Man: At last... I finally get to stand face to face with the legendary Lena once again.
Claire frowned, tightening her grip on her sword as she appraised the man before her. He was different. For one, his armor was massive, heavier than anything she'd seen on the standard Obsidian forces.
The reinforced plates covering his body gleamed even under the dim, smoke-filled light of the lobby. Segmented for movement, yet appearing nearly impenetrable, the armor looked like a perfect fusion of practicality and power. Sharp, angular patterns lined the edges, giving it a modern, aesthetic.
Unlike the glossy, functional elegance of regular Obsidian soldier armor, his gear was bulkier, with numerous attachments that made him seem like a walking tank.
Her chest still heaved with effort as she scanned him, sweat and soot sticking to her skin. Even her injuries screamed for a reprieve, but the sharp glint in her eyes betrayed no weakness. She straightened, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face.
Claire: I'm sorry, who are you?
The man froze mid-step, as if her words had landed harder than any blade could. Slowly, he cocked his head, scratching it awkwardly with the flat of his blade. A moment later, he let out a low chuckle, his voice taking on a strangely apologetic tone.
Man: Ah, of course. My mistake.
He reached up, pulling off his helmet with a deliberate motion. As the heavy piece of armor clattered to the ground, it revealed a sharp, angular face framed by short, black hair. His black eyes gleamed with determination, and his well-built frame now seemed even more imposing without the full helmet to obscure him. He looked no older than his mid-twenties.
Claire's lips twitched slightly as she looked him up and down, tilting her head thoughtfully. After a moment, she scratched the back of her head.
Claire: Sorry, still not ringing a bell. My apologies.
The man's smile faltered, his confidence wavering for just a second before he visibly gathered himself. His lips curved upward again, though now his expression seemed more forced.
Man: No matter. This time—for certain—I'll burn the memory of myself into your head.
Claire didn't respond immediately, her gaze darting around the room. Smoke still lingered in the air, making it harder to breathe, but she ignored the discomfort.
Her mind was already at work, cataloging every detail of the environment: the collapsed pillars she could use for cover, the broken furniture that could be thrown as distractions, the smoldering remains of the last explosion.
She coughed into her arm, her body trembling slightly from exertion, but her grip on her sword didn't falter.
Her eyes flickered back to him briefly, taking in his stance, his weapons, the overconfidence radiating off him like heat. She tightened her grip on her sword, a smirk ghosting across her face.
Let's see how long he lasts.
The man surged forward, his massive frame a freight train of force aimed directly at Claire. But Claire did not meet his charge head-on.
No, she refused him the satisfaction.
Instead, she pivoted sharply, her body weaving fluidly through the hailstorm of gunfire erupting from the surviving soldiers around her. If she engaged the towering man now, she knew, the crossfire would tear through her like paper.
The soldiers' bullets tore through the air, desperate to find their target, but Claire's speed was unearthly. She danced through the chaos with a grace that bordered on terrifying, flickering like a ghost through the lobby.
A tornado of destruction followed her every move, her blade carving arcs of death. Blood sprayed, limbs fell, and armor crumpled beneath the might of her strikes. The enemy faltered, overwhelmed not just by her speed but by her sheer presence—an executioner whose every movement defied comprehension.
Her breathing came in sharp bursts, the pain from her earlier injuries gnawing at her edges. But she couldn't slow down.
Focus. Don't lose momentum.
The soldiers were just noise. The real threat—the man in the tank-like armor—still loomed. She dared a glance at him, her eyes narrowing. He was closing in steadily, undeterred by her evasive maneuvers.
Vice Captain—that much was certain. If that was the case, Claire understood that she couldn't take him lightly as she herself had been...
Her thoughts cut off there as she weaved through more gunfire. She ramped up the energy coursing through her legs, her strides becoming erratic bursts of acceleration and sudden halts.
The soldiers couldn't predict her, couldn't aim fast enough, couldn't even comprehend how she seemed to vanish and reappear in a blink.
A smirk tugged at her lips.
