Gary Fisher's job was the epitome of monotony. As a guard for one of the world's wealthiest individuals, he might've hoped for a life filled with purpose—perhaps traveling on secretive missions, attending VIP meetings, or at the very least, basking in the excitement of securing the secrets of power. But in reality, his life was a stark contrast to the expectations. Day in, day out, for ten hours at a stretch, seven days a week, he stood watch over a single, unremarkable door at the Stager building.
The door led only to a dim corridor—a narrow, dreary hall with little traffic beyond the occasional conference or corporate guest. The Stager building was vigilant enough on its own, equipped with layers upon layers of security, cameras perched high and hidden, their unblinking eyes surveilling every shadowed corner. And yet, here he was, posted at a door in a building where no one ever seemed to need a guard.
Gary sighed, the fluorescent lights humming overhead as he settled into his shift, bracing for another day of uninterrupted quiet. His thoughts drifted, circling familiar subjects—his dwindling patience, the distant dream of a vacation, maybe even that faint hope he still held that his job might one day yield something more. And it was as he was locked in this state of half-focused apathy that she appeared.
The woman entered with a kind of otherworldly grace that was impossible to ignore. Her figure, framed by a flowing fur coat that seemed to add inches to her height, drew his gaze immediately. Her blond hair shone in the cold light, her features striking and cool, like an artifact from a different time. She seemed slightly out of place, standing there amidst the corporate sterility. But it wasn't just her appearance—there was a quality to her presence that commanded a weight, a kind of demand for attention that Gary, despite himself, couldn't resist.
She paused just inside the entrance, her eyes flitting around the lobby, carrying an almost dazed, vulnerable expression that stood in sharp contrast to her calculated beauty. For a moment, Gary felt a strange tug, a flicker of empathy he couldn't quite understand. He cleared his throat and approached, sensing a rare opportunity to break the quiet monotony of his post.
Gary: Can I help you?
The question felt stilted, automatic, even though he was oddly aware that he meant it this time. The woman looked at him, her gaze unsteady but piercing, her eyes holding his with an intensity that made him feel a shade out of his depth.
Woman: Yes, actually… I, uh, really need directions to the nearest restroom.
There was something strange about her voice, an urgency that felt… forced? But he brushed the thought aside, his instinct for professionalism kicking in. Gary hesitated, his mind working through the protocols he was bound to, while his curiosity worked against him. The Stager building wasn't a public facility, and access to certain amenities—like restrooms—was strictly reserved for staff.
She seemed to sense his reluctance, because she leaned in, her voice softening to a whisper.
Woman: Please, Gary. I wouldn't ask if it weren't absolutely necessary. It's… a woman's problem.
She lingered on the last words, letting them hang in the air with a quiet insistence. Gary felt his face heat, caught off guard by the mix of desperation and embarrassment in her tone. Against his better judgment, he glanced over to Mary at the reception desk, hoping for some kind of silent backup. Mary's face showed the barest hint of a smirk before she turned her attention back to her computer, clearly leaving him to fend for himself.
Gary turned back, giving the woman a reluctant nod.
Gary: Alright, alright… It's this way.
He gestured down the hall, casting a glance over his shoulder as he began to walk, unable to shake a strange, prickling sensation in his gut. The woman followed closely behind, her steps echoing in the empty corridor. Gary felt her presence behind him, the silence between them somehow tense.
Guiding the mysterious woman through the sterile corridors of the Stager building, Gary found his professionalism warring with a growing curiosity. With each step towards the company restroom, he stole glances over his shoulder, marveling at the serendipity—or was it fate?—that had led her to cross his path on such an ordinary day.
They arrived at the restroom entrance, and Gary stopped, turning to her with an awkward smile.
Gary: There you go—
But he didn't get the chance to finish his sentence. In a flash of movement too quick for Gary to fully comprehend, the woman shifted from a figure of elegance and distress to one of calculated aggression. She pushed him with surprising force, sending him stumbling backward onto the bathroom floor. Before Gary could react or regain his balance, she had expertly disarmed him, his own gun now pointed squarely at him with her finger firmly on the trigger.
Woman: Make a noise and you're dead
Her voice low but laced with an intensity that brooked no argument.
Frozen by the sudden turn of events, Gary could only watch in shock as she methodically began to empty his utility belt. The contents of his carefully maintained company uniform clattered to the ground.
