Arno groaned. Every muscle in his body ached as he regained consciousness. His vision was blurry, his breathing labored, and his wrists were shackled to a cold, iron chair in the center of a massive chamber. The main room of the Monarchs' underground facility loomed around him like a twisted cathedral. Dozens of masked figures lined the walls, watching in silence.
The light above him flickered.
Then he saw him—Marcus.
Standing just a few feet away.
His face unreadable. Calm. Too calm.
And behind Marcus, emerging from the shadows like a ghost slipping through velvet curtains, stood the Puppeteer.
The man's presence felt like gravity itself—immense, inescapable. His white gloves were spotless, his posture regal. The long coat he wore swept the floor like the train of a monarch's robe. The pale porcelain mask on his face smiled faintly, but Arno felt no warmth from it. Only pressure.
"Welcome back to the stage, Mr. Wolf," the Puppeteer said, his voice smooth, melodic—almost amused. "I was hoping you'd make it in time for the final act."
Arno tried to speak, but his throat was dry. He forced the words out.
"Marcus... what...?"
Marcus turned to face him fully now, expression cold. "I'm sorry you had to find out this way," he said. "Really. But this is where masks come off."
He took a step forward.
"The truth is—I was never one of you. I was never with Cedric. Or Eliza. Not really. I joined the Unchained because he," Marcus tilted his head slightly to indicate the Puppeteer, "asked me to. Because he needed someone on the inside."
Arno's breath caught in his chest.
Marcus kept talking.
"I was the one who gave him the coordinates to your old base. I watched Cedric blame himself for weeks. I let Eliza think she failed to protect you. I sabotaged your investigations, redirected leads, made sure everything ran just slow enough."
The Puppeteer placed a gloved hand on Marcus's shoulder, like a father guiding a favorite son.
"Now," he said softly. "Show your loyalty. End the farce. Kill him."
A gun dropped from one of the Monarch guards and slid across the floor to Marcus's feet. The sound echoed like thunder.
Marcus picked it up slowly.
He looked Arno in the eyes. And for a moment—just a flicker—something trembled in his stare. But it was gone just as fast.
He raised the gun.
Arno's jaw clenched. The betrayal was sinking in like poison. He had trusted Marcus. Not because he was useful, but because he had been genuine. Or so it seemed.
"Do it," the Puppeteer said gently. "Let go of your doubt. Show them who you really are."
Marcus's finger moved to the trigger.
Arno didn't blink.
And neither did the Puppeteer.
The Puppeteer stepped closer to Marcus, his silhouette framed by the harsh lights above, casting long shadows across the room. His voice was soft, almost intimate, as he leaned in behind Marcus.
"One final act, Marcus," he said, the words wrapping around Marcus like silk laced with poison. "One bullet. One death. One irrevocable proof that your loyalty is real."
He placed both hands on Marcus's shoulders now, voice dropping lower.
"Think of what we've built. Of what I've shown you. I trusted you with secrets no one else knows. Gave you purpose. Made you valuable. You are the only one I see as worthy of my legacy."
He stepped around to face Marcus directly, tilting his head slightly.
"But if you flinch now… if you let sentiment sway you… you'll be nothing more than another broken tool. A waste. And I never… keep broken things."
The words landed like daggers.
Marcus's hands trembled slightly as he gripped the pistol. His eyes met Arno's—silent, wounded, confused.
"Do it," the Puppeteer whispered again. "And I will trust you. Completely. Unconditionally."
A heavy silence fell over the room.
Then Marcus took a step forward—then another—and suddenly shoved Arno hard toward the edge of a steel pit built into the floor. Before Arno could react, he was over the edge.
He fell.
The darkness swallowed him whole.
A moment later, a dull thud echoed through the shaft as Arno hit the padded, dirt-lined bottom. He coughed and groaned, but quickly realized—he was… okay. Bruised. A bit shaken. But no bones broken.
He looked up. The opening above him seemed impossibly far now.
Marcus stood at the edge, the gun still in his hand. His face was unreadable.
Then, quietly, he spoke.
"I couldn't do it."
His voice cracked, just slightly.
"You were right, Arno. Back then… in that bar. You said we choose our side when it matters. I guess this is mine."
