The mattress creaked softly as I stood. Morning light hadn't yet reached the horizon, but it didn't matter—we weren't here for sunrises or poetic goodbyes.
Anika stirred first, rubbing sleep from her eyes and blinking at beneath the tangle of her dark hair. "How do you find it comfortable to sleep in your mask?"
I glanced down. The grin of Mr. Jester still covered my face. "Force of habit."
Elliot groaned from the armchair, twisting like a cat on hot bricks. "What ti is it? Feels like soone poured cent into my spine."
"Ti to move," I said, already turning on my heel. "Train departs in a few hours, and I'd hate to miss my dramatic window exit."
We gathered in the kitchenette, such as it was—a busted stove, a couple chairs, and a fridge that humd louder than it cooled. I cobbled together a breakfast of questionable eggs and toast that tasted more like the pan than the bread.
Elliot nearly fell asleep mid-bite, while Anika chewed slowly, watching with narrowed eyes. She knew sothing was up.
After we cleaned, I stood near the window, checking the burner again. Nothing new. Just Connor's tistamped confirmation from hours ago.
"Elliot," I said without so much as a glance over my shoulder, "be a darling and fetch our train tickets, will you? Preferably before I decide to stow away instead."
Elliot blinked. "Alone?"
"You'll be fine," I said with a wink. "Anika will be along in a tick—try not to cause too much damage before then."
He groaned but nodded, grabbing his coat and yawning. I waited until the door clicked shut behind him before I turned to Anika.
"I need you to keep him busy at the station," I said quietly.
Anika frowned. "What kind of busy?"
"The kind where he doesn't notice I'm gone for ten, maybe twenty minutes."
She crossed her arms. "This about the governnt thing again?"
I nodded once.
She glanced toward the door, then back at . "He's going to figure it out eventually, you know."
"I'll deal with that later."
Anika hesitated, then sighed. "He deserves to know."
"I know," I murmured. "But right now, I need him not to."
She nodded reluctantly. "Just co back. I wouldn't want him to be sad."
"I always do."
—
We made our way through winding streets toward the train station. It was too early for crowds, but the city had eyes—always did. A few people glanced my way and then looked quickly away again. Mr. Jester didn't have a lot of fans. Not among the public, anyway.
We turned the final corner.
Tap.
I brushed Anika's shoulder lightly.
She paused, got the ssage, and pulled Elliot aside toward the ticket kiosk. I gave them a backward glance.
"Ah—forgot sothing back at the rental," I said, already stepping away. "Probably important. Possibly dramatic. Be back before anyone starts crying."
Then I was gone.
—
A block away from the station, Mark stood beneath a flickering streetlamp, dressed in scrappy clothing we'd pieced together the night before. I held out the rope. "You ready?"
Mark smirked. "Born ready."
I tied his hands—just enough to pass, loose enough for him to break free at a mont's notice. We practiced the cue once more.
"This wasn't part of the deal," I said.
Mark nodded. "Got it."
We walked toward the station.
—
Connor stood on the far side of the loading platform. His suit was impeccable, his tie a blade of color against the grayscale morning. Two bodyguards stood on either side—broad, cold-eyed, expensive types. There was sothing brittle about the air around him. Like he'd been waiting for this mont.
I pushed Mark forward. "Director Connor."
He turned, smiling thinly. "Mr. Jester. How very punctual."
"Where's Evelyn?" I asked imdiately.
He waved the question away. "Not your concern. But thank you for delivering Subject 3834. You've done more than your fair share."
He signaled. One of the guards stepped forward to take Mark.
That was when the rest of them erged.
Fourteen figures encircled us, appearing like shadows coalescing from the station walls themselves. No sound, no fanfare. Just cold efficiency.
They all muttered it. Like a prayer. Like a curse.
"Reynard Vale."
"Masked Syndicate."
The Cain Protocol.
Connor clasped his hands behind his back. "This is where we part ways."
I tilted my head slightly. "This wasn't part of the deal."
Connor barely opened his mouth to respond.
That was enough.
Mark twisted—freeing himself with a snap and lunging forward. He headbutted the nearest guard in the face and then spun, grabbing the second's arm and wrenching it backward with a crack. Bones splintered.
Connor stumbled back, shouting orders.
The Cain Protocol subjects moved.
And so did I.
—
The first ca at like a bullet—fast, brutal, precise. I ducked, grabbing their leg mid-kick and flinging them into the next one. Two down.
A third lashed out with claws—literal claws that were attached to so knuckles. So kind of hybrid weapon. I blocked with my forearm, feeling skin split, and retaliated with a spinning elbow to the temple. They staggered. Didn't drop.
They were stronger than I'd thought.
Four ca from behind. I rolled, popped up, swept one's legs and delivered a throat punch to another. A boot caught in the ribs. I gasped. A knee followed. Then a fist.
I turned, landed three blows in rapid succession—nose, gut, throat. All fluid. All deadly.
But not enough.
Every ti I dropped one, another filled their place.
This wasn't a fight. It was a war of attrition.
Mark held his own against the guards who clearly had skills to enhance their reflexes, their vision not faltering for even a second. His Assassin job made him faster than most, and for now, he danced around them, his knife flashing. I didn't have the luxury of dancing.
I was the target.
The Protocol wanted dead.
One caught with a hook across the jaw—my vision doubled. Another grabbed my coat and slamd back into the platform wall. I countered with a snap-kick, then an elbow to the sternum, but I was slowing.
My system couldn't keep up.
Blood dripped from a cut above my brow. My coat was torn. Breathing hurt.
I dropped two more—one with a broken kneecap, the other with a crushed trachea—but the rest weren't deterred. They pressed in. A coordinated move. I tried to dodge.
Too slow.
A fist caught in the ribs again. Another to the shoulder. Soone went low, sweeping my legs, and I fell.
Boots stomped down—I rolled. Glass shattered near my ear. I crawled, shoved upward.
One grabbed by the collar and flung .
I crashed through the station's window.
Glass rained down like razors, tearing my coat and cheek. I landed hard, skidding on tile, chest heaving.
Everything burned.
I didn't get up.
I couldn't.
My body was flaring with pain ranging from internal bleeding and muscular fatigue to tissue tearing across the upper back.
My vision blurred. I tasted copper.
Was this it?
Was this how it ended?
A beep.
Then another.
[System Notification]
The following skills have leveled up:
Physical Recovery Efficiency (Lv. 3) → Lv. 4
Muscle Reinforcent (Lv. 2) → Lv. 3
Reflex Calibration (Lv. 2) → Lv. 3
Muscle Optimization (Lv. 3) → Lv. 4
The pain faded. Not completely—but enough.
My limbs twitched. Breath steadied.
Blood slowed.
I opened my eyes, grabbed a long, jagged piece of glass from the floor, and stood slowly.
Crimson dripped from the shard.
Fourteen Cain Protocol subjects stared at through the broken fra of the station's entrance.
I grinned beneath the mask.
"Alright," I said. "Round two."
And I ran to et them.
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