As the woman sifted through the items scattered on the floor, her hands finally clasped around a large, folded piece of paper concealed within the inner pocket of Gary's company jacket. With deliberate care, she unfolded it, revealing its contents under the harsh fluorescent light. It was a blueprint, detailed and precise, outlining the layout of the Stager building. Key areas were marked: surveillance points, entrances, exits, and even the less conspicuous ventilation shafts. A faint smile crept across her face, a silent declaration of victory.
Without wasting a moment, she retrieved her phone from her jacket, dialing a number with practiced ease.
Woman: Thomas, I've got it.
She announced into the phone, her voice a mixture of relief and triumph. Gary, still reeling from the sudden aggression, could only guess at the identity of the person on the other end. He strained to catch any response, any clue as to what was unfolding, but her words were a private communication, meant for Thomas alone.
Seizing the opportunity her distraction presented, Gary mustered all the courage and desperation he could find within himself. Ignoring the pain throbbing in his head and the fear clouding his judgment, he made his move. With a shout for help that echoed off the sterile walls, he lunged towards his gun, driven by instinct more than hope.
But the woman's reaction was swift and devastating. Dropping the phone, she drew a sword from beneath her oversized jacket—a blade so sharp and her movements so fluid that Gary barely registered the action before it was too late. His fingers, reaching out in a futile attempt to reclaim his weapon, were severed with clinical precision. The pain was immediate, intense, and overwhelming.
In the same fluid motion, she covered Gary's mouth with her other hand, silencing his screams. The sharp scent of iron filled the air as blood pooled beneath them.
But her attempt at silencing Gary was rendered futile by the arrival of Mary, the secretary, who stumbled upon the scene. Her eyes wide with horror, she took in the sight before her: Gary, incapacitated and bleeding, and the mysterious woman, calm and in control.
The woman in the coat looked down at Gary with pity in her eyes, sighing deeply.
Claire: Look what you made me do Gary.
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Thomas's feet slid back across the polished floor, his wooden katana digging into the ground in a desperate bid to halt his momentum. The force of the last blow had rattled him to his core, but it wasn't the pain that burned within him. No—there was something far hotter simmering just beneath the surface. As he steadied himself, his gaze lifted to meet that of the man before him, and the fury in his eyes spoke volumes.
The Bastard.
That's how he thought of him, this man who wore that perpetual mask of calm, who spoke in carefully measured tones as if everything he said were carved from wisdom itself. But Thomas knew better. That polished exterior was a lie, a farce. This man was hollow, a statue molded to appear wise and righteous but entirely empty on the inside.
The Bastard: Impatience again?
The Bastard's voice was steady, almost mocking. His thin, sharp staff gleamed under the room's lights as he planted it into the floor with a swift elegance.
The Bastard: Emotion-driven decisions are your downfal.
Thomas clenched his teeth, his fingers digging into his arm with enough force to leave half-moon indentations. Every word grated against him like nails on glass, and he felt the hatred coil tighter, deeper.
Him, telling him he was "emotion-driven"? Him, the one who'd only ever wielded words like scalpels, cutting and dissecting without remorse, calling him out for lacking control? Thomas nearly laughed. It was this man—this arrogant Bastard—who acted like he understood patience, like he embodied restraint, when all he did was hide his true self behind a flimsy shield of etiquette.
In his mind, Thomas replayed the countless times he'd seen that facade slip in the slightest of ways—a twitch of irritation, a slip of the mask. But The Bastard always reeled himself back in, smoothing over his expressions and tone like a practiced actor. It was hypocrisy in its purest form, and it fueled the fire inside Thomas, urging him to strike again, to prove something—to him, to himself.
He drew in a breath, forcing his voice to remain steady, though his body trembled from the effort.
Thomas: Patience, you say. Temperance. You think that's what you have do you?
The Bastard only raised an eyebrow, his eyes cold and unmoved.
The Bastard: When you're ready to let go of that childish indignation, we can continue.
Childish? Thomas nearly choked on the word. He felt the bile rise, but he swallowed it down. He wouldn't give The Bastard the satisfaction of seeing him lose control.
Instead, he straightened, gripping his katana firmly once more.
Thomas: Maybe you're right.
He said, though his tone made it clear he believed no such thing.
Thomas: Maybe I am driven by emotion. But patience isn't about burying your feelings and pretending they're not there. That you ought to know.
Without a word, The Bastard lifted his steel staff, pointing it toward Thomas with a single command, the words landing like a final, cutting blow.
The Bastard: Strike again.
And Thomas, with hatred burning like fuel in his veins, lunged forward.