He took a deep breath, gaze fixed on Arno below.
"You, Cedric, Eliza… you're the first people who ever really gave a damn about me. Not for my skills. Just for me. I won't let him take that away."
He paused, the pain and conviction in his voice clear now.
"Good luck, Arno."
Then, without another word, Marcus turned and walked away—back toward the Puppeteer. Back into the lion's den.
And Arno, staring up from the darkness, knew two things:
Marcus had made his choice.
And the game was far from over.
The Puppeteer stood in silence as Marcus returned from the shaft, his face unreadable behind the mask. For a long moment, nothing was said — only the sound of distant footsteps and the faint hum of machinery in the underbelly of the Monarchs' stronghold.
Then the Puppeteer turned toward him, voice calm and deliberate.
"You made a choice," he said. "I respect that."
Marcus tensed, unsure what was coming next. But the Puppeteer simply stepped closer and continued.
"I expect you tomorrow. Midnight. La Belle Nuit Theater."
His words were slow, deliberate, as if each syllable was part of a deeper script only he could see.
"It will be your stage. Your final performance. You've bought yourself a spotlight, Marcus. Let's see if you can survive under it."
Marcus didn't reply. He didn't flinch. He just nodded once.
The Puppeteer tilted his head slightly, almost approvingly. "But before that — speak with Graf. He's expecting you. Discuss the... state of affairs. See to it that the Monarchs remain in line. Graf may be many things, but a loose end is not something I tolerate."
He turned and began to walk away, his voice drifting over his shoulder like a silk curtain pulled shut.
"Midnight. Don't be late."
Then he was gone.
Marcus exhaled slowly and turned in the opposite direction, heading down the corridor toward the wing where Graf held his private meetings — his mind already racing.
The next twenty-four hours would decide everything.
Arno's body ached, but his resolve burned hotter than ever.
He picked himself up from the ground of the pit he had been thrown into — blood trickling down his temple, ribs bruised, but bones intact. The Monarchs had underestimated the sheer will of the man who had survived wars and fire alike.
His fingers found the hidden holsters beneath his clothing. Two compact pistols — still there. A small blade in his boot — untouched. A high-caliber sniper rifle, stashed in the emergency case just a few meters from where he landed — waiting for him like an old friend.
He loaded his weapons with the calm of a surgeon. No hesitation. No wasted motion. He attached his magnetic armor plates, rolled his shoulders once, and cracked his neck.
Time to ascend.
Arno began breathing heavily. Steam emerged from his mouth. His eyes were focused - red from the blood but blue as ever. He was concentrated. Arno entered the flow state.
The first Monarch didn't even see it coming — a single suppressed bullet to the head as Arno rose from the shadows. He took the fallen man's rifle and moved on.
What followed was a brutal ascent through the heart of the Monarch stronghold.
Dozens. Then hundreds. Then more.
Arno didn't flinch. Every hall, every staircase, every intersection — a new skirmish, a new wall of bodies. He moved like a ghost with steel fangs — precise, relentless, surgical.
Flashbangs blinded them. Smoke bombs disoriented them. Arno slipped through it all — a storm in human form. His adaptability shone through every bullet, every step, every corner. He used their own weapons. He hijacked their comms. He overloaded the lights to blind them. He turned their cover into traps and their numbers into liabilities.
Screams echoed. Blood pooled. He never stopped moving.
And finally — breath heavy, shirt torn, ammo almost gone — he saw it:
The steel-reinforced door to the upper level.
The same door he'd once entered disguised in the suit of a dead Tier 3.
Only now, there was no disguise. No mask. Just Arno Wolf — bloodied, furious, and unstoppable.
He loaded the last round into his rifle, wiped the sweat from his brow, and stepped forward.
"Runde zwei (Round two)," he muttered. Then he slammed the door open.
Arno moved swiftly and silently through the dimly lit corridors of the upper level. The walls, lined with steel and stone, echoed faint whispers and distant footsteps—but none close enough to matter. Every step he took was calculated, his senses honed to a razor's edge. His pistols, now low on ammo, rested in holsters at his sides. Instead, he relied on stealth, his knife, and the occasional silenced shot to dispatch stragglers with lethal precision.