It was as if she was faster than the bullets. Faster than their pathetic fear. Faster even than the Vice Captain, whose movements seemed painfully ordinary in comparison.
Still, speed alone wasn't enough.
Her blade dripped with crimson as she set her sights on him. The remaining soldiers were paralyzed by terror, their guns trembling in their hands. Claire ignored them.
With a burst of speed, she dashed toward the Vice Captain, her sword angled for a decisive strike.
The air seemed to freeze as she closed the distance, her mind locking onto the details: the slight shift in his stance, the tightening of his grip on the blade, the subtle lowering of his center of gravity. A calculated defense.
But then his armor shifted.
The metallic plates along his arms groaned and expanded, a mechanical hiss escaping as he raised his fist and slammed it into the ground with earth-shattering force.
The floor erupted.
The ground beneath Claire split apart like a faultline during an earthquake, jagged cracks racing outward with terrifying speed. The shockwave hit her before she could adjust, her balance shattering as the lobby became a battlefield of crumbling stone and debris.
She staggered, her momentum utterly broken.
Vice Captain: You don't get to look down on us simply because you were born lucky. I'll teach you how to raise your head.
The Vice Captain straightened, his form looming over the fractured ground. His eyes gleamed with cold satisfaction as he lifted his blade, ready to strike the moment she faltered.
And falter, she did not.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Stager stumbled forward, hands raised in trembling desperation. His voice cracked as he pleaded, words spilling from his lips like a dam broken under pressure.
Stager: Cromley, please, this doesn't have to happen! I—I've made mistakes, but we can fix this. If you're unhappy with the company's direction, we'll restructure. Hell, you can have fifty percent—no, seventy-five percent! Whatever you want, just name it!
Cromley's cold gaze didn't waver, his pistol still trained on Stager's head. The metallic click of the hammer cocking silenced Stager mid-sentence.
Cromley: Shut it, Stager. Another word, and I'll put a bullet in you right now.
The sharp edge in his voice left no room for negotiation.
Cromley: You're a thorn in my side. Promises and contracts, lies and excuses—you've pulled the rug out from under me too many times. But not this time.
His lips curled into a grim smile as he gestured vaguely to the men at his sides.
Cromley: This time, I have the backing and force to end it for good. No second chances. No loopholes.
Stager's shoulders sagged as despair overtook him. He opened his mouth to plead again, but a sharp voice cut through the tension like a whip.
Thomas: Will you shut your mouth already?
The voice didn't carry the weight of desperation or fear. It was sharp, dismissive, dripping with disdain. Both Stager and Cromley turned toward the source.
Thomas, still dressed in his battered janitor uniform, was on his feet. His expression was one of barely concealed irritation, as though the whole situation was more of a personal inconvenience than a life-threatening standoff. He dusted himself off lazily, adjusting his uniform with a scowl.
Thomas: If you keep whimpering like that, I might just shoot you myself Stager.
The room froze. Cromley's men shifted uncomfortably, their weapons snapping toward Thomas in unison. Cromley himself arched an eyebrow, his cold smile giving way to mild confusion. But Thomas didn't flinch. If anything, he looked bored. His eyes lazily flicked to the armed men, then back to Stager, his lip curling.
Thomas: Honestly, you're all pathetic. Unless you're prepared to be slaughtered by Obsidian, I'd suggest you lower those toys.
The air shifted. That single word—Obsidian—landed with the force of a thunderclap. Cromley's confidence faltered, his smile twitching as unease crept into his eyes. His men exchanged uncertain glances, their grips on their weapons tightening but their aim wavering.
Cromley: Obsidian? What are you—
Thomas didn't give him a chance to finish. He sighed loudly, rolling his eyes as though he couldn't believe he had to explain himself.
Thomas: What, you weren't informed? After all the effort I went through to personally hand-deliver Stager to you, and you still managed to miss simple instructions? Typical.
His tone was casual, almost conversational, but there was a razor-sharp edge beneath it. Cromley's skepticism was evident, his lips pressing into a thin line as his gaze hardened.
