Chapter 2: Waking from a Nightmare

The sun was already high when Kai opened his eyes. Bright light slipped through the gap in his worn-out apartment curtains, falling directly onto his face. Kai blinked several times, then let out a long sigh. His chest felt heavy, and cold sweat still clung to his forehead even though the room wasn’t cold.

That dream again.

He was used to it. Every time he fell asleep, his past always came back to haunt him. Fire, blood, screams, and nine faces that slowly faded but never truly disappeared. Sometimes, in his dreams, Kai heard a strange voice calling him by a name he didn’t recognize.

"Kael..."

That voice always made his chest feel tight, even though he didn’t know why. The name felt foreign to his ears. It wasn’t his name. His name was Kai. Always had been.

Kai roughly wiped his face, then pushed himself up from the old sofa that had been his bed for the past two years. His neck was stiff and his back ached. The sofa wasn’t a comfortable place to sleep, but Kai had never really cared about comfort. Tangled sheets, a dented pillow, and several empty coffee bottles lay scattered on the floor alongside a pile of mission reports he hadn’t touched in weeks.

Kai shuffled toward the bathroom. Cold water flowed from the old, rusted faucet, and he splashed his face repeatedly until the drowsiness completely faded. Then he stared at the mirror. A twenty-four-year-old man with messy black hair, hollow eyes, and a thin scar on his left cheek stared back at him. That scar was a gift from Zero Vale—the sword that had nearly severed his neck eight years ago.

Still alive, Kai thought bitterly. Looks like tonight isn’t my time to die either.

Kai dried his face with a faded towel whose original color was long gone, then walked toward the small kitchen in the corner of the room. He opened the refrigerator. Empty. Not completely empty—there were still a few eggs and half a pack of instant noodles—but there was nothing to drink. No cold drink. No sweetness to distract his mind from last night’s nightmare.

My favorite drink is gone.

Kai closed the refrigerator a little harder than necessary. The sound echoed through the small, silent apartment.

Lazily, Kai grabbed his wallet from the table, slipped his feet into gray training pants, then put on a plain black t-shirt. There was nothing to tidy up. Nothing to show off. He glanced toward the wardrobe—where the revolver was hidden in the bottom drawer, buried under a week’s worth of dirty laundry. The revolver with one bullet. The revolver that had accompanied his nights for the past two years.

No need to bring it, Kai thought. Just going to the convenience store.

He left his apartment without locking the door.

No one would want to steal my stuff anyway, he thought as he walked along the sidewalk. The only thing worth stealing is that revolver—and whoever takes it can have it.

Kai’s favorite convenience store was about a five-minute walk away. The small, twenty-four-hour shop sat on a street corner, sandwiched between a laundromat that was already closed and a coffee shop that was always busy at night. At this time of day, the area around the store was usually quiet. Occasionally a housewife would buy eggs, or a child would buy candy. Kai already knew the layout of every aisle inside.

He walked through the glass door, which always chimed "ding-dong" whenever it opened. That sound reminded him of something... but he didn’t know what. Maybe nothing.

Just a convenience store.

Kai walked aisle after aisle until he stopped in front of the cooler at the far end. There, on the bottom shelf—because the store staff never seemed to organize things properly—two bottles of his favorite drink remained. Kai grabbed one. He felt the cold spread from his palm.

Life is strange, he thought suddenly. I used to kill people without a second thought. Now I feel relieved just because I can buy a cold drink.

Kai sighed. Maybe that’s what they call "growing up." Or maybe I’m just tired. He walked toward the register.

The cashier that afternoon wasn’t the usual one. A young man with his hair tied back, eyes half-closed, seemed to be fighting off drowsiness after a long night shift. He looked up when Kai approached, then yawned.

"Sorry, sir, this—"

"Don’t move!"

The shout shattered the silence of the convenience store. Kai wasn’t startled. He didn’t feel anything—not fear, not surprise, not anxiety. Just a dull annoyance, like someone cutting in line at the register.

Just woke up. Haven’t had a drink. Haven’t had breakfast. Now I have to deal with this.

