The cameras clicked and whirred, the crowd's murmur swelling under the heavy London rain. The press conference had been hastily arranged in front of Scotland Yard — an unusual setting for a moment so carefully orchestrated. Officers in black raincoats flanked the makeshift podium. The public watched with tense expectation, sheltered under umbrellas or standing defiantly in the drizzle.
Sir Jonathan Harrington approached the microphone, his uniform immaculate, but his expression hollow. His left arm hung stiffly at his side — a reminder of the betrayal he had barely survived. His right hand clutched the podium tightly enough that his knuckles turned white.
He cleared his throat once, the noise amplified and jagged through the speakers.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Harrington began, his voice steady but empty, "today, I address you not with pride, but with deep shame."
The crowd leaned in. Reporters pressed closer, their recorders raised like weapons.
"It is my duty to inform you that two individuals who once stood with us — who once wore the badge of trust — have betrayed the people of London."
Gasps rippled through the audience.
"Detective Eliza Cole and Cedric Ashwell are no longer allies in our fight for justice," Harrington continued, the words falling like cold stones. "They are enemies of the people. Responsible for the deaths of innocents. Responsible for the chaos unleashed upon our city."
A screen behind him flickered to life. Images flashed — staged photos, falsified evidence: Eliza at crime scenes, Cedric near destroyed neighborhoods. Carefully selected, cleverly manipulated. A grim theater of lies.
"They have aided the Puppeteer!" Harrington roared, his voice cracking under the strain. "And as of today, they are to be apprehended immediately."
The world seemed to tilt. Eliza watched from a hidden vantage point in the crowd, her heart hammering. Beside her, Cedric — still battered from prison — stood rigid, his face emotionless.
"They've declared war on us," Cedric murmured under his breath.
Eliza's fists clenched at her sides. "No," she whispered. "Harrington has."
Harrington raised his voice again, pointing to the heavens as if invoking something greater than himself.
"Every officer, every loyal citizen — you are commanded to aid in their capture. No hesitation. No mercy. London must be cleansed of their treachery!"
A roar of approval rose from the crowd — not unanimous, but enough. Enough to know they were now hunted.
Cedric pulled the hood of his jacket low over his face. "Time for you to disappear."
Eliza nodded grimly. "No. Time to fight."
As Harrington basked in the manufactured triumph, a thin, broken smile played on his lips. The rain washed over him like baptism, but no amount of water could cleanse the blood now staining his hands.
Above them all, unseen, a single marionette hung from a lamppost — soaked and tattered — swaying in the storm.
A silent message from the Puppeteer:
"The real performance has only just begun."
Cedric stumbled back into the shadows of the cell. Tears ran over his face like some heavy sort of rain.
He leaned against the cell wall, turned to Eliza, his voice breaking with a rawness he hadn't shown in years.
"Don't fight, Eliza," he choked out. "Please... don't. Hide. Disappear. Build a new life. Change your name, change your face if you have to." His fists tightened. "I can't lose you too."
Eliza stood firm, her eyes wide but shining with unshed tears. Her heart ached seeing him like this — a man who had already lost everything, and now was begging her not to add herself to that list.
"You're the last family I have," Cedric said, almost shouting through the downpour. "The last one, Eliza. Please, just run. Please."
The words cut through her armor sharper than any blade could. She stepped closer, so close she could feel the trembling rage and fear in him.
"I'm sorry, Cedric," she whispered, voice thick. "But I can't run. Not from him. Not from what he's done."
He shook his head violently, grabbing her arm. "You don't understand — he's not the man you knew anymore! Harrington is broken! He'll kill you, Eliza!"
"I know," she said simply. "That's why I'm going to end it."
She pulled his hand off gently but firmly.
"I'll confront Jonathan," she promised. "And if I have to... if he leaves me no choice... I'll kill him. For you. For everything he destroyed."
Cedric stared at her, shaking his head slightly, disbelief etched into every line of his face.
"And then," Eliza continued, softer now, "I'll find the key to your cell. I'll find the Puppeteer's location. I'll finish what we started. I swear it."
For a long, agonizing second, they just stood there in the storm, the weight of unspoken words drowning them both. Then Eliza did something she rarely allowed herself to do — she leaned forward and pressed her forehead against Cedric's, closing her eyes.
"Hold on a little longer," she whispered.
Then she was gone — swallowed by the darkness, by the rain, by the city that had turned into a hunting ground.
