Marcus stirred awake, his vision blurred and head pounding. The cold bite of metal pressed against his skin — chains, tight and deliberate. The air was thick, damp, and carried the distinct scent of rust and oil. Flickering, yellowed lights barely illuminated the stone walls around him. He was deep underground.
The last thing he remembered was the bridge. Then pain. Then silence.
Footsteps echoed. Slow. Intentional. Each one fell like the ticking of a metronome in an empty theater.
And then — the voice.
"You've always been clever, Marcus. But cleverness without caution? Dangerous."
The Puppeteer stepped into the light.
No mask this time.
Just a face Marcus couldn't fully comprehend — as if it was crafted for fear itself. Calm eyes, too calm. A voice like silk stretched over broken glass.
He wasn't loud. He didn't need to be.
"Welcome to the underbelly," he said. "To the stage you never wanted to see."
Around them, shapes began to move — Monarchs. Dozens of them. Unmasked, but all wrong. They didn't look like people anymore. They looked like believers. Broken, reshaped, rewired by something far beyond manipulation.
By him.
"You thought they were just a gang," the Puppeteer whispered. "But you never asked who held the strings."
Marcus tried to speak, but his throat was too dry. The Puppeteer crouched down, his voice dropping to a breath:
"I gave them purpose. I gave them theater. While your friend Cedric hunted shadows, I rewrote the script."
He stood again, straightened his sleeves. "And now," he added with a quiet smile, "you're going to help me build the final act."
Arno sat alone in the safehouse's dimly lit room, the buzz of old fluorescent lights overhead the only sound keeping him company. Papers were scattered across the desk, maps full of red X's, photos with names circled and scratched out. His leg bounced restlessly. No Marcus. No Cedric. Eliza was gone, tied up in a war she couldn't win from the inside.
He was alone.
His hands trembled as he stared at the board, a mess of theories and desperation. "This is too big," he whispered, pressing his palms to his face. "They're everywhere."
And yet — he remembered.
Marcus' voice echoed in his memory: "Sometimes the answers are right in front of you. You just have to look differently."
He blinked and looked around. The message. The last one Marcus had tried to analyze. He hadn't paid it much attention. Just a blank piece of paper — or so it seemed.
Arno grabbed it and turned it under the weak overhead light. Still blank.
Wait.
He rummaged through the desk drawers until he found it — a small blacklight pen, the kind Marcus always carried around. He clicked it on and held the light to the paper.
There they were. Glowing faintly in invisible ink: a string of random letters.
ZHUKYH THFLY - TVUHYJO
Nonsense. But… no. Not nonsense.
Arno stared at it. His eyes narrowed.
"Caesar cipher," he whispered. "You old nerd."
His fingers flew across the keyboard of the nearby laptop. He ran the letters through a Caesar decryption tool, shifting the alphabet back — slowly, carefully.
Then it clicked.
The decrypted message appeared:
SANDRA MEYER - MONARCH
His breath caught. Arno stood up slowly, the chair screeching behind him. He took a step back from the screen as if the name could burn him.
Sandra Mayer.
His childhood best friend. His sandbox ally. The girl who once patched up his scraped knees with superhero band-aids. She was a Monarch.
His heartbeat thundered in his ears. The past collided violently with the present. The realization wasn't just a lead — it was betrayal. Personal. Intimate.
He stared at the name, anger and confusion rising in equal measure.
"Verdammt… why would you join them?"
He clenched his fists.
Now it was personal.
And he knew where to go next.
Sir Jonathan Harrington stood alone in his office, staring out over the rain-slick city. His reflection in the window looked like a ghost—hollow-eyed, shoulders tense, jaw clenched. London was burning slowly, not in flames, but in trust. In order. In meaning.
On the desk behind him lay the latest report: a failed raid, two innocent civilians dead. Again. A setup. Another cruel joke orchestrated by the Puppeteer. The media was already calling it "a police-sanctioned massacre."
He gripped the windowsill, his knuckles white.
"He's always ten steps ahead... always."
Jonathan turned, his coat sweeping behind him. The office was cluttered—papers scattered, old files torn apart in frustration. Red ink circled names. Dozens of them. He didn't know who he could trust anymore. Officers. Commanders. Friends. Everyone felt like a potential traitor now.
He slammed his fist onto the desk, causing a lamp to rattle. His breath was heavy. Erratic.
"No more rules," he muttered. "No more waiting. No more pretending this is a war we can win clean."
He walked over to a locked drawer, pulled out a key from his pocket, and opened it. Inside: a sealed envelope marked "Directive 9"—an off-the-record contingency. Illegal. Dangerous. Brutal.
His hand hovered over it. Then he took it.
The Puppeteer had stripped him of his certainty. Of his control. All that remained was a shell of command, held together by anger and instinct. By vengeance.
And if he had to break every rule written in blood and stone to catch him?
Then so be it.
Directive 9 had been activated.