From behind the back aisle, two men emerged in a hurry. The first was heavyset, wearing a black jacket and loose jeans. He held a pistol—a cheap, low-caliber revolver—aimed directly at the cashier’s head. He looked nervous. Sweat dripped down his temples, even though the store was cool. The second man was thinner, wearing a gray beanie despite the warm weather. His eyes darted around nervously, not knowing where to focus. And his pistol was aimed at Kai.

Kai stopped. His drink was still in his left hand. His wallet in his right.

Two men. Cheap guns. Never killed anyone before.

Kai could tell all of that in just one second. The beanie-wearing man’s eyes were trembling. His hand—the one holding the gun—shook slightly. His lips were slightly parted, as if preparing words he hadn’t fully formed.

Not a killer, Kai concluded. This guy doesn’t have the guts.

"D-don’t try anything!" shouted the beanie man.

The muzzle of his gun wavered, moving up and down as if unsure where to aim. Kai noticed that the man’s finger wasn’t even touching the trigger properly. The hammer wasn’t cocked.

Amateur.

"Hand over all your money!"

Kai blinked. He stared at the gun, then at the face behind the beanie. Then, without really meaning to, Kai let out a long sigh. Loud. Clear. So loud that the beanie man flinched slightly.

"Hah..."

The breath escaped Kai’s mouth like air leaving a deflating balloon. Both robbers fell silent.

"Robbing in broad daylight like this..."

Kai shook his head slowly.

"How lucky am I."

The beanie man blinked several times.

"W-what?"

"I heard you clearly," Kai said flatly. "Or do you have a hearing problem? Maybe you need to see an ENT specialist? I know someone—ah, but he died two years ago. Caught in the war."

"W-what are you talking about—"

"Nothing." Kai cut him off. "Nothing at all. I’m just making small talk before being robbed."

The beanie man looked genuinely confused. He turned to his heavier companion for guidance. The heavyset man only grew more agitated.

"Jon! Just take the money! Don’t listen to him!"

Jon.

Kai remembered that name. Easy to forget. Fitting for a robber who’s also easy to forget.

"You heard that?" Kai smiled faintly—a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. "Your friend says hurry up. So come on, do it."

Kai raised his wallet.

"Look at this. Thin wallet. Thin contents. I’m not even sure I have enough for bus fare home. But if you want to rob a poor man like me, be my guest."

"S-shut up!"

From behind, the heavyset robber threatening the cashier grew impatient. He waved his gun around, while the poor cashier behind the counter could only stand there, sobbing quietly.

"Jon! Just shoot him! We’re wasting time!"

"Shut up, Ucok! I’m the one—"

"Click."

Kai made that sound with his mouth. An imitation of a gun being cocked—so convincing that both robbers froze in place. Kai smiled again.

"Just kidding," he said.

"Your guns aren’t even cocked. See? Your finger isn’t even on the trigger properly."

The robber named Jon swallowed hard. The muzzle of his gun wavered even more.

"C-cock it, Jon!" shouted the heavyset man—Ucok—from behind the cashier. "Hurry up!"

Jon’s hand trembled. He tried to cock his gun—but his movements were stiff, like someone holding a gun for the first time. Kai watched it all with eyes that had seen thousands of men die.

Two idiots playing soldier. No one’s dying today.

"You’ve never killed anyone before, have you?" Kai suddenly asked.

Jon froze. His eyes widened.

"Why are you—"

"Because if you had," Kai cut in quietly, his voice barely a whisper, "you’d know you’re supposed to cock the hammer before pointing it at someone. Not after."

Jon was silent.

"If you don’t..." Kai continued, "you’re just a joke. A dangerous joke—but still a joke."

"S-shut—"

"Annoying."

Kai didn’t know exactly when he decided to move. Maybe when he realized his precious afternoon was being wasted on two idiots. Or maybe when he heard the cashier’s sobs—and for a few seconds, that sound reminded him of something. A sound that resembled...

Don’t think about it.

What was clear was that in a split second, Kai had already turned around.

His hand, which had been holding his drink—which fortunately didn’t fall—now grabbed the muzzle of the gun pointing at him from behind. With movements too fast for an ordinary person to follow, Kai spun around and made sure the gun’s tip was now pressed against his own chest.

"Click."

