert couldn't stand it. Mike's reputation. Mike's speed. Mike finishing things before him." The guard's voice turned bitter. "So Robert started signing too many contracts. Nights weren't enough, so he forced us into the days too. Broke the agreement with Mike. Again. And again. Mike had been coming here with his gang, threatening us every time. Mike has twice the members than what we have… Getting into a war with him would mean death."
The man nearly nodded off mid-sentence.
"I've been working day and night for a week," he whispered. "All because that envious bastard couldn't stand being outrun…"
"Slowly, we were being overworked. Others pretty much lost all of their faiths on Robert and are just sticking around for the money…Just like me."
A long, uncanny pause hung in the room. Only the steady patter of rain on the wooden roof could be heard, the smell of wet wood strangely calming. John took a deep breath.
"You could try resting a bit," he said.
The Night Wolf looked at him, eyes narrowing. "Robert's gonna kill me if I leave you here alone."
"Come on," John replied, his voice firmer now, tinged with concern. "Seeing how tired you look makes me feel bad for you. You should take a rest."
The man studied him for a long moment, exhaled, and then nodded. "Let me go out for a moment, then."
He opened the door and slipped outside. John waited, anticipating that he would return. Five minutes passed. Ten. Still, no sound. He was sure the man had hidden somewhere and decided to nap.
John exhaled, relief washing over him. Alone at last, he thought. He probably found a spot to sleep…
Now, he had options. He could break the chair, free his hands, reclaim his swords, and escape. But would it be too risky? They were strong, fast, well-trained… could he outrun them?
Then he remembered something—their exhaustion. Every Night Wolf had been working tirelessly, to the point of staggering fatigue. That leveled the odds.
He aligned his wrists on the chair, flexed his elbow, and his hidden blades spring out. The chair splintered under the force, and his hands were finally free—though still cuffed together behind his back.
Bending down, he made a swift motion, pulling his hands toward himself, but the cuffs remained stubborn.
He groaned under his breath, staring at the cuffs. Standard police issue—thick steel bands, but the chain between them was the slim, cheap kind. A weak link. Literally.
He eyed the corner where his gear had been thrown. His dagger glinted faintly. Perfect.
Staying on the balls of his feet, he tip‑toed across the room. The rain outside whispered through the wooden walls, every droplet sounding louder than his heartbeat. He reached the dagger, gripped it in a reverse hold, and lowered the chain to the ground.
"Alright… come on," he muttered, breath trembling.
He drove the blade down with all the force his pinned arms could muster.
A sharp clang. A vibration shot through the cuffs.
A crack formed, just a hairline.
He raised the blade again.
Second strike.
Third.
His wrists burned. His shoulders screamed. Sweat rolled off his chin and splattered the floor.
Fourth.
SNAP.
The chain burst apart, metal fragments scattering. His hands flinched apart like two animals breaking free of a trap.
"Finally…" He exhaled, waving his arms to restore blood flow. He sheathed the dagger across his back, reclaimed his sword at his waist, and—just barely—allowed himself a small smile.
He didn't even get to finish it.
BANG.
The door slammed open so hard it rebounded off the wall. Robert burst through, fury blazing across his face.
"How the hell did you break free?! Where's that boy!?" he roared.
John's eyes widened—pure, electric panic. He clenched his teeth just as Robert barreled into him. The impact threw both of them backward, smashing through the fragile wooden wall of the room.
John tumbled into open space and skidded across the floor. He scrambled up, blinking at the sight before him.
A cavernous warehouse stretched out under rows of dim lamps. Wooden crates stacked to the ceiling. Walls of planks. A dozen—maybe fifteen—Night Wolves stood scattered around the space, all staring at the crash site with guns half‑drawn.
Robert staggered to his feet, veins bulging in his neck.
"You—" he jabbed a finger at John— "YOU LITTLE—"
John didn't answer. Didn't breathe.
He simply lowered himself into a crouch, sword whispering free from its sheath.