The first hallway held two guards. One cigarette break, one bored. Neither made a sound before they hit the ground.
In the next corridor, a security camera turned just a moment too late. Arno had already climbed onto a narrow ledge above it. With a clean swipe of wirecutters, he disabled the feed. No alarm. No panic. Just quiet elimination.
Every kill was quick and efficient—only when necessary. He avoided full patrols, waited for moments of weakness, used their own patterns against them. His adaptability wasn't just in battle; it was in timing, psychology, and deception.
In a storage room near the west wing, he found what he needed: a black leather-bound book. Its pages were blank, the perfect vessel. He pulled a pen from his vest pocket and began to write—not hurried, but methodically. Every name he remembered. Every face. Every rank. Patterns. Weapons caches. Meeting schedules. The tiers of the organization. Known call signs. Weaknesses. Leadership structure. Symbols. Routes in and out of the sewer network.
Everything.
He slipped the book into a sealed pouch inside his coat.
But information was dangerous in the wrong hands. If the authorities discovered the mass slaughter he'd just committed, it would start a war. Civilians would die. So Arno made sure no one would find the bodies.
He dragged each one into side rooms. Storage closets. Supply crates. Emergency exits. He stacked them neatly, disabled comms, wiped blood trails, and looped recorded camera footage on repeat. To anyone watching remotely, the halls remained quiet and uneventful.
The only ones who would know what happened… were the Monarchs who mattered.
Let the leadership tremble. Let the survivors realize someone had slipped in, left a message in blood, and vanished like a ghost.
Arno adjusted the strap of his rifle and pressed forward. He was getting close now—just a few doors away from the meeting room.
He checked his knife. One more fight. Then he'd confront Marcus. Then the Puppeteer. Then the end.
The meeting room of the Monarchs' upper compound was bathed in low, amber light—luxurious, almost ceremonial. A long, dark oak table stretched from wall to wall, surrounded by high-backed chairs, each occupied by a senior member of the organization. And at the far end sat Graf, one of the Monarchs' most zealous and ruthless leaders.
Marcus sat opposite him, expression unreadable, fingers lightly steepled. He had learned to blend in, to act the part, to swallow the disgust that churned in his stomach every time one of these monsters called bloodshed "order."
Graf leaned forward, eyes glinting behind a silver half-mask. His voice was sharp and clipped, like a knife being honed.
"The Puppeteer has given us a simple mission, Marcus. Tomorrow, La Belle Nuit becomes the crucible. The city watches, the curtain rises, and everything we've built… solidifies. You will be there."
Marcus gave a short nod, tone neutral. "Of course. I've always followed orders."
Graf smirked faintly. "I'm told you were once close to Cedric Ashwell. That doesn't make you... hesitant, does it?"
Marcus didn't blink. "He's irrelevant now."
A long pause.
Then Graf smiled wider, leaned back—and that's when the pin hit the ground.
Clink.
Marcus's eyes flicked instantly to the source. No time to warn, no time to plan. A flashbang detonated behind him with a deafening crack, blinding white light filling the room.
But Marcus didn't hesitate.
He whirled around, drew his weapon, and in one fluid motion—pulled the trigger.
Graf collapsed, a bullet through the center of his forehead before his scream could even leave his throat.
The other Monarch members scrambled in panic, covering their eyes and diving for cover—yet before they could recover, Arno Wolf stepped through the smoke, his silhouette framed by the chaos behind him.
He surveyed the scene, eyes falling on Marcus—and grinned.
Marcus, still catching his breath, let out a short laugh. "Nice timing."
Arno holstered his gun with a spin and walked up. "Had to make sure you still had your instincts. Would've been awkward if you just got yourself killed before I got here."
They high-fived, firm and precise.
Marcus raised an eyebrow. "So what's the plan now?"
Arno cracked his neck and checked the corridor. "Same as always. Adapt. Survive. Finish the act."
And together, they vanished into the shadows—just as Monarch sirens began to scream.
Suddenly, deep beneath the Monarch stronghold, the lights flickered—and the first explosion hit.
BOOM.
