The World Watches
Billions of eyes were fixed on their screens.
From grand news studios to dimly lit apartnts, from crowded town squares to war rooms filled with governnt officials—everyone was watching history unfold.
The first manned mission to Mars. A single astronaut, chosen against all odds.
Mr. Angel.
The masked enigma.
For months, the world had speculated about him. Theories flooded every corner of the internet. Who was he? How had a C-Rank astronaut—a man with no prior fa—outperford the best in the world?
But as the live feed continued, the excitent of history being made turned into sothing else.
Confusion.
Disbelief.
Horror.
The screen showed the interior of the spacecraft. Mr. Angel, clad in his sleek astronaut suit, was strapped into his seat, the control panel flickering wildly with red alerts.
But it wasn't just the failing ship that caught the world's attention.
It was him.
The way he laughed.
Not a relieved chuckle. Not the composed, enigmatic deanor the world had co to expect.
No.
This was sothing else.
A fractured, breathless cackle, his voice raw and uneven. His body twisted in his seat, his golden-lined mask glinting in the dim ergency lights.
Then—he spoke.
"Dust, my S-Rank friend, you seeing this? What kind of garbage is this?!"
Silence.
The world held its breath.
S-Rank?
There was no S-Rank nad Mr. Dust.
The na wasn't unfamiliar—Mr. Dust was listed as B-Rank, a known but unremarkable figure in the grand sche of things. But now, Mr. Angel was calling him S-Rank?
The highest level of mastery. A title only given to individuals who had shattered every limit of their profession.
Mr. Dust was supposed to be a detective. A good one, certainly, but not a legend.
And yet, Mr. Angel was speaking as if he was standing right there.
A hushed murmur spread across the newsrooms. Reporters exchanged quick glances. Governnts scrambled to confirm their databases.
Who was Mr. Dust?
Had the system been wrong?
Had the Masked Syndicate—whatever it was—been hiding the truth?
The tension only grew when Mr. Angel turned again, his masked face tilting as if acknowledging soone else.
"Fox! You gonna help, or just watch crash and burn?"
Another na.
Another masked figure.
And this ti, the world knew who he was.
Mr. Fox had once been C-Rank. A firefighter who had seemingly co from nowhere, earning an A-Rank reevaluation in record ti. A man who had been praised for heroic feats, but still... just a firefighter.
Nothing about him had ever suggested he was anything more.
Yet Mr. Angel spoke to him like an equal.
Like an ally.
Like soone who belonged to sothing far greater.
The Masked Syndicate.
A term no one had ever heard before.
And then—
A na.
A na no civilian had ever spoken.
"The World President."
The reaction was instantaneous.
Governnts scrambled. Officials stood so abruptly their chairs clattered to the floor.
Civilians, unaware of the weight of those words, simply watched in confusion as Mr. Angel's voice turned to venom.
"YOU SIT ON YOUR THRONE OF LIES, THINKING YOU'RE UNTOUCHABLE!"
In high-security war rooms, world leaders and intelligence directors exchanged alard looks.
Civilians still didn't understand.
But they did.
They understood.
The World President. The hidden figure at the peak of power. A man—or entity—known only to the highest ranks of governnt.
A secret that should have never left their walls.
And yet here was Mr. Angel, screaming his na to billions.
"BUT YOUR TI IS COMING!"
His voice cracked, raw with fury.
"YOUR SYSTEM IS ROTTING!"
Every news station played his words on repeat, journalists stumbling over themselves to make sense of it.
Who was the World President?
What was the Masked Syndicate?
"AND WHEN THE MASKS CO FOR YOU—"
The cara shook violently.
The ship was spiraling.
"THERE WILL BE NOWHERE LEFT TO HIDE!"
The feed cut.
Silence.
A global silence.
The screen showed only static.
The entire world seed to stop breathing at once.
Then—chaos.
Online forums exploded. Social dia collapsed under the weight of speculation.
"What the hell did we just watch?!"
"Did he just say Mr. Dust is S-Rank???"
"WHO IS THE WORLD PRESIDENT?!"
Governnts scrambled to regain control of the narrative.
News anchors fumbled for words.
"W-We seem to have lost contact with Mr. Angel's spacecraft," one of them stamred. "Uh—w-we don't know if—"
Another reporter cut in, visibly shaken. "Was that—was that an attack? Was this sabotage?"
In the streets, people whispered in fear.
So dismissed it. A madman's ramblings.
Others weren't so sure.
In a quiet apartnt, far away from the war rooms and broadcast stations, two won sat in silence.
Sienna's hands trembled. Her breath was uneven. The screen before her had gone dark.
It was 15 minutes behind real ti.
Which ant...
If he had died, if the ship had truly crashed, it had already happened.
Camille, beside her, was deathly still. Her usual smirk, her usual confidence—it was gone.
For the first ti, she had no words.
No jokes.
Nothing.
Sienna's hands gripped the fabric of her shirt so tightly her knuckles turned white. She refused to cry. She refused.
Then—she felt Camille shift beside her.
A hand.
A warm, solid hand.
Camille's fingers curled around her own, squeezing tightly.
"Hold out for hope," Camille whispered, her voice hoarse.
Sienna turned, only to see tears running down Camille's face, too.
She wasn't sure who broke first.
But when the sobs finally ca, they didn't stop.
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