His eyes stayed locked on Robert.
Every Night Wolf withdrew their pistols, aiming at John.
"Stop!" Robert screamed, his voice slicing through the chaos. "Do not dare shoot! He stays alive!"
Immediately, all the guns went back into holsters. The Night Wolves surged forward, metal batons glinting at their elbows. Robert aligned his fists in a precise, mechanical stance—any strike would channel through the batons, magnifying the impact.
In a blink, he lunged at John, fist aimed for his face. John dodged sharply to the right, leaving his midsection exposed. His sword followed, poised to slice through.
But then his eyes flickered—Hawk Vision activated.
The Night Wolves weren't enemies. Not red, not orange—white. Just like the innocent civilians he had killed just barely a day ago.
Fear gripped him. His hands trembled. He closed his eyes, guilt flooding through him, paralyzing his instincts.
Robert didn't pause. He kicked John square in the stomach. John flew backward, slamming into a stack of crates and landing hard on his back. Teeth clenched, he reactivated his Hawk Vision.
Now, they were red.
He didn't understand the logic—maybe his vision reflected intent. White meant they weren't trying to kill him; red meant they were. He groaned, pushing himself up.
Robert pressed the advantage without hesitation. His batons smashed into John's face. Grabbing his clothing, he hurled him toward the center of the warehouse. Other Night Wolves closed in, forming a tightening ring.
John gasped. "Just… let me breathe already!" He lunged at one wolf, sword aimed at the head. The wolf twisted aside.
He hardened his left hand, preparing to strike again with his hidden blade, but a sudden, searing pain shot through it. His left hand spur still hadn't healed. He hissed and stumbled. Before he could recover, a baton slammed into his back. The force threw him forward, face toward the ceiling, teeth grinding, eyes wide in shock. Thoughts slowed, fragmented:
I'm surrounded… there's no winning this… they're too strong… or I'm too weakened to fight back…
He hit the floor hard, chest heaving. Turning, he faced the warehouse full of Night Wolves. Wide-eyed, fear swallowed him whole. Crawling backward he clenched his teeth.
"Cuffs… back to his chair." Robert said, tired and authoritative, cut through the panic.
Robert approached slowly, each step echoing hollowly across the wooden floor. He crouched beside John, leaning in until John could feel his breath.
"You don't play with the wolves…" Robert whispered, voice low and menacing."They surround you…" He gestured lazily at the ring of Night Wolves closing in."They isolate you…" His gloved fingers tapped John's cheek once—mocking."They eat you alive. All. Alone."
John knew it was true. He was alone. No friends, no allies, nobody coming for him. Just a lone assassin bleeding on the floor of a warehouse full of enemies.
Or so he thought.
A deep metallic groan thundered across the building as the warehouse's massive front gate began to rise. Everyone froze. Even Robert's breath hitched.
A flood of cold danger spilled in—and with it, twenty… no, maybe twenty‑five men in black street clothes, all armed, all ready, all angry.
And standing dead center of the formation—
Mike.
Not smiling.Not joking.Not cocky.
Just… furious.
"COME ON, Robert!" Mike's voice boomed across the warehouse. "How many times do I have to tell you not to work during the days!?"
Robert stiffened. Sweat rolled down his temple.
"P‑Please, Mike. We— we have a business going on here."
Mike raised an eyebrow, genuinely confused. "What business?"
His eyes drifted across the warehouse… past crates… past the Wolves… and then—
They locked onto John.
John, lying on the ground.Bruised.Cornered.Barely breathing.And staring at Mike like he'd just seen a ghost.
Something inside Mike broke.
A shiver crawled up his spine, but his pupils shrank with pure rage. The shift was violent. His face didn't change, but his eyes said everything.
Mike slowly turned his head toward Robert, jaws clenched so tight a vein bulged in his neck.
Then, without shouting… without hesitation… he uttered a command that rattled even his own gang.
