Silence reigned.
Not a sound. Not a movement. Only Mayu's ragged breaths and the distant echoes of Subject 45's steps receding down the ravaged corridor. She stood frozen for a few seconds, trembling, eyes wide before the closed door. Her heart hammered, her throat tight with what she had just heard.
Seth… His name, whispered tenderly by Subject 45, still echoed in her mind. It wasn't coincidence. It wasn't mere memory.
It was a fracture. A crack in the assassin's frozen shell.
Mayu staggered, leaning against the nearest wall. Her legs felt ready to give out. Fatigue gnawed at her, but it was nothing compared to the invisible weight squeezing her chest. Was Subject 45 truly who he claimed to be? Or was he like her—another broken puppet, stitched back together, reprogrammed, yet still haunted by shards of the past?
She drew a deep breath and forced away the pain threatening to overwhelm her. This was not the moment. Not here. Not yet.
She pressed on, drifting through the complex's rubble-strewn hallways like a ghost. Everything felt eerily still, as though the building itself held its breath. Cables dangled from the ceiling; some doors hung open, others warped by past detonations. Remnants of former battles. Scars.
Each step echoed ominously. She gripped her blades tightly, alert. That silence… it unsettled her.
A distant blast made her look up. Then shouts—panicked voices.
She quickened her pace. Instinct told her she was nearing something important.
When she entered the circular chamber, it all became clear.
In the center knelt a man, arms raised in futile defense. Before him stood a massive figure in a hood, its arms coated in a tar-like black substance. The smell of burning metal hung in the air. Mayu recognized the style immediately—it was brutal, instinctive, a combat technique decidedly inhuman.
— "Another experiment…" she breathed.
The cloaked man slowly turned toward her. His face was hidden, but his eyes flickered with unstable, almost manic light. He stared at her, and her guard snapped up.
— "Mayu… Subject 17," he hissed. "You've returned."
— "Who are you?!" she demanded.
He laughed—a nervous, broken sound—then lunged. Mayu barely evaded. Her blades met raw, animal strength; each clash was harsh, violent. She found herself battling a modified, reinforced body. He was fast… but predictable.
— "You're nothing but an error," he spat between strikes. "An anomaly the Professor should have erased."
— "And you—what are you? A loyal dog?!" she shot back.
She seized an opening and drove one blade into his side. The man screamed, recoiled, then charged again. Mayu parried, rolled away, and slashed the back of his knee. He stumbled.
As they clashed, her thoughts collided in turn: the Professor—always him—looming behind every threat, every wound, every hidden truth.
The man staggered back once more, teetering, ready to snap.
— "You don't know what you are… You don't understand what we've become!"
Mayu frowned. Was he a clone, another failed prototype, an abandoned rival?
Before she could ask, he triggered a detonator on his belt. A red light blinked.
— "Shit!" she cursed, leaping out of the chamber just as the explosion rocked the complex. A shockwave hurled her against a wall. Everything blurred for seconds.
When she staggered upright, gasping and hurt, the chamber was a smoking crater.
She closed her eyes.
Another soul lost to death's only answer.
Slowly, she rose, body aching. No respite. Not here. Not for her.
As she backed away, a voice crackled over the intercom—distinct, calm, unexpectedly gentle.
— "You are progressing well, Mayu. I must admit you're more tenacious than anticipated."
She froze.
— "Professor…"
— "We approach the end. It's time you understood. Everything."
Mayu clenched her fists. Her eyes blazed. He was here. Waiting.
And this time, she would have no unanswered questions.