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Patience, Thomas thought, was one of his better virtues. Or so he liked to believe. That man certainly didn't think so, but then again, that man didn't think highly of many things he did. Still, Thomas prided himself on his ability to wait, to endure discomfort with a calm exterior while the people around him—especially those who doubted him—squirmed. Yet, as he sat perched on the rooftop, staring down at the endless windows of the Stager building, his calm façade was beginning to crack. Every passing second gnawed at his nerves, every minute without a signal from Claire made his pulse spike in spite of himself.
The morning had been a flurry of activity as the duo laid out their strategy to infiltrate the Stager building and secure a private audience with Harrison Stager's personal secretary Margarett. Thomas had previously shared with Claire, during their carefully laid plans at the Heartson manor, that he had already made contact with Margarett. Through this initial conversation, it was revealed that Margarett had her own unnerving encounter with the shadowy faction responsible for Mason's abduction. With few leads to guide them, Thomas and Claire knew that Margarett was their best hope for uncovering any clues regarding Mason's whereabouts.
Doing some brief internet searches, Claire and Thomas were able to deduce Margarett's location, as she was currently participating in a business meeting with Harrison Stager himself deep inside the Stager building. With the Heartson family's resources at their disposal, Claire had efficiently procured new attire and all necessary supplies for their mission.
Thomas, for his part, had chosen simplicity over style—a plain white button-up shirt that felt familiar and, more importantly, comfortable. It was a small choice, perhaps, but in moments like these, comfort was a luxury that could make all the difference. The sword Thomas had picked up from the manor was hastily wrapped around his waste with whatever materials he could get his hands on, in an attempt to conceal it in public.
He tried to swallow his unease, to reassure himself that everything was going according to plan. Claire knew what she was doing—more than he ever would. If anyone could handle this, it was her. But that didn't stop the small, invasive thoughts from creeping in, whispering about all the ways things could go wrong, about how he was utterly useless here, waiting in silence.
Then, finally, his phone buzzed, the screen lighting up like a lifeline in his palm.
Claire: Thomas, I've got it.
A flood of relief washed over him, his grip loosening around the phone. She had done it. He couldn't stop himself from grinning, pride swelling in his chest. Of course she'd pulled it off—this was Claire, after all. All he needed now was for her to tell him where to go, to guide him through the final steps. But just as the relief settled, her message distorted, a mess of static filling the line. Panic jolted through him, tightening his throat.
Thomas: Claire?
The noise on the other end grew louder, then broke into muffled screams, the echo of footsteps, an abrupt chaos that made his heart race. He tried to stay calm, to focus, but each second of silence felt like an eternity, and when her voice finally cut back in, it was laced with urgency.
Claire: Thomas, listen, there's a vent on the side of the building. Your side, leading directly to the security room.
Thomas: Wait, what happened?
Claire: I don't have time to explain. Just find the vent. I'll guide you to the security room from there.
And with that, the line went dead.
The abruptness left him reeling, his mind a chaotic mess of questions and worst-case scenarios. But as much as he wanted to push, to demand answers, he knew it would be pointless. Claire was already in the thick of whatever mess she'd stumbled into. He took a deep breath, gripping the phone tightly, letting the sense of urgency drown out the doubt clawing at him.
With a newfound resolve, Thomas secured the rope he'd prepared and steadied himself. The vent was high on the side of the building, but he wasn't about to let something as trivial as height stop him. Besides, if Claire could dive headfirst into danger, the least he could do was catch up.
He swung across, landing next to the vent with a bit more grace than he expected, and got to work unscrewing the panel. Each turn of the screwdriver felt painfully slow, but he forced himself to keep his hands steady, to push past the growing tension. When the panel finally came free, he slid inside, his movements cramped and cautious as he maneuvered through the narrow space.
The vents were tighter than he'd anticipated, the air thick and unmoving, and he had to fight against the claustrophobia prickling at his mind. His phone buzzed with a steady stream of instructions from Claire, guiding him through the maze of ducts with precision. Each message was concise, direct—no wasted words, no reassurances. It was classic Claire, and somehow, that alone helped to calm him.
Left, right, another left… the path seemed endless, the metal walls pressing in on him, but finally, he found himself positioned above the security room. He peered through the vent's grating, his heartbeat hammering in his ears as he took in the scene below.
For a moment, a flicker of fear crept in. There could be guards, cameras, any number of things waiting below, and he had no idea what he'd do if they spotted him. But then he shook his head, banishing the hesitation. He hadn't come this far just to stall now. Taking one last steadying breath, he pushed open the grating and dropped down, his sword in hand.