Sir Jonathan Harrington stood at the head of a hastily assembled command room. The air was tense, heavy with fear and unspoken questions. Officers moved like shadows—efficient, silent, avoiding eye contact. They weren't arresting people anymore. They were eliminating "potential threats."
Jonathan didn't need trials. He needed results.
And bodies.
The logic was simple, in his fractured mind: Kill enough people, and eventually, the Puppeteer would be among them.
"Target every name on the list," he barked. "If they flinch, shoot. If they run, shoot twice. If they speak in riddles, you shoot thrice."
No one dared question him.
He walked back to his private chamber, now filled with redacted dossiers, half-burnt maps, and blood-streaked evidence boards. The scent of sweat and iron hung in the air like smoke. Jonathan stared at his reflection in the mirror—his once-sharp eyes were glassy, feverish.
"You'll bleed for this," he whispered. "Every last one of you."
Suddenly, a voice cut through the silence like a blade.
"I didn't think you'd fall this far."
He turned. Behind him stood Eliza Cole, soaked from the rain, her badge gone, but her eyes still burning with the fire he had lost.
"You're trespassing," he said darkly.
"I'm saving lives."
"This isn't saving lives," he snapped, pacing toward her. "This is cleansing the rot. Burning out the infection. I'm doing what none of you had the guts to do."
She stepped closer. "You're killing civilians, Jonathan. Innocents. You've become exactly what the Puppeteer wanted—chaos in a uniform."
His face twisted. "You think I care? You think this city cared when my men bled out in alleyways? When every lead ended in a corpse? I won't wait anymore. I won't play by his script!"
"You were never in control of the script!" Eliza shouted.
For a moment, the room fell dead silent.
Then Jonathan chuckled—a low, hollow sound.
"You were always weak. Soft. That's why I fired you. And now you come here, hoping to stop me?"
"I came here," she said coldly, "to tell you that if you keep going down this road... I will stop you. If I have to put you down to protect the people of this city, I will."
His expression changed. No longer angry—just tired. "Throw her out."
Two guards entered immediately and moved toward her.
Eliza didn't resist. She looked him in the eye, unwavering. "You've lost your soul, Jonathan. And when the time comes... I'll be the one to end your show."
The door slammed behind her.
Jonathan stood alone again, the echo still lingering in the room.
But his reflection was smiling.
Before Arno reached Sandra's house, he had taken the London Underground. The late-night train was nearly empty, save for a few scattered commuters staring into their phones, trying to ignore the rhythmic screech of the rails.
Arno, with his legs casually kicked out in front of him, sat chewing on a chocolate bar he had bought from a vending machine, swinging his feet like a bored teenager. His jacket was zipped all the way up, and his hair was a mess from the wind. But he didn't seem to care about that. He shouted: "Oh my gosh, London's chocolate's crazy good!", before he turned quiet, noticing that everyone was looking at him.
As the train pulled into a tunnel, the lights flickered once, then again. The carriage darkened for half a second before humming back to life.
From the corner of the car, a man stood up. Hoodie up, hands deep in his coat. He moved toward a woman sitting with her purse loosely in her lap.
Arno watched, mid-chew.
The man muttered something in a low voice, flashing the hilt of a knife. The woman gasped.
Arno didn't move.
Then, just as the man reached for the purse, Arno slowly stood up and walked toward him — chocolate bar still in his mouth.
"Hey," Arno said casually in German, forgetting where he was. "Willst du das echt machen?"
The man turned, confused. "What?"
Arno held up his hands, shrugging. "Look, mate, not judging, but you're in the worst carriage you could've picked."
The guy took a step toward him. "Back off, freak."
Arno sighed, popped the rest of the chocolate bar into his mouth, and as the man lunged, he stepped into him. Not back — into. He ducked low, grabbed a hanging rail pole, and used the momentum of the moving train to spin behind the guy.
Using the acceleration of the car's turn, Arno shoved him against the door with just enough force to disarm him without breaking bones. The knife clattered to the floor.
The other passengers stared in shock.
Arno picked up the weapon, flipped it in his hand, and said, grinning: "I grew up fighting in tighter spots than this, buddy."
He handed the knife handle-first to the stunned woman. "Souvenir?"
The man scrambled up and ran through the next carriage. Arno plopped back into his seat, breathing slowly, then mumbled: "That's the problem with people these days. No creativity."
Then, without another word, he pulled out a notepad and scribbled something under a heading titled MONARCH MOVEMENTS.
Arno stood in front of the small brick house tucked in a sleepy residential corner of London. The cold air nipped at his cheeks, but the fire in his chest burned stronger than the wind. He raised his fist and knocked—three times, steady.
The door opened slowly.
"Arno?" she asked, her voice low, uncertain.
"Sandra." He gave a faint, almost nostalgic smile.
"Bist du... wirklich hier?" she whispered.
"Ja," he replied. "Ich musste dich sehen."
She hesitated, then stepped aside. "Komm rein."