"Brothers…"He didn't hesitate even a bit.
"Kill every Night Wolf in sight."
And that was it.
No speeches.No warnings.Just execution.
The warehouse erupted into chaos. Mike's gang, initially startled, had expected a small confrontation—maybe a warning, maybe a few punches—but what unfolded was a full-blown massacre. Robert and the Night Wolves froze for a heartbeat, eyes wide with disbelief.
"Wait! What are you talking about?!" Robert yelled.
Mike's gang quickly recovered their senses and opened fire. Bullets tore through the air as the Night Wolves scrambled, trying desperately to dodge. The shooting only subsided after two Night Wolves fell—bullets were expensive, after all.
Then the melee began. Every man in the warehouse attacked, fists, batons, and kicks colliding in a chaotic symphony of violence. Wooden crates splintered, dust filled the air, and shouts echoed against the high ceilings. Amid the carnage, Mike moved with a singular focus: toward John.
He crouched beside the bruised, cornered assassin. "John… what are you doing here? How did you end up here?" His voice trembled slightly, a mix of concern and shock.
John looked up, still catching his breath, and muttered, "I thought… I thought that you wouldn't come either… I thought it was over."
Mike's eyes widened further. "No, I'm not asking about that. How… how could someone like you end up in a place like this? You were supposed to be a peaceful, normal person!"
John chuckled darkly, a hint of bitterness threading through his tone. "You still haven't figured it out, huh? Do you think I bought that C4 bomb for fun? That I came after all these years just to buy a literal weapon of murder from you because I wanted to? I've been dragged into this life of murder and misery for a long time already…"
From the brawling crowd, Robert suddenly erupted, charging toward Mike. Rage radiated from him like heat. Mike sprang to his feet, knuckle dusters ready.
"WHY DO YOU HAVE TO RUIN EVERYTHING EVERY TIME?!" Robert shouted, swinging his batons with relentless fury.
Mike's focus snapped entirely to the fight. "Robert! You bastard! You chose the wrong target this time!" He struck with precision, dusters colliding with Robert's batons.
"I gave you so many chances! I came to talk to you countless times to make you stop breaking our agreement!" Mike barked, dodging a swinging baton. "Yet you, you self-centered bastard, kept doing whatever you wanted! No more!"
Robert kicked back, his anger bubbling into something almost tragic. "Self-centered? Yes, so what?! I had the plan! I had the goal! Everything to make my gang great! I started it all years before you took over that gang! All of your success… you didn't deserve it! I did! Only I!"
Tiny teardrops glistened at the corners of Robert's eyes. Rage, envy, and frustration warped his face. How could someone like Mike—reckless, impatient, yet undeniably successful—outpace all of Robert's careful planning? It was unfair.
Mike's voice softened slightly as he assessed the truth behind Robert's anger. "Robert… your only mistake is that you didn't take any risks. You were too focused on one thing while opportunities were waiting elsewhere. That's why you blame me for being more successful. That's not how the world works."
Robert's rage twisted into a furious grin. "Oh, they sure do." And with that, they clashed again.
Mike tried to maintain control, but Robert's relentless assault made it impossible. He was faster than expected, striking without pause. Suddenly, Mike tripped over the corpse of a fallen Night Wolf, sprawling to the ground.
Robert loomed above, a pistol in hand, aimed straight at Mike's head. John laid on the ground. Chaos of the warehouse seemed to fade into a blur for him—blood, destruction, dying men. And then he noticed Mike.
Reacting instinctively, John lunged, hook blade unsheathed. He stabbed Robert's abdomen. The man flinched, and that fraction of hesitation was enough for Mike to roll aside and avoid the shot. The ear busting sound of the gunshot left Mike shocked laying on the ground. John fell, blade streaked with blood.