Cedric fell to his knees, the cold air soaking through his clothes like water, but he barely felt it.
He was alone.
Again.
And this time, it hurt more than ever.
Arno pushed open the door to his temporary base — an abandoned maintenance shack tucked between two crumbling warehouses on the outskirts of London. It wasn't much: just a single room, a rusted desk, an old map of the London underground pinned crookedly to the wall. But it had everything he needed.
He kicked the door shut behind him and crossed the room quickly. No hesitation. Tonight wasn't about survival. It was about retrieval — and about war.
Underneath the desk was a heavy steel case, protected by a triple-layered lock. He entered the code, and the lid swung open with a hiss. Inside lay a small arsenal, meticulously cleaned and prepared.
Arno pulled off his jacket, revealing a tight black combat shirt beneath. Then he got to work:
Primary Rifle:
He slid a compact, collapsible HK416D rifle into a back holster that ran diagonally across his spine. It was outfitted with a suppressor, holographic sight, and short barrel — perfect for close-quarters combat in the tight spaces of the underground.
Sniper Rifle:
For distance engagements, he packed a disassembled M110 Semi-Automatic Sniper System into a nondescript duffel bag, hiding it under layers of old, folded clothing.
Sidearm:
A modified SIG Sauer P320, equipped with an extended mag and laser sight, went into a concealed shoulder holster.
Throwing Knives:
A set of carbon-fiber throwing knives tucked into custom sheaths sewn inside his combat boots and along his lower sleeves.
Explosives:
Two small flashbang grenades and one remote-detonated charge, each rigged into pouches stitched into the inside of his cargo pants.
Backup Knife:
A black ceramic dagger, no metal signature, tucked into the waistband at the small of his back.
Utility Gear:
A miniature hacking device in a wrist-mounted compartment, lockpicking tools strapped along his belt, and a hidden compact first-aid kit secured on the inside of his jacket.
Before closing the case, he paused for a second, then grabbed one last item: a small, worn photograph of Marcus — the two of them laughing over a beer the first time they've met. Arno folded it neatly and slid it into the inner pocket of his jacket, right over his heart.
He strapped everything tightly, adjusting every holster, sheath, and strap until there was no unnecessary weight, no loose buckles. Every move had to be silent, invisible.
One last glance at the map on the wall. He traced the path with his finger: through Southbank, down through the abandoned maintenance tunnels, then into the old drainage system. Deep under London — that's where they'd taken Marcus.
He pulled up his hood, tightened his gloves, and whispered under his breath, "Hold on, Marcus. I'm coming."
Without another second of hesitation, Arno slipped into the rainy London night, the weight of an entire war hidden beneath his clothes.
The heavy, rusted grate slid back into place with a dull clang behind him, sealing Arno inside the London underbelly. A wave of thick, damp air hit him instantly — the sharp stench of rot and rust clinging to the walls like a second skin. He crouched low, adjusting his breathing, his boots making almost no sound against the slippery stone beneath him.
The darkness was almost absolute, but Arno's eyes adjusted fast. The ancient brick tunnels snaked in every direction, water dripping somewhere in the distance like a metronome counting down.
He moved forward in near silence.
A faint echo of voices drifted through the tunnels — two Monarchs, patrolling. They must have heard the faint metallic clang when Arno entered.
"Scheiße." Arno mouthed soundlessly, pressing himself flat against the nearest wall. He stayed perfectly still, becoming part of the tunnel itself. Footsteps approached — deliberate, cautious.
Two shadows. Then three.
Arno's hand slid smoothly to his back. In a single practiced motion, he assembled the compact sniper rifle from the duffel bag. Silencer already attached. He dropped to one knee behind a broken support beam, hidden in the deeper shadows.
One of the Monarchs flicked on a flashlight, the beam slicing through the darkness.
They were cautious but loud — amateurs compared to Arno's battlefield instincts.
He didn't aim for the chest. Too messy. Instead, he took careful breath, lined up the first shot — the man's knee.
Pfft. The silenced sniper barked.
The first Monarch collapsed with a muffled grunt, unable to scream.
Before the others could react, Arno already moved. Swiftly, precisely, he fired again — another leg shot. Crippling, disabling. One by one, the Monarchs fell into the shallow sewage water, their cries swallowed by the endless damp.
Before any of them could even think to scream for backup, Arno was already sprinting forward.
He slung the sniper back onto his back, drew his dagger, and melted into the shadows.
