Waking up to uncertainty was nothing new for Ace, but this time, he hadn't even been asleep.
The thrill of the previous night still clung to him, the joy of killing someone refusing to leave his mind—or rather, his body. He could still feel the residual energy coursing through him, not as wild as when he struck the fatal blow, but present nonetheless.
The morning sun filtered into his room, a quiet reminder that he had a role to play. He felt stronger than ever, and within six minutes, he was up, dressed, and ready to go—something that would have taken an elite athlete at least twenty-five minutes at peak efficiency.
As he moved through the streets on his usual monotonous routine, something felt... different. No, not him—the world around him. The way people looked at him, the way they instinctively avoided his path, the way they shrank back as if something monstrous loomed behind him. It was as if an invisible force was latched onto his back, radiating a fear so profound that even the air itself seemed to recoil. And he liked it. The thought of standing above humans, of being something superior, consumed his mind.
When he arrived at his usual café, the scene was anything but ordinary. A commotion stirred the air—reporters, police officers, and his boss were gathered outside, their eyes darting toward him the moment he stepped in. Several squad cars were parked haphazardly near the entrance, flashing red and blue against the morning sun.
"Well, I guess I couldn't stay hidden forever," he muttered to himself, already knowing exactly why they were here.
The police had found footage. The previous night's events had been captured, and after a quick investigation, they had traced the killer to a single location: his home. And from there, to his workplace.
As he walked inside, all eyes turned to him, but only one face stood out—Pisce. She ran toward him, tears brimming in her eyes, only to be stopped by a cop who blocked her path.
"Careful. He might be armed—or he is the weapon himself," the officer warned.
Pisce hesitated, expecting Ace to defend himself, to say something—anything. But he merely stood there, unfazed. He was more confused by why she even cared than by the fact that he was surrounded by armed officers. That thought vanished as countless red laser dots appeared across his chest.
"Ace Yuri, you are charged with murder," an officer declared. Unlike the rest, he wasn't holding a gun. Instead, he produced a pair of handcuffs, stepping forward cautiously. "It would be in your best interest to come with us quietly. No need for things to get messy."
Another officer chimed in, "We just need to ask some questions. If this is a misunderstanding, we'll find out soon enough. Cooperate, and you'll walk away with a lighter sentence."
Ace remained calm. He could tell—these men, their weapons, their supposed authority—none of them could actually do anything to hurt him. Still, he decided to play along, at least for now. He wanted to understand what was happening to him, and perhaps this would lead to some answers.
The police were visibly shocked when he simply lifted his hands in compliance. But no one was more surprised than Pisce. Her mind raced with questions. Why isn't he resisting? Why is he so calm? What really happened last night?
Before she could process it all, Ace turned to her, his voice cutting through the tension. "Pisce, don't worry too much. I'll be fine. Just take care of yourself, alright? I don't know why you care this much, but… thanks."
With that, the officers led him outside, their formation tight around him, as if expecting him to snap at any moment. They shoved him into the back of a police car, and soon, they were on their way to the station.
The ride was tense, filled with hushed conversations between the cops about the shocking ease of the arrest. But before they could dwell on it, a distant commotion caught their attention—people screaming, a disturbance unfolding not far from them.
The officers hesitated, debating whether to check it out or deliver their suspect first. Their decision never came.
A thunderous impact slammed into the side of the car, lifting it off the ground before hurling it against a nearby building.
Metal shrieked as the wreck twisted upon impact. Smoke and shattered glass filled the air. Then, from within the wreckage, Ace emerged.
Slowly. Deliberately.
His casual hoodie and jeans were torn, dusted with debris. His white undershirt bore streaks of blood—none of it his. A sleeve hung loose, barely clinging to his shoulder, exposing lean, scarred muscle. His hair was disheveled, half-hiding his face, but his eyes burned—wild, sharp, and untamed.
His fingers flexed. Knuckles cracked. He took a slow breath and then grinned.
Through the smoke, a figure stepped forward. The attacker was almost comical—dressed in a sleek black suit with a full-mask helmet. Yet, his presence felt eerily familiar. The way he moved, the way his body was built—it was like looking into a warped reflection of himself.
Before Ace could speak, the masked figure vanished.
A sharp blow struck the side of his neck, aimed precisely at his carotid artery. But something felt off—as if time had skipped. Ace had already moved, dodging the attack in a way that defied logic.
"Huh?" The masked figure cocked his head. "I swear that landed. Are we underestimating you? No matter." His voice carried an unsettling amusement. "I'll have you unconscious in thirty seconds."
The moment he spoke, he moved.
His speed was overwhelming—impossibly fast, a blur of black and white. Ace struggled to keep up, barely processing the incoming strikes. But there was something else to the movement—it had grace, precision. Every attack felt like a well-rehearsed dance.
Ace barely managed to dodge and deflect some blows, but the suited man only seemed to be enjoying himself more. Then—
A solid hit landed at the back of Ace's neck.
Darkness swallowed his vision. His body wavered. The world blurred as consciousness slipped from his grasp.
The last thing he heard was the masked man's voice, tinged with excitement.
"There are more of us."