The shockwave shook the compound's core, followed by a chorus of detonations, each perfectly timed. Arno's time bombs, planted during his earlier infiltration in full disguise, now fulfilled their purpose with surgical precision.
Ceilings collapsed. Walls crumbled. Fires erupted. Screams echoed through the hallways as chaos engulfed the once-impenetrable base of the Monarchs.
"Move!" Arno barked, already sprinting ahead through the smoke-filled corridor, Marcus right behind him.
Another explosion rocked the hallway behind them, launching dust and debris in every direction. Arno yanked Marcus forward, shielding him as a steel beam fell inches from their heads.
"I forgot how loud my own plans can be," Marcus coughed, covering his mouth from the dust.
"Next time, remind me not to install eight bombs," Arno grunted, elbowing open a side door as the fire crept closer. "I was trying to be subtle."
They burst into the main staircase, the emergency lights flickering red like a dying heartbeat. Distant gunfire and alarms echoed behind them—but ahead, there it was:
The exit.
The metal hatch, sealed and hidden behind reinforced wall panels, now just a few meters away.
Their boots pounded across the floor, flames reflecting in their eyes, the ground trembling beneath them.
Marcus glanced at Arno. "Tell me you've got a key for that hatch."
Arno didn't look back. "I don't need one."
And with that, they sprinted for the exit—just as another explosion thundered behind them, hurling smoke and rubble in their wake.
As they closed in on the hatch, a voice—deep, commanding, and laced with venom—boomed through the collapsing corridor.
"Leaving so soon?"
Both Arno and Marcus froze in place.
From the smoke behind them, a tall figure emerged. His silhouette flickered in the red emergency lights. White, shoulder-length hair, a long black military coat, and a gleaming metal crown resting arrogantly on his brow. His mere presence seemed to make the air heavier.
King.
The true leader of the Monarchs.
Arno's eyes narrowed. "You."
King's cold eyes swept over them, unimpressed. "You've caused quite the mess, Mr. Wolf. And you, Marcus… I expected better from you."
Without another word, King launched forward with inhuman speed.
Arno barely managed to draw his rifle before King was already in front of him. A single palm strike to the chest sent him flying backwards through a steel beam, crashing into the ground with a metallic clang.
Marcus opened fire instantly—short bursts aimed clean and precise—but King deflected every bullet with the side of his armored gauntlet, striding toward him with terrifying calm.
King grabbed Marcus by the throat and slammed him into the wall. Sparks burst from a nearby panel. Marcus choked out, reaching for a hidden blade—but King threw him effortlessly aside like a ragdoll.
Arno roared and tackled King from the side, landing a punch—then a knee to the ribs—then drew his knife. But King caught his wrist mid-swing and twisted hard, forcing Arno to the ground with a ruthless, practiced motion.
"You've fought well," King said, eyes burning. "But your resistance ends here."
With one brutal kick, he sent both Arno and Marcus crashing through a weakened section of the floor, collapsing it entirely.
The two tumbled down into the second basement level, landing hard among broken pipes and scattered debris.
Coughing, bruised, and battered, Arno looked up—only to see King descending slowly, one step at a time, like a predator closing in on his prey.
"You wanted a war," King said, voice like thunder. "Now face your King."
Arno and Marcus lay motionless in the rubble, bruised and breathing hard. Dust swirled through the air, and somewhere above them, they heard the heavy footfalls of King moving deeper into the floor.
"We need to move," Arno whispered, voice raspy.
"Yeah," Marcus breathed, "but not toward him."
The two slipped behind a row of cracked concrete pillars, barely making a sound. King's steps echoed further away, heading in the opposite direction. His voice rang out once more, colder now, fainter.
"Run as long as you want. It won't matter."
The moment King's footsteps faded into the distance, Arno and Marcus burst into motion, sprinting silently down a dark corridor in the other direction.
They rounded two corners and pressed their backs against the wall, catching their breath. Their hearts thundered in their chests.
Marcus turned to Arno. "I know a room."
Arno raised a brow, still catching his breath. "What kind of room?"
"Storage level. A maintenance facility where they keep canisters of Volnex gas. Super unstable. If we can lure King in there and ignite it at the right moment…"
Arno wiped a cut on his cheek, eyes narrowing. "You think that'll be enough to kill him?"