Cromley: Who are you supposed to be, then? I wasn't told about some child being involved in this operation.
The corner of Thomas's mouth twitched. His expression darkened, the casual facade slipping just enough to reveal the irritation simmering beneath.
Thomas: Child?
He took a step forward, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous tone.
Thomas: Let me make something clear. You do not refer to me as a child. I am a soldier. No—a warrior.
His words hung in the air, heavy with implied authority.
Thomas: A warrior of Obsidian.
Stager, still crumpled on the ground, looked up at Thomas with wide eyes, his face a mix of confusion and dawning horror.
Stager: What the hell are you talking ab—
Before he could finish, Thomas's fist lashed out, connecting squarely with Stager's jaw. The man crumpled to the floor, groaning in pain as Thomas shook out his hand, flexing his fingers as though the punch had been more inconvenient than anything else.
Thomas: Keep your mouth shut or I'll lose my patience.
Cromley's men glanced at each other, clearly uncertain. Their eyes darted to Cromley, who remained rooted in place, his pistol still raised but his confidence visibly shaken. Thomas turned his attention to the two men, his gaze cold and calculating.
For a moment, the only sound was the distant hum of the city below and the faint rustle of the wind against the rooftop. Then, with deliberate slowness, Thomas cracked his knuckles.
Thomas: So, gentlemen. What's it going to be?
The words hung in the air, and for a moment, nothing moved. The rooftop was eerily silent save for the faint whistle of the wind and the distant hum of the city below. Cromley, his cold, calculating gaze locked onto Thomas, raised a hand slowly. With a subtle motion, he signaled his men to lower their weapons.
Cromley: Fine. I'll bite.
The tension shifted, but it didn't disapear. The men exchanged uneasy glances as they cautiously lowered their guns. Cromley stepped forward,his watch catching the dim light as he broke the silence.
Cromley: Let's make this simple. What exactly is your position in the process? Why wasn't I informed about… you?
Thomas rolled his eyes, a deep, exaggerated sigh escaping him as he crossed his arms.
Thomas: Do I look like I have the time or patience to explain what I've already gone over?
Cromley's eyes narrowed, suspicion creeping into his sharp features. But before he could speak, Thomas straightened up, adjusting his collar with mock dignity.
Thomas: Since you're so insistent, I'll humor you. My job is simple—deliver Stager here to you, and then you take care of the rest. Dispose of him. Clean up the mess. The usual.
Cromley frowned, his brow furrowing as the pieces didn't quite fit together.
Cromley: Dispose of him? That doesn't add up. The point of this operation was capture, not execution. What do you—
His hand twitched almost imperceptibly, his fingers brushing against the trigger of his pistol. His mind raced, and in that instant, the realization dawned—a realization that froze his blood. His eyes widened, flicking toward Thomas, who crouched low in a flash, moving faster than Cromley could react.
In a single, fluid motion, Thomas pulled a pistol from the inside of his jacket. The gun fired three rapid shots, the cracks echoing across the rooftop. The first two bullets struck Cromley's men in their legs, their cries of pain ringing out as they collapsed to the ground. But the third bullet veered off course, missing Cromley entirely.
Cromley, recovering from the shock, raised his gun to retaliate, his aim steady despite the chaos.
Thomas squinted, closing one eye to focus, and fired again. The bullet grazed Cromley's eye, forcing him to flinch and miss his own shot.
For a brief moment, everything froze. Cromley clutched at his face, blood trickling between his fingers, his teeth bared in a snarl. Thomas adjusted his stance, raising his pistol for one final shot. He pulled the trigger.
Click.
Nothing. The chamber was empty.
A fleeting flicker of frustration crossed Thomas's face, but it was gone as quickly as it came. Without hesitation, he dropped the gun, his movements seamless and unrelenting. His hand shot out, grabbing Stager by the collar and dragging the stunned man to his feet.
Stager: W—what is going on?!
Stager's panicked voice was little more than background noise to Thomas as he yanked the man toward the stairwell. Behind them, Cromley, still clutching his eye, staggered upright, his rage bubbling to the surface.