This time, the sound wasn’t an imitation. Kai’s thumb cocked the hammer with one smooth motion. Now, the gun was ready to fire. Pointed at his own chest.

"You want to shoot?" Kai asked. His face was blank. His eyes hollow—empty like someone who had long lost his purpose in life. "Then do it. I don’t have much time."

Jon trembled violently. His whole body shook like a dry leaf in the wind.

"W-why are you—"

"Ah, I know." Kai tilted his head. His eyes narrowed. "You don’t want to shoot because you’re scared. Not scared of killing—you haven’t even thought that far ahead. You’re scared because you don’t know what will happen after you pull the trigger."

Jon didn’t answer. His mouth was open, but no sound came out.

"Because you don’t know," Kai continued, "whether the bullet will go through my chest, or just ricochet and hit something—or someone—behind me. You don’t know. And that uncertainty terrifies you."

Kai could see cold sweat covering Jon’s entire face. Not bad, Kai thought. He still has some common sense left.

"In that case..."

Kai grabbed the gun barrel with both hands. Slowly. Deliberately slowly—every second felt like a minute to Jon, who had already turned pale. Kai placed the muzzle into his own mouth. The cold metal touched the roof of his mouth. Cold. Bitter. There was a lingering smell of gunpowder—maybe Jon had tried firing this gun at empty cans or something. Kai didn’t flinch. His eyes remained fixed on Jon.

"Is this not your style?"

His voice was muffled by the barrel in his mouth, but every word was still clear.

Jon couldn’t speak. The gun in his hand—the one whose muzzle was now inside Kai’s mouth—felt unbearably heavy. Not physically heavy, but mentally. A weight he had never imagined.

He’s insane, Jon thought. This guy is completely insane.

"Or do you prefer this?"

Kai pulled the gun out of his mouth. Then, with the same slowness, he pressed the muzzle against his own forehead. Right between his eyebrows. The cold metal touched his skin. Kai didn’t blink.

"Ah, I like this position," Kai said. A thin smile appeared on his lips.

"So shoot."

"JON!"

Ucok’s scream from behind the cashier sounded like hysterical shouting.

"SHOOT HIM, YOU IDIOT!"

"Yeah," Kai added boredly. "Hurry up and shoot. I don’t have all day for this."

Jon couldn’t move. The gun in his hand felt like hot iron burning his palm. He wanted to run. He wanted to let go of the gun and run as far as he could. But his body wouldn’t obey. Sweat. Trembling. Tears. Tears began to well up in the corners of Jon’s eyes. He didn’t know why he was crying. Maybe out of fear. Maybe out of shame. Maybe because he realized he had made a huge mistake by robbing a convenience store in broad daylight.

Kai stared at those tears. He saw fear. He saw regret. He saw someone who could still feel fear.

Lucky him, Kai suddenly thought. Still able to be afraid. Still able to cry. Still able to hope that this is all just a nightmare. Unlike me.

"Hah."

Kai sighed. Bored.

With one swift motion—fast as lightning, without warning—Kai snatched the gun from Jon’s paralyzed hand. Then, without a hint of guilt, he smashed the gun’s grip against the robber’s head.

"Thud!"

Metal struck skull with a dull sound. Jon collapsed to the floor like a sack of rice. Unconscious instantly.

"Jon!"

The heavyset man behind the cashier—Ucok—panicked completely. His eyes bulged. His face turned pale.

"Y-you—"

He aimed his gun at Kai. But before his finger could pull the trigger, Kai was already in front of him.

That fast.

Kai didn’t remember when he started running. Maybe his instincts had moved on their own—instincts honed over years on the battlefield, instincts that never truly disappeared even after two years of trying to bury them.

Kai’s left hand grabbed Ucok’s gun barrel. His right thumb slipped into the trigger guard, preventing it from moving.

"Click. Click. Click. Click. Click."

With practiced movements—movements he had done thousands of times before—Kai repeatedly cocked the pistol. Bullets spilled out of the magazine, rolling across the tiled floor. One by one. Five bullets. All of them out. After the gun was empty, Kai released his grip. The cheap weapon fell to the floor with an unimpressive clatter.

Ucok stood frozen. His mouth hung open. His eyes didn’t blink. He didn’t understand what had just happened.