"I think it's the only chance we've got," Marcus said. "He's too fast, too strong. But even he can't walk out of a fireball like that."
A moment of silence passed between them. Then Arno smirked. "Alright. Let's give him his royal funeral."
They knelt down, using the map in Marcus' visor to trace their path.
"We'll split up," Marcus said. "You draw him in. I'll be waiting in the vents with a trigger setup. Once he's inside—boom."
"Got it," Arno replied. He rolled his shoulder, wincing. "He likes chasing people. Let's make sure this time he's chasing death."
With one last nod to each other, they took off in opposite directions—silent, fast, and focused.
The hunt had just begun.
The hallway before the storage chamber was drenched in shadows and silent tension. Arno crouched low behind a stack of rusted crates, his fingers wrapped tightly around a broken pipe he'd grabbed as a backup weapon. The thick metallic door to the gas storage loomed only meters away — sealed, for now. All he had to do was get King to step inside.
He picked up a shard of debris and flicked it across the room. It clinked loudly against a wall.
Moments passed.
Then the sound of boots — heavy, deliberate — echoed down the corridor.
King was here.
The footsteps halted.
"I know you're in here," came the deep voice, cutting through the dark like a blade. "You really think you're clever, Junge?"
Arno didn't move. His breathing slowed. He pressed himself flatter against the crate, every muscle coiled.
King stepped further into the chamber.
"Du warst schon immer ein kleiner Versteckkünstler, oder?" His voice was calm, amused. "Wie früher im Wald. Nur... da war ich noch nicht der, der ich heute bin."
Arno clenched his jaw. He couldn't let the words crawl under his skin.
"You're not ready," King growled. "Nicht gegen mich. Komm raus. Ich mach's schnell."
More steps. Closer now. Slow, careful.
"Was würde dein Vater tun, hm? Meinst du, er wär stolz auf dich? So versteckt wie ein Feigling?"
Arno's grip on the pipe tightened. He wanted to lash out, but the timing had to be perfect.
The footsteps paused just a few meters away.
"Ich geb dir noch eine Chance," King said coldly. "Komm raus. Oder ich mach den ganzen Raum zu deinem Grab."
There was a scrape — King drawing a blade, dragging it along the wall. Sparks hissed briefly in the dark.
Arno didn't flinch.
"You're smarter than this," King murmured now in English. "Or maybe… not as much like your father as you think."
Another pause.
Then silence.
A long, stretched-out quiet that thickened the air.
Arno held his breath.
Suddenly — fast.
Clang!
King flipped the nearest crate. Empty.
He turned. Another crate. He crushed it against the wall.
"I know you're here," he snarled, now angry. "You're not getting out. I will find you. I will rip you apart."
Another crate.
Closer.
Arno shifted slowly to his left, trying to edge farther along the wall. The metal floor beneath him creaked just the faintest bit.
King turned instantly.
His eyes met Arno's.
Arno cursed under his breath — too late to run now.
King stormed toward him.
And then—
Clink.
Something small rolled behind King. A screw. Or maybe a coin.
King's head snapped around.
The distraction was enough.
King took a step toward the sound—another faint clink echoing behind him—just enough for his instincts to override his confidence. His back was turned. His shoulders tense. His attention, fractured.
And that was all Arno needed.
He shot out from behind the shelves like a predator, low and fast, pipe still in hand. His footsteps were silent, purposeful, and by the time King turned around—eyes wide, catching only a blur—it was already too late.
Arno slammed his shoulder into King's side with full force.
CRASH!
The two of them burst through the half-opened doorway into the gas storage chamber. The impact sent King stumbling backward into the room, his heels skidding across the metal floor.
Arno didn't stop.
He threw the pipe aside and grabbed King by the chest piece of his armor, using all his strength to push him further inside. The door creaked violently as they both crossed the threshold.
Then Arno twisted, leveraging his momentum, and slammed King against the storage tanks.
"Jonas," Arno hissed into his ear.
That made him freeze.
King—no, Jonas—looked at him, stunned. For a split second, the fury vanished. There was only shock. Recognition.
"You… you remembered," Jonas muttered.
