John slowly opened his eyes. He'd passed out from exhaustion, and for a second he forgot where he was. Then the warehouse ceiling swam into view — and Mike, sitting beside him with his legs crossed, eyes locked on the front gate like a guard dog too stubborn to sleep.
The moment Mike felt John shift, his whole expression softened.
"Hey. You're awake," he said quietly. "You okay?"
"Yeah… thanks." John pushed himself up, wincing.
They stared at each other for a few quiet seconds — the kind of staring where both are checking the other for bruises, hidden pain, anything.
John tried to smile. "Your ears alright?"
Mike nodded. "Yeah. They're better now."
The warehouse hummed with distant voices and the clatter of crates being cracked open. But around the two of them, it felt like the air went still.
Mike took a breath. A heavy one.
"John… I've been tearing myself apart trying to figure out what happened between us. Why you kept dodging me. I thought maybe you were pissed that I left you alone at school. And then tonight you say it was your fault you avoided me, not mine…" He rubbed his face. "I'm done guessing. You're here. You can't run. So tell me what's going on."
It wasn't a demand. It sounded almost like begging.
A memory flashed behind John's eyes — Mike thrown into the river, the beating, the fury on his face. John's chest tightened until it hurt.
"Can we… get some fresh air?" he murmured.
Mike didn't hesitate. "Yeah."
They walked out into the cold, early-morning rain. The city was just waking up — headlights passing, wet pavement glowing under building lights. Side by side. Like they used to be.
Mike glanced at him. "John. Talk to me."
John's shoulders curled inward, as if trying to hide inside himself.
"You remember that day… the river?" he said.
Mike stiffened. "I do."
"I wasn't touched. They only beat you," John whispered. "And when I saw your face — that anger, that rage — I thought you were mad at me. For causing it. And when you left school the next day, I thought you left because you didn't want to see me again. And that letter you sent after… I couldn't face you. I thought you hated me, Mike. I thought I—"
His voice cracked.
Mike listened without interrupting, jaw tight, brows furrowed.Then he stepped closer, voice low and firm:
"John… no. That's not what happened."
He shook his head, almost offended by the idea.
"I left because I joined a gang. I needed money for my mom's medicine. You weren't allowed to know — I wasn't allowed to tell you. And the letter? That letter was me trying to explain. That fight? That anger you saw? It was never for you, John. Never. I was angry at them, not you."
He placed a hand on John's shoulder.
"You didn't do anything wrong. You built this whole… nightmare in your head. It was all a misunderstanding."
John blinked hard. And then something inside him snapped loose.
A tiny laugh escaped. Then another.And suddenly he was laughing — ugly, hysterical, rain mixing with tears as he dropped to his knees on the sidewalk.
"Ha…ha… HA—HA—HA!"He clutched his head, almost choking on relief.
"All these years! All this guilt! And it was just— just a stupid, pathetic misunderstanding? HA-HAHAAA!"
People passing by stared, but John didn't care.The weight he'd carried for years finally slid off his shoulders and shattered on the pavement.
For the first time in forever… he could breathe.
They kept walking again — this time talking more easily, the wall between them finally gone.
John exhaled. "To explain how I ended up with explosives, Night Wolves, all of that… I need to start way back. My father was part of the Assassin clan. Before he died, he made me promise I'd kill every Templar in Son of York. Years later I reclaimed that identity, came here, and started hunting them. Sounds insane, I know. But it's the truth."
He glanced at Mike. "You saw the three Cyntera Corp towers collapse, right?"
"Yeah," Mike said.
"That was me. And the murderer on the news? Also me."
Mike blinked. "Hold on— what Templars? And why Cyntera? It's just an ad company."
"They're not. Templars use Cyntera as a mask. Literally a self-made corporation they hide behind. Every Cyntera worker you see? That's a Templar."
Mike whistled low. "Damn… I had no idea you came from a bloodline like that. And Cyntera being the Templar Order…? I'll look into it with my gang."
John gave a tired smile. "Be my guest."
They walked a bit more before John spoke again, quieter.
"There's something else… I've made mistakes. Huge ones. Unforgivable ones. Yesterday—when I blew up the northeastern tower— it collapsed onto a residential block. Killed hundreds of civilians. I don't know how to even… process that. And I caused it. I need your help."
Mike didn't answer immediately.
When he finally spoke, his voice was steady but heavy.
"I can't tell you how to feel. I'm not qualified. But I can tell you what I know. Running a gang forced me to kill people too… people who didn't deserve it. Officers. Witnesses. Innocents. There was a time I'd stand on rooftops and think about jumping — because I thought trash like me didn't deserve to live."
He swallowed.
"But I didn't jump. I had things to live for. My mom. My responsibilities. And you… you have your promise."
John looked at him. "But what happens after I finish it?"
"That depends on fate," Mike said with a small shrug. "Didn't I tell you? Have faith in it."
"You did…"
"And sometimes," Mike added, "fate throws things at you so out of nowhere you won't even know what the hell to do with them."
"I see…" John nodded.
They turned a corner — and John realized they were already near his apartment.
"Soon I'll destroy the central tower and leave," he said. "Are you sure you'll be okay?"
"Completely." Mike grinned — then suddenly froze. "Wait—hold on! Tomorrow's September 1st. Your birthday, right!? How old?"
"Twenty-five."
"Oh hell, we're celebrating. Autumn rains start tomorrow — perfect timing."
That line hit John harder than expected.
A flash of home. Drinking with Rodry on their birthdays every year.
"What's he doing right now…?" John wondered.
Mike clapped him on the shoulder. "Well… guess this is goodbye for now. See you around, brother."
He held out his hand.
John stared at it, then grabbed it hard. Mike pulled him in, their shoulders tapping like old times before they let go.
"See you," John said, and headed for his building.
Inside his room, John stripped off his Assassin gear, opened the window, and collapsed onto his bed. Rain pattered softly — almost like a lullaby.
He stared up at the ceiling, thoughts eating him alive.
I killed those innocents… and I said I didn't know how to feel about it. The truth is… I never cared about civilians. That boy I killed when I was eighteen — that was the day I realized I was violent. Cruel. All those reactions afterward… the shock, the grief… that wasn't compassion. That was just me reacting to breaking my oath.
I'm a hypocrite. Telling myself I care, when I don't. I only care about killing Templars. That's all I've ever cared about.
And the day I spared Donald? That wasn't my oath either. That was some tiny piece of my old self… clinging on.
Do I still use that oath? Should I? What's the point if I keep breaking it…
His thoughts blurred.
His body finally gave out.
And he drifted into sleep.