One by one, he dragged the injured Monarchs into the darkness. Swift strikes to the throat silenced them permanently. No drama. No wasted movement.
When the last body vanished into the shadows, the corridor was once again silent — as if they had never been there at all.
Arno wiped the blade clean on one of the Monarch's jackets and muttered to himself under his breath in German, a crooked grin tugging at his lips:
"Und wieder sind wir allein."
(And once again, we're alone.)
He pressed deeper into the underground, stepping carefully over the growing pools of water and darkness. Somewhere ahead, Marcus was waiting.
And this time, Arno wouldn't fail.
Arno moved like a shadow stitched into the walls of the old sewers, slipping past broken pipelines and collapsed brick tunnels. Every step was calculated, every breath controlled. His instincts were razor-sharp, honed by countless missions where a single mistake meant death. Here, in the Monarchs' hidden underground lair, it was no different.
He stuck to the darkest paths, ducking behind rusted machinery and ancient stone arches whenever he heard footsteps. Monarch patrols passed within arm's reach of him — oblivious. He studied their patterns carefully, noting when they rotated, when they took breaks, how they talked to one another.
Always observe before you strike. Marcus' voice echoed in his head — an old lesson.
Arno's eyes were quick, and his memory sharper than a blade. He spotted symbols stitched into their uniforms — different insignias, slight but distinct. Patterns emerged the longer he observed:
Tier 1 Members:
Standard operatives. Lightly armed, predictable patrols, barely organized. Cannon fodder.
Tier 2 Members:
Better gear, better coordination. These ones clustered at the evenings inside a large, guarded room Arno nicknamed "the Barracks." They had tighter schedules, specific duties, and clearer command structures. They were enforcers — a step above the grunts.
Tier 3 Members:
Heavier armor, distinctive badges — intricate crowns embroidered in black thread. They moved differently. Slower, more deliberate. No wasted words. Their section of the compound was completely separated: heavy steel doors, biometric locks, and constant patrols. Arno spotted at least four high-ranking individuals moving in and out, always shielded by their own elite guards.
That's where Marcus must be.
Arno's jaw tightened.
That's where they run everything.
His first goal was clear: infiltrate Tier 3.
Slipping around another blind corner, Arno crouched behind a pile of crumbling crates and scribbled mental notes: the names he overheard, the faces he memorized, the door codes two careless Monarchs had whispered to each other during shift change.
He breathed deeply through his nose, letting the heavy, damp air burn his lungs. Focus was everything now.
The Tier 3 Zone wasn't just a place — it was a fortress within a fortress. Cameras. Traps. Roving squads. The kind of place designed to crush intruders the moment they set foot inside.
But Arno wasn't just any intruder.
With a grim, focused smirk, he tucked the stolen walkie-talkie deeper into his belt, checked the hidden blades up his sleeves, and adjusted the suppressed pistol strapped to his thigh.
You wanted a storm, Monarchs, he thought coldly.
You just found one.
He slipped deeper into the heart of the enemy, already plotting his next move.
Arno stood silently at the edge of the barracks, his breathing steady beneath his gear. Before him lay the heart of the Tier 2 operations — dozens of Monarch soldiers, geared up, talking, sharpening blades, reloading rifles.
At least fifty of them.
And Arno was just one man.
He crouched, drawing two suppressed pistols from his underarm holsters. His eyes narrowed, calculating the exact points he needed to hit first.
Control the battlefield. Control the outcome.
With a sharp breath, he kicked open the side door and stormed inside.
The first shots rang out — precise, mechanical, methodical.
But he wasn't aiming at the soldiers yet.
No, his targets were communication devices — the radios, the walkie-talkies clipped to their belts, the mounted comm stations at the corners, even tiny surveillance bugs on the walls.
Each shot struck with unerring accuracy, shorting out and silencing their lifeline to the rest of the base.
Panic flickered across their faces as static crackled in their earpieces. The soldiers turned — confused, alert — just as Arno reached into his jacket and pulled a compact device from his belt.
A signal jammer.
With a single click, it activated, sending out a faint, barely audible hum.
Now the room was completely isolated.
The Monarchs rushed to react, pulling weapons, shouting to one another. But their words were trapped inside the thick, sealed chamber.
Arno let the first pistol fall empty from his hand, pulling another from his belt without missing a beat.
He moved like a ghost among them — precise shots, calculated takedowns, using overturned tables and crates as cover. His adaptability was terrifying. He slid under a blade swing, disarmed the attacker in one move, and sent a bullet clean through another's skull before the first body even hit the ground.