"I never forgot," Arno said coldly. "You were my father's best friend. The man who taught me how to breathe between shots. The man who said loyalty meant everything.The man who showed me how to fight and the man whose corpse I carried through the whole battlefield… How the hell did you end up here?!"
He shoved Jonas again, harder this time, pinning him against the massive tank labeled Highly Explosive.
"And now look at you. King of nothing but ashes."
"You think this makes you stronger?" Jonas growled, trying to push back, but Arno's grip didn't waver.
"No," Arno replied quietly. "But it makes me right."
With one final push, he stepped back—just enough to kick the reinforced door shut behind Jonas. It clanged shut with a thunderous bang and locked automatically from the outside.
From the reinforced window in the door, Arno could see Jonas pounding the glass in rage.
Arno stared at him coldly, his voice muffled but clear through the thick metal.
"Game's changed, Jonas. You're not the one writing the rules anymore."
Then he turned and sprinted toward the control panel. The gas chamber was ready. All that was left was the trigger.
And the finale.
Arno slammed his shoulder into King's chest, forcing him through the threshold of the gas chamber with sheer brute force. King stumbled backward, catching himself against one of the tanks, just as the heavy door slammed shut behind him with a metallic clang.
Outside, Arno didn't hesitate. He sprinted across the hall to Marcus, who was waiting by the detonator control, hands trembling.
"Now," Arno barked.
Marcus didn't speak. He simply hit the switch.
A half-second of silence.
Then the world shook.
A blinding orange flame roared through the seams of the steel door as the gas chamber exploded. The shockwave cracked the walls, sent dust falling from the ceiling, and forced Arno and Marcus to stumble backward, covering their faces from the heat.
They didn't wait.
Together, they ran—bolting through the now-unstable corridors of the underground compound. The emergency sirens howled, flickering red lights bathing the halls in a pulse of alarm.
As they sprinted toward the upper exit, a memory ignited in Arno's mind—sharp and vivid.
A much younger Arno, maybe twelve, stood in a training hall. His limbs were thin, his balance sloppy.
Behind him stood Jonas—strong, focused, calm.
"No," Jonas said, adjusting Arno's elbow. "You strike with intention, not with hope. Try again."
Arno gritted his teeth and struck again.
Better.
Jonas nodded. "See? You learn fast."
Time passed. More training. More blood, more bruises. Over time, they became more than mentor and student—they were brothers. Jonas was there when Arno first fired a weapon, when he broke his ribs in training, when he was hospitalized.
Years later, in the middle of a burning battlefield, Arno, now a man, cradled a burned, bloodied body in his arms.
Jonas.
He had fallen in the conflict. They said the explosion killed him. Arno had refused to believe it—until he saw the scorched body. He carried Jonas's corpse across the field for miles, never once letting go. He buried him himself.
Or so he thought.
"Almost there!" Marcus shouted. "The exit's just ahead!"
The metal hatch gleamed under the emergency lights. The air was thick with smoke and ash.
Arno nodded, breath ragged, legs burning.
Then—a hand shot from the shadows and grabbed his ankle.
He crashed to the floor with a sharp gasp.
Marcus spun around, eyes wide.
From the rubble, a figure emerged—skin charred, armor melted into flesh, one eye swollen shut. Burned beyond recognition.
But still standing.
King.
He snarled like an animal and plunged a jagged knife into Arno's chest.
Arno grunted in pain, blood pouring from the wound. But his eyes stayed locked on the man in front of him.
"You should've… stayed dead," Arno growled.
With a surge of strength, he wrapped his arms around King and threw him backward into the collapsing rubble.
As King stumbled, Arno held him by the collar, looking into what little remained of his old friend's face.
"My father taught me to fear no one," Arno hissed. "You taught me to fight."
He coughed blood. "But you both taught me to hate the Monarchs."
He tightened his grip.
"Jonas is dead. You? You're just a monster playing king. A monster to be slain by the real king."
Then he shoved King with all his might, sending him into the fire below.
The underground shook again. Debris rained from above.
Marcus pulled Arno up, slinging one arm over his shoulder. They ran the last few meters, the sound of destruction roaring behind them.
The exit hatch creaked open—and the cold night air hit their faces.
They didn't speak.