The landing was smoother than he'd expected, his eyes scanning the room for any sign of hostility. But instead of a tense standoff, he was met with a sight that caught him entirely off-guard.
Claire was seated casually in the security chair, a smirk playing at her lips, her eyes glinting with a mixture of amusement and satisfaction. Around her, three unconscious guards lay sprawled across the floor. She'd done all of this—on her own. He could only stare, part amazed, part incredulous.
Gone was her oversized coat; instead, she wore a neatly pressed secretary uniform, complete with a nametag that read "Mary." The sight was almost absurd, but somehow, she made it work.
Claire: Careful with that.
She said, nodding toward the sword in his hand, her voice laced with playful irony.
Claire: You might take someone's eye out.
He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, his mind racing with a mix of relief and disbelief.
Thomas: You—you did all this?
Claire shrugged.
Claire: You were taking too long. A polite knock on the door works wonders.
Her tone was light, almost teasing, but there was an edge to her words that he didn't miss.
Thomas felt a rush of embarrassment, his face heating as he realized his elaborate vent infiltration had been entirely unnecessary. But before he could respond, he noticed the blood staining her hands, the dark splotches on her uniform. His amusement faded, replaced by a gnawing worry.
Thomas: You didn't… kill anyone, did you?
She met his gaze with a steady calm, shaking her head.
Claire: Just as you asked—everyone makes it out alive.
A flicker of gratitude softened his expression, and he nodded, relief easing the tension in his shoulders.
Thomas: Okay… so, what's next?
Claire was already a step ahead, her mind clearly working through their next move as she scanned the room's monitors.
Claire: The blueprints don't show Stager's exact location, but if I had to guess, he's on the top floor, high-security meetings like these are almost always held at the top. Grab one of the guards' uniforms before they come around. Meet me at the elevator.
He nodded, already moving toward one of the unconscious guards, trying not to think too hard about what he was doing as he swapped clothes. He glanced at Claire, a strange mix of admiration and bewilderment bubbling up inside him. She made all this look so easy, like they were merely actors in a play and she'd memorized her lines long before anyone else had even read the script.
As they headed toward the elevator, his mind wandered briefly to how absurd this all was—him, a teenage boy with a makeshift sword, sneaking into a high-security building in a stolen uniform, all for a mission he barely understood. And yet, as they waited for the elevator doors to open, the strange sense of purpose that had brought him here only solidified. This wasn't just some game, or a thrill he'd chase and forget. This was real. This mattered.
And he felt like he was exactly where he needed to be.
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Thomas: So, are we just going to barge in and ask for Margarett?
Claire: We'll improvise a distraction once we're closer. Let's first find where the meeting is happening.
Upon reaching the top floor, they quietly exited the elevator and began their cautious trek down the hallway. Thomas tugged on the sleeves of his uniform.
Thomas: How come you got a perfect fit? These clothes were made for a giant.
Claire: Next time I'll pack you a onesie.
Thomas chuckled at the comment before shutting his mouth and continuing to move down the halls, remembering the situation they were in.
Each door bore a plaque, which they read intently, searching for any indication of Harrison Stager's meeting location. They were about halfway through when Claire suddenly halted.
Claire: I can hear them. Second to last door on the left.
Thomas: How the hell can you hear that from here?
Claire didn't respond, her focus zeroing in on the door in question. As they approached, both pondered their approach for creating a diversion. Yet, before they could formulate a plan, Claire's body tensed, and she executed a defensive maneuver, swinging behind Thomas just as a large wooden staff aimed for his head.
Thomas's eyes shot up to meet those of a young girl, no older than a teenager, with long black hair dressed in casual attire, wielding a staff. Confusion marred his features, but before he could voice his questions, Claire attempted to tackle the girl, who, in a bewildering display, vanished only to reappear in her initial stance.
The baffling scene left Thomas scrambling for comprehension, his thoughts abruptly interrupted as he dodged a lethal strike from a dark katana. The attacker, an elderly Asian man with long white hair and a beard, exuded an unexpected vigor and agility. His age seemed at odds with his prowess, the katana in his grasp as much a part of him as his own limbs.
Reacting instinctively, Thomas drew his sword, adrenaline surging as he prepared for the confrontation. Claire, frustration evident in her growl, chastised herself for not detecting the duo sooner. The two prepared themselves for battle, unaware of the tragedy soon to occur.