A tackle from the side — countered with a brutal elbow.
A knife aimed at his neck — disarmed and turned back into its wielder's ribs.
His mind processed threats like a supercomputer — updating, reacting, evolving in real-time. He turned their numbers against them, forcing choke points, tripping them over their fallen comrades, always staying two steps ahead.
Minutes dragged on like an eternity.
Blood stained the cold concrete floor.
Spent shells clinked to the ground, rolling into pools of crimson.
Arno reloaded without even looking down, his hands moving automatically, as he dropped another soldier with a single shot between the eyes.
One by one, two by two — the Monarchs fell.
Until none remained.
The last opponent dropped with a gurgling gasp, and then silence reclaimed the barracks.
Only Arno stood, breathing hard, wiping a cut from his cheek.
He reholstered his pistols calmly, scanning the room.
No alarms. No reinforcements.
They were cut off.
Without wasting a second, he slipped through the far door, deeper into the heart of the Monarch base.
The Tier 3 sector.
The real game had just begun.
Arno moved like a whisper through the dim, claustrophobic corridors of the Tier 3 sector.
The air here felt heavier, thicker — as if the very walls were steeped in the blood of old secrets.
He finally reached the holding area.
Rows of cells, small, reinforced, cruel.
Inside one of them, slumped against the wall, bruised and battered but alive, was Marcus.
Arno's fists clenched at the sight, but he kept his emotions locked down.
Charging in now would be suicide.
The place swarmed with Monarch guards — Tier 3 members, towering figures wrapped in full-body tactical suits, their faces hidden behind opaque visors.
They looked almost identical, like walking shadows, only distinguished by faint insignias on their shoulders.
Arno scanned quickly.
Direct approach? Impossible.
But then — an opportunity.
One of the Tier 3 Monarchs peeled off from the main group, muttering something into his helmet radio.
Lunch break. Perfect.
Arno ghosted after him, slipping into the narrow maintenance hallway the soldier chose as a shortcut.
The corridor was deserted — pipes lined the walls, and the flickering light above gave it a grim, forgotten feel.
Before the Monarch even sensed danger, Arno was behind him.
One arm snaked around the man's throat, locking in a brutal rear naked choke.
The Monarch thrashed, elbows flying, boots scraping desperately against the floor.
But Arno was relentless — adjusting, tightening — using leverage, not strength.
It took less than ten seconds for the body to go limp.
Breathing heavily, Arno dragged the corpse into a nearby supply closet, closing the door silently behind him.
He wasted no time — stripping the heavy tactical suit from the body and slipping into it.
It smelled like sweat and metal, and it was heavier than it looked, but Arno adjusted quickly, tucking his weapons into hidden compartments.
He pulled the helmet on last, the world narrowing to a sharp, claustrophobic view through the visor.
Arno flexed his gloved fingers, testing the feel.
Then he straightened his posture, imitating the slow, confident stride of the Monarchs he had observed.
Now he was one of them.
And Marcus's cell —
was just a few corridors away.
Arno adjusted the weight of the stolen suit on his shoulders, forcing himself to adopt the same rigid, measured walk he'd observed earlier.
Confidence was survival in a place like this. Any hesitation, any crack in the mask, and it would all be over.
The corridors stretched before him — dimly lit, sterile, filled only with the low mechanical hum of the underground facility.
Then — footsteps.
Heavy boots approaching from around the corner.
Two Tier 3 Monarchs appeared, armored and towering, their visors reflecting the overhead lights.
One of them raised a hand to stop Arno.
"Yo, figured you'd already be at the control post," the first one said through his voice modulator, the tone casual but sharp.
The second tilted his head. "Break running late again, huh?"
Arno's mind raced.
Think. Adapt. React.
He remembered the slight slump in the walk of the man he had taken the suit from — a casual, almost lazy posture. Someone who didn't take things too seriously.
A guy who was always late and probably a bit of a slacker.
Arno gave a soft grunt, mirroring the laid-back body language perfectly.
He shrugged lazily, one hand resting on his hip.
"Yeah. You know me," Arno said, the suit's voice modulator masking the slight difference in tone.
"Always gotta squeeze in that extra minute of freedom before diving back into hell."
The two Monarchs chuckled, the sound distorted and mechanical.