They just walked.
Quiet.
Scarred.
But alive.
The moment was a blur of motion and gunfire.
A shot rang out from the shadows—sharp, sudden, and aimed directly at Marcus.
But before it could find its mark, Arno moved.
Without hesitation, without thought, he launched himself in front of Marcus, his body intercepting the bullet mid-air. The impact was deafening to his senses. He grunted, stumbling forward as the force ripped through his side. Pain exploded across his torso, but he didn't stop. Couldn't stop.
Marcus caught him just before he collapsed. "Arno—"
"No time," Arno growled, his voice strained, blood already seeping through his shirt. "Move."
With Marcus supporting him, they pushed through the final corridor. Every step was agony. The hallway felt longer than before, the lights dimmer, the world spinning around them. But the exit—the exit was right there. The hatch. The way out.
With one last burst of adrenaline, Arno shoved Marcus upward. "Climb," he barked.
Marcus didn't argue. He climbed. Arno followed, dragging himself up with gritted teeth and bloody hands. As soon as they made it through, Arno reached for the hatch lever.
Below them, the noise of rushing footsteps echoed. Monarch reinforcements.
Arno's hand trembled as he slammed the hatch down and twisted the lock tight.
Clang.
Silence.
They were out.
But the relief didn't last long. Arno staggered back, his breath shallow and ragged. His legs gave out beneath him, and he collapsed onto the cold pavement outside the underground facility.
"Arno!" Marcus knelt beside him.
Arno tried to speak, but coughed—hard. Thick blood splattered from his lips, staining his chin and hand. He gasped for air, the pain unbearable now, but still his eyes found Marcus's.
"Did we… make it?"
Marcus nodded, eyes wide with fear. "We did. You did."
Arno chuckled weakly, more blood bubbling up. "Told you… I'd adapt."
Then he closed his eyes, his breathing shallow, as Marcus desperately checked the wound.
The war against the Monarchs was far from over.
But tonight, thanks to Arno Wolf, they had won a battle.
Arno lay back against the rough stone wall, his breath coming in broken gasps. The pain was unbearable now—each inhale like fire tearing through his chest. His vision blurred, but he could still see Marcus kneeling beside him, pale with worry, trying to stop the bleeding that wouldn't stop.
Arno gave him a weak smile.
"Marcus…" he rasped.
"Don't talk, man—just hold on, help's coming," Marcus said quickly, his hands trembling.
But Arno shook his head slowly. "No. Listen to me."
Marcus froze.
Arno looked up at the sky. For the first time in what felt like years, it was open above him. No ceiling. No shadows. Just cold night air and distant stars. His voice cracked as he spoke—but each word was carved from something real.
"I was never good at… connecting. Never had time for it. I lived in the dirt, in blood, in silence. People were targets, missions, names on a file."
He coughed—blood on his lips—but forced himself to continue.
"And then… you guys happened. You. Cedric. Eliza. The way you fought. The way you believed. Even when the world spat in your face."
He looked at Marcus now. "You gave me something I didn't even know I was missing. A cause. A purpose. A family."
Tears welled in Marcus's eyes.
"I know I act like an idiot sometimes. Goofy, unpredictable, reckless. But I watched you. All of you. And you reminded me what it means to fight for something—not just against it."
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"Marcus… you're brilliant. The kind of mind the world doesn't deserve. You've made it this far, and you're gonna go further. Promise me… no matter what happens, you'll keep going. You'll help Cedric stop him. You'll make them pay for what they did."
Marcus nodded, lips trembling.
"I promise."
Arno reached out, gripping Marcus's wrist with surprising strength. "Thank you… for the short time we had. I wouldn't trade it for anything. Not even a second."
And then, with a soft breath, he added:
"You were my brother. Even if we didn't share blood."
His grip loosened.
The night was quiet.
And for a long moment, Marcus just held his hand, as the cold wind blew across the London streets.
Arno's hand trembled as he reached into the inside pocket of his blood-soaked jacket. His fingers fumbled for a moment before closing around a cold, familiar object—an insignia, shaped like a black wolf's head, framed in steel. The symbol of Einheit Schatten, the german unit that operated in the underground. His unit. His family.