"Damn—"

"Thud."

One punch straight to the temple. Ucok collapsed unconscious next to his partner, the impact making the floor vibrate slightly.

Silence. The convenience store fell silent. Only the soft hum of the refrigerator remained in the background. Along with the sound of the cashier’s sobs—still sitting behind the counter, his face wet with tears.

Kai sighed. He looked at the two unconscious bodies on the floor. Two idiots. No one died. Still no one died today.

Kai crouched down. He took the money that had been stolen from the cash register—a few small bills, probably totaling less than fifty dollars—and handed it back to the still-trembling cashier.

"Keep the change," Kai said coldly.

He grabbed his drink from the counter—the one he had left there earlier, still intact, still cold.

The cashier could only nod weakly. His hands trembled as he accepted the money.

Kai stepped out of the convenience store, opening his drink as he went. The warm afternoon air greeted him outside. Clear sky. Bright sun.

The world keeps moving, Kai thought. Even though those people inside just went through something traumatic, the sun still shines.

He took a sip. Sweet. Cold. Refreshing. But nothing inside his chest changed.

Still empty, Kai thought. Still dead.

Throughout the walk home, Kai’s mind was blank. Not blank in the sense of not thinking—his mind always ran, like a machine that couldn’t be turned off. But blank in the sense that nothing felt. The faces of the two robbers were already fading. The cashier’s sobs were already disappearing.

Not important. Nothing is important.

When his apartment came into view at the end of the street—a three-story old building with peeling paint everywhere—Kai almost didn’t notice something strange. But his instincts... those never slept.

The door.

His apartment door wasn’t fully closed.

Kai stopped. His drink paused at his lips. He remembered clearly that he DIDN’T lock the door when he left—because he never locked the door. There was nothing worth protecting. But he also remembered clearly that he CLOSED the door properly before leaving. There was a small habit he had: pulling the handle twice to make sure the door was fully shut, even if it wasn’t locked. Now, there was a gap. A gap as wide as two fingers between the frame and the door.

Someone has entered. And that person is still inside.

Kai didn’t panic. He never did. With silent movements—an old habit ingrained in his bones—Kai leaned his drink against the outside wall, right next to the door. His hand moved to his lower back, feeling for the grip of the pistol he always carried.

Walther PPK. 7 rounds. One in the chamber. Ready.

This pistol was different from the old revolver in his wardrobe. This was a real weapon. A gun that had killed dozens of people. A gun that never failed.

Kai drew the pistol smoothly. No sound. Then he moved. Slowly. Carefully. Every step calculated—where he placed his foot, how much weight he shifted, how fast he breathed. Everything controlled.

He pushed the door with his fingertips. It opened silently—he had long since oiled the hinges, not because he was paranoid, but because the creaking disturbed his sleep. His apartment was dark. The curtains were still drawn tight, just as he had left them. But Kai didn’t need to see to know something was different.

Smell.

There was a foreign scent in the air. Not a woman’s perfume—or maybe it was, but not cheap perfume. This scent... it was familiar. Expensive. Distinct.

Vanilla tobacco.

Kai frowned. Why does it smell familiar? Then he heard a sound from the living room.

"Ugh."

The sound of someone almost vomiting.

"This drink... really doesn’t agree with my taste."

Kai stopped. His pistol was still raised, ready. But he recognized that voice. With a mix of annoyance—and a great deal of relief he didn’t want to admit—Kai lowered his gun. He stepped into the living room, leaving the door open behind him.

There, on the old sofa where Kai usually slept, sat a middle-aged man. His hair was starting to gray at the temples, but his body was still strong—broad shoulders, muscular arms, a scar on his left forearm visible because he had rolled up his sleeves. His face was still sharp, though the wrinkles around his eyes showed he was no longer young. His gray eyes—the same gray as the sky before a storm—stared at Kai with a look half-mocking, half-satisfied. In his hand, the man held Kai’s favorite drink. A bottle he had taken from the refrigerator—the refrigerator Kai had opened that morning and found empty of his favorite drink.

Did he bring his own? No. He took it from the fridge. But my fridge was empty. Maybe he filled it before I came home.

The man took another sip. His face twisted in disgust.