"No kidding," the first one said, nudging Arno's shoulder lightly. "Boss has been breathing down everyone's neck lately. Better not get caught sneaking off again."
Arno gave a mock salute, just the right amount of sloppy. "Wouldn't dream of it."
The second Monarch laughed. "All right, man. Catch you later."
They walked past him without a second glance, their boots echoing down the hall.
Arno waited until they turned the next corner, then let out a slow, controlled breath.
One wrong move. One wrong word.
And it would have been over.
But not today.
Today he was still in the game.
With renewed focus, he continued down the corridor, his steps silent inside the heavy suit, moving closer to the holding cells —
and to Marcus.
Arno moved swiftly but steadily through the corridor, the heavy suit making each of his steps sound identical to the real Monarchs. His visor scanned the darkened hallway ahead, eyes trained on the cells lined up like cages in a labyrinth of despair.
He spotted Marcus.
The sight almost stopped him — Marcus looked rough, bruises coloring his skin, wrists chained, but his eyes still burned with stubborn fire.
Arno approached, standing close enough that the others nearby wouldn't hear them. He leaned slightly toward the bars and muttered, voice low:
"It's me."
Marcus' head jerked up instantly, confusion flashing across his battered features. For a moment, he just stared, unable to believe it.
Then, recognition dawned — and a grin, tired but real, spread across his face.
"No way," Marcus whispered hoarsely. "Took you long enough."
Arno chuckled under his breath and reached into a concealed compartment of the stolen suit. He pulled out a small, compact pistol — barely larger than a hand — and slid it quietly through the gap between the bars.
"For self-defense," Arno said. "Keep it hidden. Only use it if you have to."
Marcus accepted the weapon without a word, tucking it away inside his tattered clothing with careful movements.
"Who's got the key to your cell?" Arno asked urgently, his voice barely more than a breath.
Marcus glanced around, then leaned closer.
"Lord," he whispered. "One of the Tier 3 leaders. Always carries the master keys. Probably in the command sector... two levels up."
Arno nodded sharply.
No hesitation. No fear. Only the mission.
"Stay alive," Arno said, his voice cold but steady.
Without another word, Arno straightened, turned, and sprinted off into the maze of hallways, his mind already racing.
Find Lord.
Defeat him.
Free Marcus.
No matter what.
Arno stepped into the main chamber — and stopped dead.
The room was massive, a grotesque hive of activity. Monarchs in their heavy armored suits moved in every direction, working at terminals, discussing operations, training with weapons. The sheer volume of enemies almost made Arno physically recoil.
"Verdammt," he muttered under his breath.
He tightened his fists at his sides, frustration bubbling up in his chest. If he had his team, his unit, his people — this could have been over in minutes. But he was alone. By order, by circumstance.
His mind flashed back —
A memory.
The rain hammered against the windows of their makeshift hideout. Eliza stood there, arms crossed, her posture rigid as Arno paced like a caged animal.
"I need my squad," he said sharply. "You don't understand, Eliza. If I go in alone, it's suicide."
"You're not wrong," Eliza replied evenly. "But you're also not a police officer. And without a warrant from HQ, you can't legally deploy any force."
Arno scoffed. "Then you issue the warrant."
Eliza's jaw tightened. Her voice came low, heavy with something bitter.
"I can't," she said. "I'm not part of the system anymore. Harrington revoked everything. I'm just... Eliza Cole now."
For a moment, Arno stared at her, disbelief turning into fury.
"So you're telling me to go alone?"
"I'm telling you," she said, voice firm, "to survive. However you have to."
Arno's lips pressed into a hard line as he returned to the present, hidden under the heavy Monarch armor.
"Survive, huh?" he muttered. His gaze scanned the sea of enemies.
No squad.
No backup.
Just him.
And somewhere among them — Lord.
He set his jaw, adjusted his grip on the hidden weapons inside his armor, and began to move, weaving through the crowd like a ghost among the enemy.
Arno moved through the maze-like corridors of the Monarchs' stronghold, every step calculated, every breath controlled.
The heavy Monarch armor concealed his identity but not his tension — he could feel eyes glancing at him, suspicion just beneath the surface.
He kept moving, weaving through the dimly lit halls, pretending to belong.
Then trouble found him.
Two Monarch soldiers turned a corner ahead, walking directly toward him. Arno didn't hesitate.
He veered into a side corridor, pretending to check something on the wall like a maintenance officer.
The soldiers passed without a second glance.
Still alive.
Still unseen.