The inside of the house hadn't changed. Same old curtains. Same scent of herbal tea. For a moment, Arno felt like he was seventeen again. He followed her into the kitchen, where they sat opposite each other.
"Du siehst... anders aus," she said, scanning his face.
"Und du nicht," he answered with a small chuckle. "Gleiches Lächeln. Gleicher Blick, wenn du versuchst zu lügen."
She laughed softly. "Und du bist immer noch schlecht im Smalltalk."
He leaned forward slightly. "Ich hab was gefunden, Sandra. Auf einer Nachricht."
Her smile faded.
"Dein Name... und ein Wort daneben."
Her voice was a whisper now. "Welches Wort?"
He pulled out the note from his pocket, unfolded it, and slid it across the table.
"Monarch."
Silence. Then slowly, her expression shifted.
Her next words were in English.
"They call me Ruler now."
Arno's eyes narrowed. The air thickened like a storm rolling in. "So it's true."
"It's more than true," she said, standing up. "I lead them."
"You're with the Monarchs."
"I am the Monarchs."
He stood, too, now facing her across the table. "I didn't come here to fight you."
"Then you're a fool." Her voice was sharper now. "Do you really think you can stop me, Arno?"
He didn't flinch. "I don't need brute strength. I don't need to outrun you."
She raised a brow. "Then what?"
"My strength is adaptation," he said quietly. "I evolve. I learn faster than anyone else."
Sandra tilted her head. "That supposed to scare me?"
"No. It's supposed to warn you."
In one swift motion, she kicked the table between them, sending it crashing aside. Arno stepped back, already in stance.
The kitchen turned into a battlefield—cramped, chaotic, dangerous.
She moved with precision, every strike aiming to kill, but Arno adjusted. With each block, dodge, and counter, he learned more about her technique—her rhythm, her tells, her weaknesses.
"You're better than before," she said, panting. "But still slower."
"I'm getting there," he replied, wiping a line of blood from his lip.
Crash. Another chair went down. She lunged again—but he anticipated it, sidestepped, and pushed her against the wall.
"Last chance, Sandra," he said, voice low. "Walk away."
She laughed darkly. "You think this is a game?"
"No. I think this is war."
They circled each other now, breathing hard, both bruised but burning with resolve.
The fight wasn't over. Not yet.
But Arno wasn't backing down.
Not this time.
Sandra didn't hesitate.
Her hand reached under the kitchen counter, pulling out a sleek, compact firearm—matte black and deadly. But Arno was faster than he looked. In one smooth motion, he grabbed a nearby cutting knife from the table wreckage, flipping it in his hand like he'd done it a thousand times.
Her eyes flicked to the blade. "You sure you're ready for this, Arno?"
"I've been ready since I found that note."
She fired. Arno dove sideways, glass shattering behind him. He rolled behind the fridge, then sprang forward, flinging a chair toward her. It crashed into her legs, giving him just enough time to close the gap.
Steel clashed with steel—a shot grazed his arm, but the next moment, he was in her space, swiping the gun away with his knife and kicking it across the room.
Sandra growled and grabbed a carving fork from the counter, but Arno anticipated the move. With fluid precision, he ducked, used the kitchen sink to bounce upward, and knocked the fork clean from her hand with the butt of his knife.
She backed up, panting, weaponless.
So was he.
He looked at the blade in his hand... and dropped it to the floor with a clatter.
She blinked. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Leveling the field," he said. "You're not the only one who can fight dirty."
Then he charged.
What followed was a brutal, close-quarters exchange—raw, fast, and ugly. Sandra's strength was undeniable. Every punch she threw carried the weight of her training, her muscle, her sheer rage. But Arno's gift wasn't strength—it was reading.
Every miss, every feint, every twitch of her eyes, Arno learned more. Her footwork was powerful but predictable. Her left shoulder dropped slightly before a right hook. She always exhaled before a feint. He absorbed it all, built a blueprint in seconds, then turned it against her.
He used the slippery floor to redirect his weight faster than she could follow. A broken cabinet door became his shield. A pot lid served as a deflection tool.
Bit by bit, he pushed her back. Until finally—with one clean sweep—he spun her into the corner, twisted her arm, and pinned her to the wall.
Her breath hitched. Her body trembled, not from fear, but from pure exertion.
"Still think I'm slower?" he muttered.
Sandra didn't reply. Her eyes burned with something between fury and respect.
As Arno stepped back, he noticed a small device clipped to her belt. A walkie-talkie. He snatched it and pressed the volume down, just as a garbled voice crackled through:
"…Ruler, report. Return to the restricted sector in the sewer—immediately. Authorization Monarch-Delta."
Arno stared at it for a second. Then pressed the power button.
Click.
He tucked the walkie-talkie into his coat pocket, looked Sandra dead in the eyes, and said coldly:
"Bingo."
Without another word, he turned, stepped over the mess, and exited the house.
The hunt was back on.
And this time, he had a location.