"Ugh. Disgusting. Tastes like cough syrup."

Kai let out a long sigh. So long that the man raised an eyebrow at him. Kai tucked his pistol back into his waistband. Walked to the refrigerator. Opened it.

Just as I thought.

Now the refrigerator wasn’t empty. Besides the bottle the man was holding, two other bottles remained on the bottom shelf. Maybe left intentionally. Kai grabbed one. Cold.

He actually filled my fridge.

Kai then walked to the wooden chair across from the sofa—the only chair in the apartment besides the sofa—and sat down. He stared at the man in front of him.

"Leonhard," Kai said flatly. His voice showed no emotion.

"You can’t just force your way into someone’s home."

Leonhard—Kai’s former commander, the leader of the Grim Reaper mercenaries, the man who had recruited him when he was only ten years old, and one of two people who might—just might—be considered "family" to Kai—smiled faintly.

"Your door wasn’t locked, Kai," Leonhard said casually. "I just walked in."

"Not locked and allowed to enter are two different things."

"You haven’t changed." Leonhard put the drink down on the table. His face still twisted in disgust. "But your taste in drinks... unbelievable. I’d rather shoot myself in the foot than drink that again."

"No one asked you to drink it."

Leonhard chuckled softly. His laugh was heavy and short—like someone who rarely laughed sincerely. But there was warmth there. Warmth that reminded Kai of a time when he was young, when he could still laugh, when he hadn’t lost everything.

That was the past, Kai thought. Now I’m just a corpse that hasn’t been buried yet.

Kai studied his former commander. Leonhard looked older than the last time they had met. That was about a year ago—at the official disbandment ceremony of the Grim Reaper after the war ended. Back then, Leonhard had stood in front of five hundred loyal mercenaries and said only one sentence:

"The war is over. Go back to your lives. And if you don’t have a life to return to... create one."

After that, Leonhard disappeared. No news. No calls. No messages. And Kai—Kai chose to disappear along with his old revolver.

Now, Leonhard was here. His once jet-black hair was now streaked with gray at the temples, and his unshaven beard showed several days of neglect. The wrinkles on his face were deeper than Kai remembered. His gray eyes—the same gray as the sky before a storm—were still sharp, but there was something there. Something Kai couldn’t read.

Tired, Kai thought suddenly. Leonhard is also tired.

"What do you want?" Kai finally asked. His voice wasn’t friendly, but it wasn’t harsh either. Just flat. "I don’t believe you came all this way just to sample my cough syrup."

Leonhard sighed. He pulled a thick brown envelope from inside his jacket—a worn black leather jacket, frayed at the elbows, the same one he had worn when leading troops ten years ago—and placed it on the table between them. The envelope was thick. Heavy.

Like it contains documents.

"Is this a new mission?" Kai asked before Leonhard could speak. His voice was flat, almost bored.

"If it is, forget it. I haven’t even done the previous ones."

"Three missions," Leonhard corrected. "Three missions you’ve refused over the past two years. Including one with a ten-million-dollar payout."

"Ten million dollars is useless to someone who wants to die."

Those words came out bluntly. No filter. No sugar-coating. As usual.

Leonhard fell silent. He looked at Kai with eyes that—for a moment—seemed pained. Not physically pained. But pained to see someone he once knew as a brave young boy now reduced to an empty shell.

"And now?" Leonhard asked softly. His voice was low. Almost a whisper.

"Do you still want to die?"

Kai didn’t answer. He took a sip of his drink. It tasted sweet. But nothing felt sweet in his mouth.

"Relax," Leonhard suddenly said. He leaned back against the sofa—the old sofa whose springs were already protruding in several places—casually. As if he were sitting in his own living room.

"I brought an interesting mission."

Leonhard smiled. A smile that made Kai uneasy.

"Even if I canceled it right now... you’d be the one begging me to give it to you."

Kai frowned. Beg? Never. Not in my life.

"Look at this."

Leonhard pushed the brown envelope toward Kai.