Arno pressed deeper into the facility, his steps soundless despite the heavy boots.
Twice he had to take out isolated guards — fast, brutal, silent. A snapped neck here, a strangled gasp there.
No alarms, no noise.
He fought like a phantom, every strike methodical, efficient.
His goal was clear: find Lord.
After nearly an hour of moving through the labyrinthine lower levels, Arno finally found it —
A steel door marked with a crimson insignia: a crown surrounded by chains.
No guards.
The room beyond was silent.
Arno's instincts screamed danger — but he had no choice.
He pushed the door open carefully, slipping inside like a shadow.
Inside stood a single figure — tall, broad, wrapped in an even heavier version of the Monarch armor. The helmet had an ornate gold trim.
This wasn't a regular fighter.
This was Lord.
He stood alone, hunched over a table full of maps and documents, muttering to himself.
Arno slowly drew the knife he had hidden inside his gauntlet.
His heart thudded in his chest.
There would be no backup. No second chance.
Just him and Lord.
He lowered into a crouch, every muscle coiled and ready to strike.
It was time.
Arno didn't waste a second.
From the shadowed corner of the room, he raised the suppressed sniper rifle, lining up the perfect shot at Lord's exposed neck joint between armor plates.
With a single breath, he pulled the trigger.
Crack!
But Lord moved.
Not by luck — by instinct.
As if he had sensed the bullet before it left the barrel.
The shot grazed Lord's shoulder, ripping a shallow gash in the armor, but it wasn't enough.
Lord spun around with unnatural speed, charging at Arno with the force of a battering ram.
Arno cursed under his breath and dropped the sniper, letting it clatter to the floor.
He pulled out his sidearm and fired rapidly, trying to force Lord to keep his distance.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Each shot precise, aimed for the joints, the gaps —
but Lord weaved through the bullets like a machine, relentless, reading Arno's movements before they even happened.
Arno's eyes widened behind the visor.
He's not just strong. He's not just fast. He's like me.
Lord was adapting.
Every move Arno made, Lord learned, mirrored, countered with brutal efficiency.
Realizing the pistol wasn't enough, Arno slung it aside and swung his rifle forward, switching to full-auto mode.
The air filled with the mechanical clatter of suppressed gunfire as he unleashed a storm of bullets.
Lord didn't falter.
He lunged forward, twisting his body at impossible angles to avoid the worst of the fire.
Bullets scraped off the reinforced plates of his armor, sparks flying, but he pressed closer and closer.
Arno was forced backward, every step a desperate calculation.
He had fought dozens, maybe hundreds of enemies before — but this was different.
This was like fighting a reflection.
A distorted, monstrous reflection.
Lord was adapting in real time, just as Arno did — and maybe even faster.
The clash of instincts continued.
Arno shifted without hesitation — from rifle to combat knife, from knife back to sidearm — adapting in the blink of an eye.
But Lord mirrored every change, every adjustment, as if they were trapped in a brutal, chaotic dance.
Clang!
Their knives met first, steel sparking in the dim light of the underground room.
Arno twisted his wrist, aiming a feint toward Lord's ribs, but Lord anticipated the move and locked their blades together with brutal strength.
In a flash, Arno shoved off, sliding back across the slick floor and drawing his pistol again — firing two rapid shots at Lord's knees.
Lord threw himself into a low roll, avoiding the bullets, and retaliated by grabbing a shotgun slung across his back.
Boom! Boom!
The deafening blasts tore through the room, forcing Arno to dive behind a pillar for cover.
Dust and splinters rained down as Arno reloaded, already thinking two steps ahead.
He couldn't stay still.
He couldn't be predictable.
Arno lunged from his cover and switched again — pulling a flash grenade from his belt and hurling it toward Lord.
Clink-clink-
FLASH!
Lord shielded his eyes a second too late.
Arno used the moment, closing the distance in a single sprint, driving forward with his shoulder.
The two men crashed into each other, grappling, slamming into walls and overturned furniture.
The world became a blur of fists, elbows, knees — brutal, efficient strikes aimed to cripple.
Lord recovered fast, regaining his footing and drawing a hidden blade from his wristguard.
Arno blocked just in time, the blade scraping along the tactical plating of his forearm.
Again they broke apart —
Arno firing controlled bursts with his rifle,
Lord dodging low and answering with pinpoint pistol shots that cracked past Arno's head.
Gunfight. Knife fight. Gunfight. Hand-to-hand.
