In the dwell, Milo the Butcher reigned with dulled axe and fists.
He carved up lives for money. They called him the Butcher because he cut clean, without remorse.
But everything changed the day soone slipped one na into his hands.
Just another target, he thought—the ex-wife of a politician, now begging in a dwell with two starving kids.
She had nothing left. Not even the pension they had promised her.
When he first saw her, she was just a poor woman—but her eyes... her eyes weren’t afraid.
He saw resignation in them, yes, but also disgust. Not for him—no, for the whole goddamn world.
That night, Milo ca ho with clean hands for the first ti in years.
The politician was found two days later, his throat slit in his office.
Milo vanished, like a ghost too tired to keep haunting the living.
He fled to Duraand, a city wedged between the industrial East and Kovalia’s military lands.
There, he lived in quiet poverty, surviving on odd jobs and forgetfulness.
He expected to die alone—and that suited him just fine.
But one day, in a damp, decaying orphanage, he t her.
Sophia.
The girl didn’t have a child’s gaze. She stared through people, pushed them away without aning to.
The caretakers said that she brought misfortune. Lightbulbs flickered in her wake. Dreams turned into nightmares.
So spoke of "darkenergy" but Milo looked at her and said simply :
— "She’s not cursed... She’s unordinary, so she special. And that’s why I want her."
He adopted her without questions. The administrators didn’t object—no one truly wanted her.
Sophia grew up beside him—not joyfully, but steadily.
She called him "Daddy" without fear, and he answered with tenderness.
On the day tragedy struck, they went to Puck Land—an old amusent park, recently reopened under the funding of the Caledrons, the local mafia family parading as Duraand’s benefactor.
Milo didn’t trust them. But Sophia wanted to see the mascots, and he couldn’t deny her that.
Everything seed peaceful.
Suddenly—ascreamand fire.
n in tactical gear erged between the rides. Not soldiers—rcenaries.
The kind Milo knew too well. They executed, one after another.
A cotton candy stand exploded. A girl collapsed, skull split. A child ran—without a head. The ground was soaked in blood and abandoned toys.
Milo scread.
— "SOPHIA!"
She was gone.
She ran. Crying, calling for Milo. People fled in every direction.
She found refuge in a dark room—the theater.
But no movie. Just a dozen ard n. Combat goggles, heavy ammunition.
She didn’t even get to speak.
Three bullets. One in the stomach, two in the chest.
The floor greeted her. Her toy landed beside her. Her tiny fingers still searched—for soone.
Milo found her one minute too late. He saw the puddles, the casings, the blood-spattered walls and the body.
He would’ve crawled to her even with a bullet in each leg.
But ten n held him down. Soldiers, they didn’t kill him. No—they stopped him from dying.
He scread so hard he coughed up blood.
The authorities ruled it a terrorist act.
An "simple attack" they claid, launched against a rebellious cell. No suspects.
But Milo knew. The Caledrons, those dogs in suits.
They had sent death to punish those who dared break free from their "protection."
And his daughter... his daughter... was just collateral damage.
Weeks later, a man appeared at his door.
Tall, deep voice, tired eyes. His na was Rowen.
— "I used to be an officer," he said. "I lost my brother that day. We want to bring them down. All of them. Join SPIRAL. We’ll give you the ans."
Milo said nothing. He no longer wanted to kill, no longer wanted to breathe.
But he opened his mouth and answered in a hoarse voice :
— "If I find out you’re lying, Rowen, I’ll rip your tongue out. Even if I have to do it with my teeth."
And Rowen smiled—a serpent’s smile.
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