Thomas: Move, dickhead.
With a final tug, Thomas threw open the heavy stairwell door and dragged Harrison inside, the clang of the door slamming shut behind them echoing across the rooftop. The two stumbled down the stairs, their frantic footsteps drowning out Cromley's muffled shouts from behind.
Thomas: Keep moving.
His eyes darted down the spiraling staircase ahead.
But Stager wasn't built for this. The man stumbled, wheezing like an engine on its last legs. They couldn't afford delays, not when death could be waiting just a flight below.
Stager: Are you... are you with Obsidian?
Thomas froze mid-step, his shoulders stiffening. Slowly, he turned his head to glare at the man dragging behind him. His lips curled into a scowl so sharp it could have cut through the tension hanging in the air.
Thomas: Of course not, you wanker.
He slowed his pace, ears straining as a sound reached him. Footsteps. Approaching from below.
Thomas raised a hand, motioning for Stager to stop. The older man looked confused, but he obeyed, leaning against the wall to catch his breath. Thomas, meanwhile, pressed his back to the cool concrete, closing his eyes for a moment.
Focus. Think. Breathe.
The distant voices of men barking orders carried upward, mingling with the faint jingle of equipment. He opened his eyes, the gears in his mind already turning. He turned to Stager, his expression sharper than ever.
Thomas: Alright, I think I get pieces of this now.
He jabbed a finger in Stager's direction.
Thomas: Cromley. He's some sort of business associate, yeah? You pissed him off—no, scratch that—you pissed off a whole lot of people, didn't you? And now they want you dead.
Harrison blinked, his face pale, but he said nothing. That wasn't good enough.
Thomas grabbed the man by the lapels of his suit, shaking him violently. Harrison let out a startled yelp, but Thomas didn't care.
Thomas: RIGHT?
The word echoed in the stairwell, harsh and unforgiving. Harrison finally nodded, his face a mix of fear and shame.
Stager: Yes... but it's not that simple.
Thomas: Not that simple?
He took a step back, running a hand through his disheveled hair.
Thomas: Then enlighten me. Why the hell is Obsidian involved? Cromley's grudge I get, but Obsidian? Guards, assassins—this is way too messy.
Stager hesitated, his lips tightening into a thin line. His silence was deafening.
Thomas: Don't you dare clam up on me now, Stager.
Stager flinched, his eyes darting to the ground. Finally, he spoke, his voice trembling.
Stager: Fine. You want to know? It started when I was younger. Obsidian approached me, offering resources, data analytics, funding. Everything I needed to build my company into an empire. And I... I took it. I took it all.
Thomas listened, his expression unreadable as Harrison continued, each word spilling out like a confession.
Stager: With Obsidian's help, I didn't need Cromley anymore. I cut him out, severed ties with my old associates. My company thrived... until I found out the cost. And when I tried to break away, when I uncovered things I wasn't supposed to see, they turned on me.
Thomas: What things?
Stager shook his head, his eyes hollow.
Stager: You wouldn't understand. No one would.
Thomas's jaw tightened, frustration bubbling. Whatever Stager had found, it didn't matter now. What mattered was piecing together the rest of this nightmare. A double-crossed co-founder and a rogue client.
Thomas's scowl deepened, his hands clenching into fists. This wasn't just business. This was chaos, and he was caught in the middle of it.
But before he could follow that train of thought any further, the sound of boots on metal brought him back to the present.
The gunmen were getting closer.
Thomas turned to Harrison, his eyes blazing.
Thomas: Stay quiet. Follow my lead. And if you so much as breathe wrong, I'll let them have you.
Without waiting for a response, Thomas moved.
The muffled clatter of boots against the metal stairs echoed ominously, growing louder with every passing second. Thomas crouched low, his muscles coiled like a spring ready to snap. The moment the first man's head appeared above the railing, Thomas leapt into action.