Robert stumbled backward, vision blurring as the chaos of the warehouse swirled around him. Blood, shattered crates, dying men—his carefully constructed plan was crumbling to dust before his eyes. His gaze fell on a body—the Night Wolf who had been guarding John just moments ago. He had complained constantly about lack of sleep, and Robert had dismissed him, yelled at him, pushed him too hard. Now, lying dead on the ground, regret clawed at Robert's chest.
He looked beyond, taking in the scene: Mike sprawled on the floor, ears nearly ringing from the gunfire; John, bloodied but alive, lying close by; and the remaining Night Wolves struggling to hold the line. For the first time, Robert felt the weight of his reckless ambition crashing down.
Then, with a roar that carried over the gunfire and shouts, he barked, "Night Wolves! Fall back!"
They obeyed instantly. Through the main gate, only six surviving Night Wolves managed to escape, battered and frightened.
Mike's gang, watching the retreat, allowed themselves a brief, satisfied smile. They had beaten the Night Wolves. But that smile faded as they saw Mike and John lying on the ground, exhausted and wounded. Without hesitation, the members of Mike's gang ran toward them, ready to help…
***
Meanwhile, a door to a tiny room deep in the city creaked open. The injured Robert, along with the five remaining Night Wolves, stumbled inside their safe house. John had been too exhausted to strike a blow deadly enough to kill, so Robert had survived, though barely. He began tending to his own wounds, methodically bandaging himself.
Around him, the others vented their frustration—yelling, mocking, screaming—their voices filled with anger and disappointment. Everything had been supposed to go according to Robert's plan. It was the brilliance of his strategy that had drawn them to the Night Wolves in the first place. And now, it had all crumbled.
"I know, I know…" Robert murmured, his voice low, almost defeated. One by one, the others succumbed to exhaustion, falling asleep on their sleeping bags. But Robert remained awake, sitting in the dim light and thinking to himself.
"How… how did all of this even happen?"
Robert remembered the time long before the Night Wolves had even formed—back when "original" Mike's gang existed, and Mike wasn't even the head, just another member. Robert had watched them closely, fascinated by the potential he saw: the money they could make, the influence they could wield. At first, it was inspiration. Their rare but ambitious missions showed him what a properly ruled gang could achieve.
He constructed a plan based on contracts, hiring people with promises of money and power. He created an identity for them rooted in the philosophy of wolves—they would act as one, strike as one, survive as one. Slowly, the Night Wolves began to take shape. Robert worked carefully, taking on only enough missions to build respect and establish order. He was meticulous. He was brilliant. And it worked.
Then, Mike's gang rose. At first, Robert didn't think much of it; even some of his contracts targeted Mike's gang, and he executed them efficiently. Eventually, after a stalemate, they forged a day-and-night cycle agreement. Yes, he was limited—but so was Mike.
But then… chaos struck. Mike's gang began making massive strides, their progress inexplicable. Robert investigated, tried to understand, and realized the truth: despite failures, losses, and miscalculations, Mike's gang continued to thrive. People flocked to join them. The chaos that Robert had always avoided—the disorder, the unpredictability—was working. And he couldn't grasp it.
What had once inspired him—the original gang that had sparked his ambition—had, in Mike's hands, become a success far beyond his understanding. And Robert's admiration curdled into envy. He didn't search for his own mistakes. No. He scrutinized Mike. He blamed Mike.
That envy became his downfall. Determined to match Mike's style, he overextended, taking on too many contracts, pushing his members beyond limits, breaking trust, exhausting everyone. A gang, he realized too late, was only as strong as its unity—and his obsession with copying Mike had destroyed that unity.
All the plans that had made him great unraveled before his eyes. The lessons, the discipline, the strategy—all overpowered by a single corrosive emotion. His desire to replicate Mike's success collided with his nature, and everything collapsed into chaos.
Now, sitting alone in the dim, quiet safehouse, watching his exhausted, disappointed Night Wolves sleep, he whispered to himself, "Maybe… Mike was right. I shouldn't have tried copying him. I am the one who ruined it all… I am the one who got them killed… I am sorry."