With a slow movement—as if he didn’t really care—Kai grabbed the envelope. Heavy. Lots of contents. Kai opened it. Documents. Photos. Sheets of paper with official government letterheads. And the first photo he saw was of a woman. A young woman with wavy red hair. Her eyes were bright green—bright, full of life, like someone who had never seen death. Her smile was wide. White teeth clearly visible. Behind her, a simple house with a small yard. Green grass. White wooden fence. Colorful flowers in terracotta pots. Kai didn’t recognize this woman. But something stirred in his chest.

Who is she?

Then he saw the second photo. A photo of a boy, around nine or ten years old. His hair was red—just like the first woman’s. The boy smiled widely while holding a soccer ball in his hands. His clothes were tattered, dirty, as if he had just finished playing on a dirt field. He was missing one front tooth. Kai stared at that photo for too long. The hand holding the photo began to tremble slightly. Not from fear. Not from anger. But because there was something stuck in his chest. Something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Something that resembled... guilt.

But why? Why do I feel guilty looking at this child’s photo?

Kai grabbed the third photo. A photo of a man. A man with blazing red hair—red like fire, red like blood, red like memories he didn’t want to remember. The man was built solidly. Full of muscle. Broad chest. Large, calloused hands. His smile was wide and arrogant—the smile of someone who had never been afraid of anything. Kai recognized this man. He knew him very well.

Rex Scarlet.

The rebel assault force leader. The man he had killed eight years ago. The man he had riddled with bullets until his body was full of holes. The man who—before dying—had still managed to smile.

"Are you done yet, kid?"

Rex Scarlet’s last words. Kai remembered that voice. The voice of a man who wasn’t afraid to die. Just like himself now.

Kai’s hand trembled violently. His whole body felt cold—cold like when he was drowning in last night’s nightmare. His chest felt tight. His breathing was heavy.

"Do you see it now?"

Leonhard’s voice sounded distant. Even though he was only sitting a meter away, his voice felt far away. Like someone shouting from the end of a long hallway.

Kai didn’t answer. He grabbed photo after photo from inside the brown envelope. Nine photos of men. Nine faces he recognized. Rex Scarlet. Zero Vale. Dian Elno. Jack Winter. Gold Ash. Wild Neon. Jim Sol. Dennis Noah. And the last one... Jhon Virel. The supreme leader of the rebels. The man with calm eyes who—in his final moments—had still managed to say:

"I hope one day you’ll find out who your true enemy really is..."

Kai bit his lip. He grabbed the family photos. Nine families. Nine wives. Nine children—all girls, all around seventeen years old now, all with smiles that resembled their fathers. Nine reasons why Kai’s heart felt like it was being crushed slowly.

"They... are still alive?" Kai whispered. His voice was hoarse. Even he himself wasn’t sure if he had actually spoken those words or just imagined them.

"They’re still alive," Leonhard answered.

"The families of the rebel leaders you killed that night. They’ve been ostracized by society. Labeled as children of rebels. Not accepted in any school. Living in fear that the government might one day ’cleanse’ the remaining rebels."

Leonhard paused. He looked at Kai with serious eyes.

"But someone has been fighting for them."

Kai looked up. His eyes were red—not from crying, because he didn’t cry, he had forgotten how to cry—but from anger. Anger at himself.

"You... you’ve been protecting them all this time?"

"Since that day," Leonhard said. "Since you shot Jhon Virel, I’ve had people watching over their families from a distance. I couldn’t do much—the government was still watching my movements—but at least they didn’t starve to death."

"Why didn’t you tell me?"

"Because you weren’t ready."

Leonhard stood up. He walked to the small table in the corner of the room—the table that for two years had held nothing but piles of unread mission reports and Kai’s old revolver. Leonhard picked up the revolver. He spun its cylinder. Empty—except for one bullet. One bullet that had failed three times to kill its owner.

"So all this time, you’ve been playing this stupid game," Leonhard muttered. His voice wasn’t angry. Just tired.

He stared at the revolver for a long moment, then looked at Kai.

"Russian roulette? Really, Kai. I didn’t think you were this foolish."

Kai didn’t answer. His eyes were still fixed on the pile of photos on the table. Nine families. Nine smiles. Nine reasons to keep living—or to keep dying slowly.

Leonhard tossed the revolver toward Kai. With reflexes still sharp—reflexes that hadn’t truly faded despite two years of disuse—Kai caught the revolver in midair. The cold metal was familiar in his palm.

