"How did he die?"
When the killers regained their senses, their first instinct wasn't to check themselves. Instead, their eyes darted toward their fallen companion. Shock filled their expressions. None of them could comprehend how one of their own had died—much less in such a pitiful way.
His throat had been slit cleanly, crimson soaking the floor beneath him.
"Killed by him."
Arakawa Zenkichi's voice broke the silence. He gestured casually at the corpse. "Your comrade made that choice himself."
He hadn't lifted a hand, yet the truth was undeniable. The dead man had turned the blade on himself.
The other killers stared at the third man—the one who had acted. Disbelief filled their eyes. They had trained together, lived together, fought together. And yet, in this moment, he had shown no hesitation in cutting down his own ally.
"These things can't be allowed to spread."
The third killer's voice was steady, his expression unreadable. But as his gaze shifted back to Zenkichi, a flicker of grim resolve passed over his face. Before anyone could react, he tore open his clothes, revealing the deadly truth strapped to his chest.
An explosive pack—its timer already ticking down.
Three seconds remained.
"You'll all be buried with me!"
Madness glinted in his eyes. It hadn't been his plan. The weapon's destructive power was too great; the blast radius could devastate an entire block, killing hundreds. In his own twisted way, he had considered himself a man of restraint. But now, with his betrayal revealed and his comrades staring at him with hatred, he saw only one path left.
If his hands were already stained with blood, then why not drag everyone else into death with him?
The device detonated.
A deafening roar tore through the air as the explosion consumed the space. Fire and shockwaves ripped outward, shredding stone and steel alike. In an instant, the assassins were obliterated, their bodies scattered to ash.
Silence followed. Smoke and embers drifted across what had once been a battlefield.
When the haze cleared, only Zenkichi stood untouched, his figure steady amidst the wreckage. SHIELD agents and the Avengers, who had taken cover, looked around in stunned disbelief.
"As if I wouldn't notice," Zenkichi muttered, brushing dust from his shoulder.
He had admired the man's willpower a moment ago—someone who dared face their deepest fear and still make choices. But in the end, resorting to a suicidal explosion? Pathetic. As if something so crude could touch him.
"Alright," Zenkichi said, glancing over the bystanders. "Go home. This show is over. No reason to waste your sleep over this."
The crowd of agents and heroes exchanged uneasy looks. They had seen him control darkness, crush killers with fear, and now stand unscathed in the heart of an explosion that could have leveled a city block. Not a scratch on him.
"Ahem…" Tony Stark broke the silence. "Do you know who sent them?"
His curiosity got the better of him. Zenkichi clearly had an idea—otherwise he wouldn't have stayed here waiting.
"Who else would it be?" Zenkichi replied flatly, his eyes flicking to Stark.
"The military?" Stark's expression darkened. He narrowed his eyes, his mind racing back to his own unpleasant history with certain generals. "Yeah… that's exactly their style."
The room fell quiet again, heavy with unspoken thoughts.
Stark glanced at Zenkichi, tilting his head. "So… what's your plan?"
He didn't need to say more. Everyone present understood the weight behind the question. Their gazes turned to Zenkichi, waiting for his answer.
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