The boy's hand trembled only once as he raised the gun.
Nathaniel watched him across the crumbled courtyard—sun bleeding into the sea behind them, casting everything in a red, bloody haze.
"You don't hesitate," Nathaniel said calmly. "Not when it matters."
The boy tightened his grip. The target—a bound man, a traitor from the Widowmaker inner circle—spat at Nathaniel's feet.
"You're making him a monster," the traitor sneered.
Nathaniel smiled faintly.
"No," he said. "I'm setting him free."
The boy pulled the trigger.
One shot.
Clean.
Between the eyes.
The man slumped without a sound.
The boy lowered the gun slowly, his face blank. Too blank. A quiet horror coiled behind his small eyes, but he didn't let it break the surface.
Nathaniel crossed the courtyard and laid a hand on his shoulder.
"You're one of us now," he said.
The boy looked up.
"Good," he whispered. "Because I'm going to kill them all."
Nathaniel's chest tightened.
He believed him.
And God help them all—he wanted him to.
—
Inside the ruined villa, Alfreda slammed the door behind her, rage boiling up her throat.
"You're training him like a goddamn assassin!" she snapped at Nathaniel when he entered.
Nathaniel didn't flinch.
"He needs to survive," he said.
"He needs to live!" she shouted.
Celeste leaned against the wall, arms crossed. Watching. Judging.
Nathaniel moved closer to Alfreda, voice low.
"We don't have the luxury of normal anymore," he said. "We never did."
Tears burned in Alfreda's eyes.
"You're turning him into you."
Nathaniel paused.
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
Alfreda shoved him back, fury flashing.
"Maybe it is!" she cried. "Maybe everything we touch dies!"
Celeste snorted darkly.
"Welcome to the Widowmaker legacy," she said.
Nathaniel's hands curled into fists.
"This is war," he growled. "You think they'll spare him because he's innocent? They'll use him. Break him. Kill him."
Alfreda's voice cracked.
"Then why not let him be a child a little longer?"
Nathaniel looked at her—really looked at her—and saw the woman he almost had. The woman he almost saved.
Almost.
He stepped back.
"You want him to live?" Nathaniel said coldly. "Then teach him to survive. Or watch him die."
Alfreda's face twisted in grief and rage.
She slapped him.
Hard.
The sound cracked like a gunshot through the villa.
Nathaniel didn't react. Didn't blink.
He just turned and walked away.
Because he knew:
Love didn't save you.
It only made you weak.
—
That night, while the boy slept, Alfreda crept into Nathaniel's room.
Not to hurt him.
Not to love him.
But to confess.
"Nathaniel," she whispered.
He stirred, reaching for the gun under his pillow—then froze when he saw her silhouette.
"What?" he rasped.
She stepped closer.
"You need to know," she said.
And she told him.
About the night of the original Widowmaker slaughter.
About how she had been there—not as a victim.
Not even as a bystander.
But as a collaborator.
"They promised me safety," she said, voice breaking. "For my family. I…I gave them information."
Nathaniel's face hardened to stone.
"You betrayed us," he said.
"I didn't know," she sobbed. "They lied. They used me."
"And you still stayed," he said coldly.
Tears streamed down her face.
"I thought it was the only way to survive."
Nathaniel stared at her for a long time.
And something inside him crumbled.
Because he understood.
He hated her for it.
And he understood it all the same.
He rose from the bed.
Walked past her.
Paused at the door.
"You want forgiveness," he said quietly. "Earn it."
Then he left her in the darkness.
Alone.
—
Far away, deep in the Widowmaker council's new stronghold, a man watched Nathaniel through hidden cameras.
He smiled.
Because Nathaniel didn't know the real truth yet.
The Vault had not just held secrets.
It had held contracts.
Old blood debts.
Ones signed by Nathaniel's own father.
Ones that marked Nathaniel—and the boy—as assets.
Not heirs.
Property.
And property could be claimed.
The council leader leaned back in his chair and pressed a button.
"Send the Reapers," he said.
"Burn the villa to the ground."
"And bring the boy back alive."
—
Back at the villa, Celeste packed weapons with frantic energy.
Alfreda loaded extra magazines.
Nathaniel knelt beside the boy, strapping a knife to his ankle.
"You remember what I taught you?" Nathaniel asked.
The boy nodded fiercely.
"Trust no one," he said.
"And if you have to run?"
"I run fast. I don't look back."
Nathaniel squeezed his shoulder.
"Good."
A distant rumble shuddered through the villa.
Nathaniel's head snapped up.
Not thunder.
Engines.
Motorcycles.
Trucks.
The Reapers were coming.
He rose smoothly, pulling his gun.
"Positions," he said.
Celeste and Alfreda moved without hesitation.
The boy stayed glued to Nathaniel's side.
Another rumble—closer now.
Lights swept the dark cliffs.
Nathaniel licked his lips, adrenaline surging.
"You ready to kill for real?" he murmured to the boy.
The boy smiled grimly.
"I already did."
Nathaniel laughed—dark and wild.
"Good," he said. "Because this time, it's not practice."
The first bullets shattered the windows.
And the villa became a battlefield once more.