He dropped from above with the precision of a predator, his weight crashing onto the lead gunman like a cannonball. The man let out a strangled cry as he crumpled under Thomas's assault. Before anyone else could react, Thomas seized the man's gun, spinning with fluid grace as the remaining group froze in shock.
These lot…
They're just businessmen at heart, aren't they? Not warriors.
But me?
Thomas's fighting style wasn't polished, not in the way of trained soldiers or martial artists. It was raw, unrefined, and animalistic—an extension of his instincts rather than learned technique. He didn't calculate his next moves; he didn't need to. His body acted faster than his brain could process.
He darted toward the second man, dodging wild gunfire as he shoved the unconscious body of the first into the line of fire. Shots ricocheted off the stairwell walls, the confined space amplifying the chaos. Thomas dropped low, sweeping the second man's legs from under him before driving the butt of the stolen gun into his chest.
More men rushed up from below, their faces obscured by masks but their panic palpable. They collided with each other in their desperation to reach him, their coordination faltering in the cramped stairwell.
He fired shots haphazardly, not aiming to kill but to disable. Knees buckled, arms went limp, and yells of pain echoed up and down the stairwell. Thomas reached for whatever he could find to keep up his assault.
His eyes landed on something peculiar amidst the chaos—a baseball bat, abandoned and oddly out of place. It didn't matter where it had come from. He swung wildly, the dull thuds of impact reverberating as the bat connected with bodies.
Thomas wasn't fighting with finesse or strategy; he was fighting to dominate. The businessmen-turned-gunmen could barely keep up, their lack of combat experience laid bare in the cramped, suffocating space.
Finally, Thomas allowed himself to breathe. He stood at the center of the carnage, his chest rising and falling heavily as he surveyed the damage. Unconscious bodies lay sprawled across the stairwell, some groaning faintly while others were completely still. Blood stained the walls and floor, but none of the men were dead.
But there was no time to rest. He picked up a fresh gun from one of the downed men. He found Stager crouched low near the wall, trembling like a leaf. The man had wisely avoided the conflict altogether, keeping his head down and out of the fray.
For a split second, Thomas felt a flicker of relief. Stager was alive, which meant the information he needed was still intact. But as he reached out to drag the man to his feet, something caught his attention—a faint sound, barely audible over his own breathing.
Thomas turned his head, his instincts screaming too late as he stared at the barrel of Cromley's gun. The businessman's face was a mask of rage, blood trickling down his cheek where Thomas's earlier bullet had grazed him. His finger rested firmly on the trigger, his eyes burning with fury.
Cromley: Well, well... aren't you full of surprises, child.
For the first time since the fight began, Thomas's smirk faltered.
Cromley's steps echoed against the stairwell walls as he moved toward Thomas, the gun in his hand raised with a deadly precision. The smirk etched across his bloodied face was maddening, and his every movement oozed overconfidence.
Thomas, for his part, didn't move immediately. His body was stiff, his mind racing to conjure a way out of this mess.
Thomas's gaze flicked down to Harrison, who sat trembling at his feet. His body acted before his brain caught up, and in one swift motion, Thomas grabbed the collar of Stager's suit and yanked him up like a human shield. Pressing his own pistol to Stager's temple, Thomas barked, his voice sharp and commanding despite the panic bubbling underneath.
Thomas: Stop! One more step, and I'll blow Stager's brains out of his skull!
Cromley froze mid-step, his expression shifting. He tilted his head, the gun in his hand still aimed squarely at Thomas.
Cromley: You think I care if that man dies?
For a moment, Thomas hesitated. The smugness in Cromley's tone was palpable, and Thomas could feel the sweat trickling down the back of his neck. But he didn't falter. If Cromley wanted a game of nerves, he'd give him one.
Thomas: You don't care, sure. But what about Obsidian? You think they're going to be thrilled when they find out you let their investment get his head blown off because you couldn't keep your trigger finger in check?
The mention of Obsidian hit its mark. Cromley's expression flickered—just for a second. His finger wavered slightly on the trigger as his mind worked to process the implications. Thomas caught it, his smirk returning as his confidence surged.