Too familiar.

"Do you still want to play that game?" Leonhard asked. There was a smile on his lips. But his eyes were serious. Deadly serious.

Kai stared at the revolver in his hand. The same revolver he had pointed at his own head three times. The same revolver that always said "click" instead of "bang." The same revolver that had become a symbol of his stupidity and cowardice over the past two years. He looked at the revolver. Then he looked at the photos. Nine faces of men he had killed. Nine faces of girls who didn’t know that the man who killed their fathers was holding a revolver in this rundown apartment.

Kai smiled. A bitter smile. A smile that didn’t reach anywhere.

"Of course not," Kai said softly. His voice sounded strange. There was something different about it.

"That’s a dangerous game."

Kai raised the revolver. But not toward his own head. Toward the refrigerator.

"Bang!"

The gunshot echoed through the small apartment. Glass and metal scattered everywhere. Kai’s favorite drink—the one he had just bought at the convenience store—was destroyed along with his old, rickety refrigerator. Water flowed from the broken pipe. Glass shards littered the floor.

Leonhard blinked. He stared at the refrigerator, which now had a bullet hole in its center. Thin smoke rose from the hole.

"You idiot!" Leonhard almost shouted. "What are you doing? You’ll wake up the neighbors!"

"They are my neighbors," Kai replied flatly. He placed the empty revolver on the table, next to the pile of photos.

Leonhard fell silent. He stared at Kai for a long moment. Then he laughed. Laughed hard—until his eyes watered, until his stomach hurt, until he had to sit back down on the sofa because his legs were weak.

"You damn brat," Leonhard muttered as he wiped his eyes. "You haven’t changed at all."

Kai didn’t answer. He grabbed the brown envelope again. Pulled out all the documents. Read them one by one. Names. Addresses. Occupations. Status. Nine families. Nine reasons to stop pulling the trigger of that revolver.

Silence. The apartment fell silent. Only the sound of water dripping from the destroyed refrigerator remained.

"Leonhard," Kai called without looking up from the documents.

"Hm?"

"This mission... what am I supposed to do?"

Leonhard smiled. A sincere smile. A smile he had never shown to anyone but Kai.

"It’s not about what you have to do, Kai."

Leonhard stood up. He took his leather jacket from the sofa armrest.

"It’s about what you want to do."

He walked toward the door. Stopped at the threshold. Turned halfway back.

"They are the families of the people you killed. They don’t know who you are. They don’t know what happened to their husbands and fathers. They only know that the people they loved went to war... and never came back."

Leonhard sighed.

"For two years, you’ve been busy thinking about how to die. Maybe now it’s time to think about how to live. Not for yourself. But for them."

Leonhard stepped out. The apartment door closed softly behind him. Click. Locked. Kai didn’t know when Leonhard had taken his spare key. Maybe from the very beginning.

Silence. Kai sat alone in his dark living room. Before him, nine unfamiliar families stared back at him from worn-out photos. Water still dripped from the destroyed refrigerator. The remains of his favorite drink—the one that hadn’t been destroyed—lay on the floor, its contents slowly spilling onto the tiles.

Kai picked up the photo of Rin Scarlet. A girl with short red hair and fiery brown eyes.

Just like her father.

Kai stared at the girl for a long time.

"Are you done yet, kid?"

Rex Scarlet’s voice still echoed in his head.

Not yet, Kai thought. Not finished. Maybe it will never be finished.

He gathered all the photos. Put them back into the envelope. Arranged them neatly. Carefully. Like precious belongings.

Because for them, these are the only memories left of their fathers. And I... I’m the one who took that away from them.

Kai closed his eyes. For the first time in eight years, he didn’t see fire and blood when he shut his eyes. What he saw instead were smiles. Nine smiles from nine men he had killed. And nine more smiles from nine girls who didn’t know that the man who killed their fathers was currently reading their home addresses.

"I hope one day you’ll find out who your true enemy really is..."

Kai opened his eyes.

"Alright."

His voice was soft. But firm.

"I will live."

He stared at the empty revolver on the table.

"Not for myself."

He stared at the brown envelope.

"But for them."