Each step echoed in the dead streets — ghostly alleys of collapsed towers and rusted signs buried in time. Nothing stirred. Nothing breathed.
Just him, and a silence so thick it felt staged.
He stopped.
Not out of fear. Not even caution.
Just instinct — the kind you don't explain, the kind that coils up your spine and whispers: something's off.
He didn't turn around.
Didn't need to.
The presence was too clean. Too rehearsed. Not a thief. Not a scout — something trained. This was precision — like the silence had been waiting for him to pause.
His eyes flicked to a shard of twisted metal buried in the rubble ahead — just enough reflection to catch two shadows behind him.
Matching cloaks. Faces veiled in blur and shadow. But it was the mark stitched low on the fabric, barely visible, that froze the breath in his chest.
Subtle. Intentional. A message, not a mistake.
He exhaled — slow. Controlled.
'… So he finally moveda piece.'
No surprise. No anger. Just a dead-flat murmur. Like a man who'd already guessed the ending, and only needed the proof.
He rolled his sleeve once.
Enough.
Didn't flinch. Didn't speak.
Just stepped forward — a half pace, silent and sharp — giving them the opening.
And they took it.
[CUT TO BLACK]
Some things should have stayed buried…
Now it's too late.