Obsidian's got you by the balls, doesn't it? So, sit down, shut up, and let me think for a sec—
Before he could finish the thought, Cromley moved. Faster than Thomas expected, the man raised his gun and fired.
The bullet tore through Thomas's hand, a sharp, searing pain that ripped through his nerves. He yelled in agony, his gun dropping to the ground as blood poured from the wound. The momentum of the bullet carried through, striking Stager in the shoulder behind him. Stager cried out, collapsing back against the wall as Thomas stumbled, clutching his mangled hand.
Cromley smiled, stepping forward with a victorious glint in his eye.
Cromley: See, that's the problem with you young folk. Your problem is bluffing. You're not very good at it. And that's why you lost.
He didn't waste time gloating. With one swift motion, Cromley raised his boot and delivered a brutal kick to Thomas's face, sending the boy sprawling onto the ground. Pain exploded across Thomas's skull, his vision swimming as he struggled to breathe.
Thomas tried to push himself up, his bloodied hand trembling as he propped himself against the cold, unforgiving ground. But Cromley was faster. The barrel of his gun was already pressed against Thomas's temple, cold and unyielding.
Bang, Bang, Bang!
Three deafening shots rang out in quick succession, reverberating through the stairwell like thunder. Cromley's body jerked violently, his smirk fading into a look of shock as he crumpled to the ground. Blood pooled beneath his lifeless head, his once-gleaming watch now dull under the dim stairwell light.
Thomas blinked, his mind struggling to catch up. He turned his head slowly, wincing from the pain, to see Harrison Stager standing shakily a few feet away. The man's hands trembled as he held Thomas's fallen pistol, his chest heaving with shallow breaths.
Thomas: Stager...?
Harrison's face was pale, his eyes wide and unblinking as he stared at Cromley's lifeless body. His grip on the gun loosened, and it clattered to the ground with a metallic clang.
Thomas collapsed on the cold concrete stairs, his chest heaving, his bloodied hands trembling as he pressed them to his face. His body screamed for rest, but the pounding of his heart wouldn't let him stop. He wiped at his nose, smearing blood across his face and sleeve, then let out a shaky breath. His shoulders slumped, and for a moment, he just let himself collapse further.
The smell of blood and sweat clung to the stale air. Everything felt heavy—the silence, the fatigue, the weight of too many unanswered questions. Thomas let his head hang, his messy hair falling over his eyes as he stared at the ground beneath him.
Too many. Too many bodies on the floor. Too many dead eyes staring back. Too many damn pieces, none of them fitting together. What's the point of all this?
Beside him, Harrison Stager sank to the steps as well, clutching his shoulder where Cromley's bullet had struck. The man hadn't said a word since he pulled the trigger earlier, and his face was twisted into an expression Thomas couldn't quite place—disgust, regret, anger, or maybe all three at once. His chest rose and fell with labored breaths, but he made no move to wipe the sweat pouring down his pale face.
Thomas glanced at Stager out of the corner of his eye. The man was practically steaming now, his body heat radiating unnaturally in the cool stairwell.
What's running through his head? Maybe he's not thinking at all.
Whatever it is, it's too damn late for guilt trips now.
Thomas forced himself to move, dragging his exhausted body upright. His legs wobbled, but he stayed standing, determined not to let the weight of his fatigue crush him. He reached down, grabbing Stager by the collar and pulling him to his feet. The man staggered, leaning heavily against the wall, but Thomas didn't let him rest for long.
They stumbled their way up to the rooftop. Thomas couldn't stop the flood of thoughts racing through his mind.
The stairwell's heavy metal door creaked open with a groan, and the cold rooftop air slammed into Thomas like a wave. His lungs welcomed it, despite the sting it left against the ache of his ribs. Dragging Harrison Stager up the last step, Thomas nearly collapsed, his knees buckling as he stumbled forward.
Thomas dropped Stager onto the ground near a rusted pipe, letting the man slump against it like a discarded bag of laundry. For a moment, all was quiet except for the distant hum of the city below and their labored breathing.
And then it hit.
