Bullets rained like hail against the stone walls.
The villa, once a fortress, was now a crumbling coffin.
Nathaniel kicked over a table for cover and shoved the boy down behind it.
"Stay low!" he barked, squeezing off three shots through the shattered windows. A Reaper screamed and dropped.
Alfreda and Celeste fought back-to-back, their guns barking in brutal rhythm. The invaders were too many. Too fast. Shadows slipping through smoke and ruin.
"South wall's breached!" Celeste yelled.
"I see it!" Alfreda shouted back, firing until her gun clicked empty.
Nathaniel reloaded.
One bullet left.
Not enough.
A Reaper broke through the barricade.
Nathaniel swung his gun, but the Reaper was faster—
Tackled him to the ground.
Knife flashing—aimed straight for Nathaniel's heart.
The boy moved before anyone else.
He didn't scream.
Didn't hesitate.
Just grabbed the fallen knife beside him—
And stabbed the Reaper in the throat.
Hot blood sprayed over him.
The Reaper gargled and dropped.
Nathaniel stared up at the boy, stunned.
"Good," he rasped, chest heaving.
"You're learning."
—
Ten minutes later, the south wall gave way.
Reapers stormed in like a black tide.
And then—the gunfire stopped.
Confused, Nathaniel rose from behind cover.
The Reapers didn't attack.
They just…stood there.
Parting like a black sea.
And through them walked a man Nathaniel hadn't seen in twenty years.
Tall.
Immaculate.
Cold eyes glittering like polished knives.
Corbin Vance.
The original Widowmaker general.
Thought dead.
Very much alive.
Nathaniel's blood froze.
"You," he hissed.
Corbin smiled thinly.
"Me," he agreed. "Miss me, boy?"
Nathaniel raised his gun.
Corbin shook his head slowly.
"Don't bother. You're already dead. You just don't know it yet."
He nodded—and half a dozen Reapers trained their guns on Nathaniel, Alfreda, Celeste, and the boy.
Outnumbered. Outgunned. Cornered.
Corbin stepped closer.
"You thought you inherited the Widowmakers," he said to Nathaniel. "You thought the Vault made you king."
Nathaniel's hands clenched.
"But you're just the bastard son of a dying empire," Corbin said coldly. "And you're about to watch it burn."
He turned his gaze to the boy.
"You see, my dear little prince," Corbin said smoothly. "You were never meant to rule."
The boy glared up at him, defiant.
Corbin smiled.
"You were bred to be sold."
Alfreda gasped.
Celeste's face went sickly pale.
Nathaniel stepped forward, fury boiling out of him.
"You lie," he spat.
Corbin laughed.
"Check the Vault files, boy. Your father signed the contracts himself. Genetic experiments. Super-soldiers. You weren't saving the world—you were building weapons."
He leaned down, speaking directly to the boy now.
"You don't belong to them," Corbin whispered. "You belong to me."
Nathaniel moved.
Fast.
Deadly.
But not fast enough.
A gunshot split the night—and Nathaniel stumbled back, a crimson bloom spreading across his side.
The boy—Nathaniel's boy—stood there holding the smoking gun.
Pointed at Nathaniel.
Eyes cold.
Face blank.
"No," the boy said.
"I don't belong to anyone."
He turned the gun on Corbin next.
And pulled the trigger.
BANG.
Corbin jerked, clutching his gut.
Another shot.
BANG.
Right between Corbin's eyes.
Corbin collapsed in a heap.
Dead.
The Reapers wavered.
Leaderless.
The boy turned to them, bloodied and fierce.
"You work for me now," he said in a voice that didn't belong to a child.
The Reapers hesitated.
Then—one by one—they knelt.
Swords dropping. Guns clattering to the ground.
Nathaniel sank to his knees, blood dripping from his wound.
Alfreda ran to him, pressing her hands against the bleeding.
Celeste just stared at the boy—
At the monster they had made.
At the king he was becoming.
The boy turned back to Nathaniel.
"I'm sorry," he said, voice soft now.
"But you're weak."
Nathaniel coughed, blood bubbling on his lips.
"Maybe," he rasped.
He reached out—
And smiled as he pressed something into the boy's hand.
The detonator.
The boy looked down at it, confused.
Too late.
Nathaniel grinned.
"Checkmate," he whispered.
The villa exploded.
—
Hours later…
Smoke curled into a dead sky.
Bodies littered the cliffs like broken toys.
The boy crawled from the rubble, coughing.
Alive.
Bloody.
Alone.
And laughing.
Because he understood now.
Not love.
Not loyalty.
Not legacy.
Only power survived.
And now—he had all of it.