Deathstalker paced back and forth, weary and restless. His fingers tightened around his phone as he checked it repeatedly. Finally, a short vibration signaled a new message. He opened it instantly.
"It's clear. You can come in now."
Letting out a breath of relief, he moved toward the edge of the rooftop. From here, he overlooked the hospital garden below. Normally, patients would be out there, enjoying the fresh air or basking in the sun. But at this hour—past 9 PM—it was completely deserted.
Securing an iron hook to the railing, he tossed a rope over the side and began his descent. The rough red brick exterior made it easier for him to find footing, each crevice acting as a natural grip.
Swift but cautious, he maneuvered down the side of the building, heading for a specific window on the second floor—third from the corner. It was already open. With a small jump, he slipped inside.
The first thing he saw was his father, fast asleep on the couch.
Or rather, put to sleep.
The man's coffee had been laced with a mild sedative—courtesy of his beloved future daughter-in-law, Viper. She had already left after unlocking the window and sending him the message. She knew he needed privacy for this.
Deathstalker's gaze softened as he looked at the man he had always called father. He hadn't wanted to do this, but his father never left his mother's side since she had been hospitalized. There was no other way to see her without revealing the truth—their carefully constructed lie.
Since choosing to follow his mother's path and join her soldiers instead of the army, they had orchestrated a plan to fool his father. His name had been officially registered in the army, but a low-ranking subordinate had taken his place. That soldier was now fighting in a war in Country I. As far as the world knew, Quint Rauss was stationed overseas.
He had no business being here.
Deathstalker turned his focus to the hospital bed at the center of the room. His chest tightened at the sight.
His mother lay there, her face pale, her expression twisted in pain even in sleep. Bandages covered her arms, and her right leg was elevated a foot off the bed.
She had been in a car accident this morning.
Her driver hadn't survived. She had been found unconscious, suffering from multiple broken bones. The car had been crushed by a trailer, dragged for dozens of feet. The truck driver never stopped.
This wasn't just an accident.
Deathstalker moved closer, his fingers gently resting over the back of her hand—the only part of her body that wasn't covered in bandages. He stroked it softly, his touch light but full of unspoken words.
This was the only woman he had ever called mother. She wasn't gentle, nor was she nurturing in the traditional sense. She loved him through discipline, through hard lessons. And he had never resented her for it.
He was grateful for everything she had given him. For bringing him to this country. For making him her son. For their broken, yet seemingly perfect, family.
A soft, pained sigh escaped her lips. Her eyelids fluttered.
"Hey, Mom," he whispered, forcing a small smile as she slowly opened her eyes.
"Quint…" her voice was barely above a breath. She struggled to move her hand, reaching for his.
"How are you feeling, Mom?" he asked, taking her hand before she had to strain herself.
Her grip was weak, but her voice carried something stronger—fear.
"She… she tried to kill me," she whispered, her eyes filled with terror.
"She?" Deathstalker's blood ran cold. "Who?"
"Mila."
"That's impossible!" he hissed, his body tensing. "You're hallucinating."
"My phone…" she gasped, attempting to sit up, only to fail. "My phone…" she pleaded weakly.
Deathstalker straightened, his sharp gaze scanning the bedside table. Spotting it, he grabbed her phone and unlocked it.
"Messages…" his mother whispered.
Opening her message folder, his eyes instantly locked onto a familiar name. Mila.
He clicked on the conversation.
Mila: I will destroy you, Mom.
Madam: You can only try. That doesn't mean you will succeed.
Mila: Just wait and see. Meanwhile, be careful while you're out there.
Madam: Is that a threat?
Mila: It's a warning, dearly Mommy.
Deathstalker clenched his jaw. "This doesn't prove anything," he muttered, shaking his head.
"She called me…" His mother's breath hitched. "Right before the accident…"
His hands moved quickly as he checked the call log.
Mila—5:29 AM.
His mother's last call.
"She said… goodbye," Madam Joana whispered, a single tear slipping from her swollen eye.
-
The night was dark and heavy, the air thick with the weight of falling snow. Ice coated the ground in a treacherous sheen, turning every surface slick and unforgiving. Inside a dimly lit bar, two men sat hunched over their drinks, cigarettes burning between their fingers, the glow of embers the only warmth in the cold, stale air.
The bell above the door jingled. Both men instinctively turned their heads toward the entrance.
A lone figure stepped inside.
"Hey, man… we're closed," the bartender called out, his tone impatient.
The newcomer didn't respond. Didn't even acknowledge him. Instead, he took another step forward.
The man sitting on the barstool pushed himself up, glaring at the intruder. "Are you an idiot or something? Can't you read the damn sign on the—"
His words never finished.
The guest—who had been standing more than ten steps away just a second ago—was suddenly right in front of him. In one fluid motion, a hand shot out, fingers gripping his head, and with a sharp twist—
CRACK.
The man's body crumpled to the floor.
The bartender barely had time to react. His hand darted beneath the counter, gripping the cold steel of his hidden gun. In a blur, he yanked it out, cocking the hammer with a shaky breath.
"Who the hell are you?!" he barked, pointing the barrel directly at the stranger's chest.
The intruder tilted his head slightly, as if amused. "I want to meet your boss."
The bartender swallowed. "I am the boss."
But before he could finish the sentence, his gun was ripped from his grip, soaring through the air as if it had a mind of its own. The stranger caught it effortlessly, turning the barrel on him instead.