The explosion tore through the night, shattering the stillness with a deafening roar. A brilliant array of dust and concrete erupted in the distance, painting the dark skyline. The ground beneath them seemed to tremble, the vibrations reverberating up through the rooftop and rattling the worn metal fixtures around them.
Thomas staggered, one hand instinctively grabbing a nearby vent for balance. His eyes snapped to the source of the explosion, wide and searching, heart thundering against his ribs.
Claire? No she's downstairs in the lobby. No, it's gotta be Grace and Kazuki. Right? But that doesn't add up either.
Thomas: If Obsidian's so desperate to get their hands on you…
Then why the hell would they send Astral users to guard you in the first place? Why hire them, only to turn around and pull a stunt like this?
Thomas exhaled sharply, pacing a short line on the rooftop as the question hung in the air. His tone shifted, frustration seeping into his words as he continued, addressing no one in particular.
Thomas: It's like they're playing both sides of the board. One moment, they're your loyal protectors, throwing Grace and Kazuki into the mix like they're here to keep you alive. The next, they're tearing apart your building with Cromley and his crew. What's the game here?
Stager's eyes flickered up to meet Thomas's for a fleeting second before darting away, his lips pressed into a thin line.
Thomas: This whole situation—it's a puzzle with half the pieces missing. And every time I think I've got a handle on it, something else gets thrown into the mix.
He wanted to scream. He wanted to punch something, to tear apart the mess of confusion swirling in his head.
He wanted to go home.
Thomas clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as a bitter laugh escaped his throat. What an idiot he was. No, not just an idiot—a damn fool.
He had truly believed, hadn't he? Believed he could be the one. The one to save everyone. The one to walk through fire and ash and somehow emerge unscathed, dragging everyone else to safety without a single sacrifice.
He had failed.
Margarett was dead because of him. That innocent woman—dragged into a nightmare because he had chosen to meddle.
Cromley was dead, too. Thomas replayed the moment over and over in his head—the sound of the gunshots, the look on Cromley's face as his body hit the ground. That man hadn't been a saint, far from it, but his death… it was unnecessary. Pointless.
He closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe.
Thomas pressed the heel of his palm into his forehead, grinding it against his temple as if sheer pressure could force clarity into his spinning thoughts. He let out a heavy, frustrated sigh.
If only I were a little brighter, I could probably figure this whole thing out in one go huh. What a disaster.
He glanced back at Stager, who still hadn't moved or spoken. The man was a broken puzzle piece himself, but Thomas knew one thing for sure—he needed him alive. Stager was his key to Obsidian, to Mason.
With Stager's help, the path ahead seemed clear enough—or at least as clear as things ever got in a tangled mess like this. If anyone held the answers to finding Mason, it was the man slumped against the rooftop access door.
Stager had knowledge, connections, and—whether he wanted to admit it or not—a heavy hand in the chaos around them. It was a simple enough plan: extract the information, regroup with Claire, and get the hell out of here.
But still...
Thomas' gaze drifted back toward the horizon, where a faint column of smoke rose in the distance, marking the site of the explosion. His fists clenched at his sides as a pang of guilt shot through him.
Grace and Kazuki.
Those two were still out there, still fighting, still holding the line for reasons Thomas couldn't begin to understand.
It wasn't right.
How exhasting.
Thomas groaned. Every muscle in his body protested, but he ignored the pain. Turning back to Stager, he managed a crooked grin, his voice light despite the weight in his chest.
Thomas: Be good and sit tight, yeah? And when I get back, I want all the juicy details.
Stager blinked, looking up at him with confusion etched across his face.
Stager: Where are you going? Hey! Who are you? What the hell are you even doing all this for?
Thomas paused, scratching the back of his head as if the question were too much effort to answer. Then, with a shrug and a small, tired smile, he replied.
Thomas: Hell if I know.
Before Stager could argue, Thomas turned and sprinted toward the edge of the rooftop. Without hesitation, he leapt, his feet finding purchase on the next building as he slid down a ladder and kicked off toward the explosion.