It shifted without warning, each man adapting, evolving, pressing every advantage.
Arno gritted his teeth.
Lord wasn't just strong.
He wasn't just fast.
He was designed for this.
But so was Arno.
And he had survived worse.
"You think you're faster?" Arno muttered under his breath, wiping blood from his lip and loading a fresh mag.
"You haven't seen anything yet."
Lord tilted his head slightly, a silent, almost mocking acknowledgment.
They charged each other again — two predators locked in a war of pure instinct.
Lord moved with a predator's precision, ripping the automatic rifle from Arno's shoulder in a sharp, brutal motion.
He flipped it in his hands, aimed, and unleashed a relentless spray of bullets, forcing Arno into desperate cover.
Ratatatatatat!
Concrete exploded around him.
The weight of the situation hit Arno hard — Lord was stronger, better armed, and for now, had the advantage.
Arno gritted his teeth, heart hammering. He needed an opening. Fast.
His sharp eyes scanned the environment — and there it was.
A thin glass wall, stretching from floor to ceiling, separating two sections of the room.
Fragile. Exposed.
A weak point.
Arno knew what he had to do.
He darted out from behind cover, zigzagging unpredictably across the battlefield, firing a few wild pistol shots.
Not to hit.
To provoke.
Lord took the bait.
He pivoted, lifted the rifle — and unleashed a full burst directly at the glass.
CRASH!
The glass wall exploded into a thousand razor-sharp shards, raining across the room like a deadly storm.
Slivers of glass cut through the air, spinning wildly.
Lord instinctively raised his arms to shield his eyes, momentarily blinded.
Now.
Arno didn't hesitate. He sprinted forward, ignoring the sharp stabs as glass bit into his back and shoulders.
Pain didn't matter.
Not now.
Closing the distance in a blink, Arno tackled Lord, slamming into him with raw, desperate force.
Lord staggered, still half-blinded.
Arno drew his dagger with lightning speed — a glint of silver in the chaos — and plunged it directly into the exposed eye socket of Lord's helmet.
The blade drove deep, piercing with a sickening crunch. After that, Arno pulled out the dagger and stood up.
Still living, Lord began to crawl in the direction of the exit.
Arno walked slowly toward him, every step deliberate, his boots crunching on the broken glass.
Lord tried to drag himself backward, blood leaking from his ruined helmet, fear etched into every desperate movement.
Arno's voice cut through the heavy silence like a blade.
Cold. Inevitable.
"You're not the first coward to think he could outrun his fate.
You're not the first to believe brute strength could shield him from reality.
But fate doesn't spare the weak...
and it doesn't fear the strong."
He knelt down beside him, the dagger gleaming in his bloodstained hand.
"I am Arno Wolf," he whispered near Lord's ear, his tone dripping with venom,
"the man who will always evolve and adapt.
Remember that name... in hell."
Lord let out a fearful scream, before Arno sliced right through the bottom of the helmet, beheading Lord who was collapsing backward with a heavy, lifeless thud.
Arno stood over him, panting heavily, blood and dust clinging to his clothes.
He wiped the blade clean with a swift motion and bent down, searching Lord's armor.
There — attached to the belt.
A sleek, metallic keycard.
The key to Marcus's cell.
Arno tucked it securely into his gear, cast one last cold glance at Lord's body, and turned away without a second thought.
The hunt wasn't over.
It had only just begun.
Arno wiped the blood from his blade, breathing heavily but victorious. A crooked grin spread across his face, and for a brief, rare moment, the hardened soldier let loose a goofy little dance — a ridiculous mix of a shuffle and a fist-pump.
"Who's the king now, huh?" he chuckled to himself, spinning his rifle like a cowboy before slinging it over his back.
He barely got a step forward when —
Crack.
A sharp, precise impact struck the side of his neck, right at a vulnerable nerve point. His body stiffened instantly, the strength draining from his limbs like water slipping through his fingers.
"Ngh—!" Arno staggered, reaching out for the wall, but the world was already tilting, spinning. His vision blurred.
Before he completely collapsed, he caught a final, hazy glimpse.
A man stood above him —
Tall, regal, with white, shoulder-length hair that gleamed under the dim underground lights.
A crown, subtle yet unmistakable, rested atop his head.
His eyes — cold, disdainful — looked down at Arno like he was nothing more than an insect.
The last thing Arno heard was a low, contemptuous voice:
"Pitiful."
Then everything went black.