He drew it out and pressed it weakly into Marcus's palm, curling the younger man's fingers around it.
"This…" Arno whispered, his voice barely more than breath, "makes you the commander now."
Marcus stared at him in disbelief. "Arno, I can't—"
"You can," Arno cut in, a faint fire still in his eyes. "You're not just a hacker, Marcus. You've led us this far… and you'll take them the rest of the way."
He swallowed, pain flickering through his face, but his voice remained clear. "I hereby transfer command of Einheit Schatten to you. Use them. Not just to escape, not to hide—but to wipe the Monarchs out. Every last one of them. For what they've done to London. For Cedric. For Eliza. For me."
Marcus looked down at the insignia in his hand, feeling the weight of it—not just in metal, but in meaning. In responsibility.
Arno's eyes softened, and for a second, he almost smiled.
"Command them well, General."
And with that, the last strength in Arno's body faded. His head tilted back. His hand slipped from Marcus's wrist.
But his final order burned in the silence between them.
Arno's breathing grew shallow, each inhale a desperate fight. His blood-streaked lips trembled as he tried to speak. Marcus leaned in, eyes glistening, trying to catch every word.
Arno's gaze, though dimming, held a sharpness—one final ember of the unbreakable man he had been.
"Listen to me," he whispered, voice raw. "Don't let this world turn you into them. Don't fight darkness by becoming it."
Marcus nodded, tears streaming down his face.
Arno gave a faint, crooked grin—his signature smirk, even now. "Lead with fire in your chest, not ash in your soul."
And then, with his last breath, he whispered:
"The ones who adapt survive. But the ones who believe… change the world."
His eyes lost their focus.
And Arno Wolf—warrior, mentor, friend—was gone.
Marcus knelt in silence, Arno's body growing cold beneath his trembling hands. The weight of the blood-stained insignia in his palm felt like the heaviest object in the world.
He stared at it — that simple metal emblem, once worn with pride by a man who never broke, who refused to break. And now he was gone.
Gone because he protected him.
Marcus lowered his head to Arno's chest, silent sobs wracking through him. No words came. Just breathless grief. The kind that doesn't scream — it suffocates.
The final words echoed in his mind, over and over again, like a mantra carved into his bones:
"The ones who adapt survive. But the ones who believe… change the world."
He clenched the insignia until the edges bit into his skin. That pain grounded him. Reminded him that he was still here. That he had to be here. For Arno. For Cedric. For Eliza. For everyone who still stood a chance against the Puppeteer and the chaos swallowing the city whole.
Marcus stood up slowly, every movement stiff with exhaustion and emotion. He looked back one final time.
Then he turned.
No hesitation. No fear.
Only purpose.
The underground behind him burned, collapsing into itself. But Marcus Rain walked forward — not as a hacker, not as a shadow — but as a soldier with a war to finish.
He slipped the insignia into his jacket.
A new fire had been lit.
And it had Arno Wolf's name.
The air was cold. Sharper, somehow — like the world had shifted without asking permission.
Marcus walked alone through the alleys of London, his coat torn, his boots soaked with blood and ash. But he didn't feel it. Not the cold. Not the pain.
Something inside him had changed.
He didn't twitch nervously anymore. Didn't second-guess his choices. His gaze was forward, unwavering. His posture—upright, commanding.
Not desperate.
Not broken.
For the first time… he knew who he was.
In an abandoned train yard, he stopped. A quiet corner of the world — just long enough for what had to come next.
From his belt, he took a knife. Not the biggest. Not the sharpest. But personal.
He rolled up his sleeve.
No hesitation. No fear.
With a steady hand, he carved a symbol into the flesh of his left forearm — a simplified version of Arno's military insignia. Adapted. Evolved. His own.
Blood ran down his wrist, but he didn't flinch.
His voice, low and firm, cut through the silence:
"Ich werde sie alle vernichten. Für Arno. Für Cedric. Für Eliza. Für uns."
He clenched his fist, letting the blood drip onto the ground like a signature.
This wasn't vengeance.
This was justice.
The perfect warrior hadn't been raised in a barracks.
He'd been forged in loss, betrayal, and fire.
And now… he was ready.
Ready for the upcoming fight.