"Mila Rauss," the intruder said, his voice smooth and controlled. "Tell her her brother is visiting."
The bartender's face drained of color. His trembling hand reached for a hidden phone inside a drawer. He pressed a quick dial, his voice hoarse.
"Miss… we got an intruder. Says he's your brother."
He hung up. A second later, his gaze flickered back to the man standing before him.
"S-she said you can come in," he stammered.
Deathstalker's lips curled into a smirk. "Show me the way."
The bartender hesitated but raised both hands in surrender, stepping out from behind the bar. He led Deathstalker deeper into the room, stopping at a framed painting on the wall. With a shaking hand, he shifted the artwork aside, revealing a hidden button.
A soft click. The wall in front of them split apart, morphing into an elevator door.
"S-she's in the basement," the bartender stuttered.
Deathstalker stepped inside. Two buttons greeted him—Up and Down. Without hesitation, he pressed Down.
As the doors began to slide shut, the bartender made his move. His hand slammed against a concealed panel on the wall, triggering an alarm.
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
Deathstalker barely blinked. In a single motion, he raised the stolen gun and pulled the trigger.
A bullet tore through the bartender's chest just as the elevator doors sealed shut.
A soft ding echoed as the elevator reached the basement.
The moment the doors slid open, gunfire erupted from the other side.
Six men stood in formation, unloading their clips into the elevator. The confined space should have turned into a deathtrap. But the bullets never reached their target.
They froze. Midair. Inches from Deathstalker's body.
The men hesitated, their expressions morphing from aggression to sheer disbelief.
Deathstalker smirked. His hand twitched slightly, and the suspended bullets slowly began to turn—rotating 180 degrees, the tips now aimed at their original shooters.
With a flick of his wrist, the bullets shot forward at the same deadly speed.
Screams filled the air.
Blood splattered across the walls as the six men dropped, their bodies collapsing one by one.
Stepping over the corpses, Deathstalker moved forward with careful precision, his boots avoiding the pooling blood beneath him. He reached a three-way junction and, without hesitation, turned right.
The second he stepped into the next corridor, a door behind him burst open.
More men. More guns.
Deathstalker didn't slow. Without turning, he raised his gun and fired over his shoulder. The hallway filled with agonized cries as more bodies hit the floor.
Doors on both sides of the corridor flew open. Gunfire roared in the narrow space as another wave of enemies rushed in.
Deathstalker ran up the wall, defying gravity, his boots kicking off the cold concrete as he fired from above.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
His shots were precise—head, chest, throat. By the time he landed back on the ground, the corridor was littered with corpses.
Reaching the final door, he gripped the knob. The second it opened, a dozen guns locked onto him.
"Don't move, or we'll shoot!" one of the men barked.
"Quint!"
A female voice—sharp with both shock and recognition.
Mila.
"NO!" she commanded, stepping forward. "Lower your weapons. Now!"
"No," Deathstalker countered, his voice dripping with amusement. "Keep them up. Give me a reason to kill you all."
The hesitation in the air was palpable.
And then—he took a step forward.
The soldiers reacted instinctively.
A chorus of gunfire exploded in the room.
Mila screamed, covering her face, unable to watch her brother be torn apart.
But the screams that followed weren't his.
Lowering her hands, she saw her men writhing in agony, some already lying still in pools of their own blood.
And standing in the center of the carnage—untouched—was Quint.
Before she could fully process what had happened, he was suddenly in front of her.
His hand clamped around her throat.
"Quint!" Mila gasped, her emotions torn between relief and disbelief. But before she could utter another word, he shoved her back.
Her body slammed against the wall. Hard.
"So," she breathed, a smirk ghosting her lips despite the pain. "She finally sent you."
His grip on her throat tightened.
"She knows you're my weakness—"
CRACK.
Mila choked as his fingers pressed harder into her windpipe.
"Are you going to kill me, bro?" she wheezed.
"You leave me no choice, sis," Deathstalker replied, his tone devoid of warmth. He could hear footsteps—reinforcements coming. Without looking away from her, he flicked his wrist. The door behind them slammed shut, locking itself. Another wave of his hand, and nearby furniture scraped against the floor, stacking against the door as a barricade.
"You tried to kill Mom," he hissed, tightening his hold.
"I… I didn't!" Mila gasped, her voice breaking. "I never—"
"LIAR!"
"I'M NOT LYING!" Mila coughed violently. "Quint—please—I never planned to hurt her!"
"Bullshit. You threatened her!"
"Her organization, not her!"
"You called her right before the accident!"
Mila's eyes fluttered as she struggled to think. "Because she called me the night before. I was already asleep! I called her back when I saw her missed calls!"
"I. Don't. Believe. You!" Deathstalker growled, his fingers leaving deep red marks on her skin.
"Quint… please," Mila gasped, her vision dimming. "You said you'd protect me, remember…?"
"Stop bending my mind!"
"I'm not—"
"I will kill you!"
"Quint… I'm your sister…"
"You want to kill our mother!"
"I never lied to you!"
"But you bent my mind!"
"NO!"
"DAMN IT!" Deathstalker roared.
"If I could bend you, you never would've needed brain surgery after what happened when you were five!" Mila screamed in desperation.
He froze.
Mila's hands trembled as she cupped his face. "I can't bend you, Quint…I can't even read your mind... and... and I didn't try to kill Mom…"
Deathstalker stared into her eyes.
And then, with a swift motion, he pulled her close—
And kissed her.