The sunlight bled stubbornly through the curtains, strips of gold breaking the darkness in uneven patches. Dust hung in the air, drifting slow and careless, catching in the light like tiny sparks. On the bed, a young man sprawled across the sheets, his sharp features slack with the kind of sleep he rarely allowed himself. For once, he looked at peace.
Then the phone went off—shrill, insistent, almost cutting the room in half.
Cahll groaned into the pillow. His arm fumbled across the nightstand until his hand smacked against cold glass. The phone slipped once, nearly fell, before his fingers managed to lock around it.
"Dammit, Cal! Are you seriously joking around right now?"
The voice on the line came ragged, uneven. Ralph. The man could've been carved from worry itself.
Cahll cracked one eye open, lips curling into something between a smirk and a grimace. "What? I don't even get a choice now? If I quit, I quit." His voice was low, still rough from sleep, but the edge was unmistakable.
"Quit?" Ralph's voice jumped an octave, caught somewhere between fear and fury. "You think the Association just lets people walk away? You think they'll pat you on the back and wave goodbye?"
Cahll pushed himself upright. The mattress groaned under his weight. His eyes wandered across the room—bare walls, empty shelves, not a damn thing that felt like it belonged to him. Fitting. His mouth twisted, but he didn't bother answering right away.
The silence dragged.
His fingers kneaded at his temple, chasing off the dull throb of a headache that hadn't fully formed yet. Years of training sharpened his mind faster than his body woke. Even half-asleep, the instincts were there, whispering the truth that a single hesitant thought could kill.
"Ralph," he said finally, his tone steady, deliberate. "I know the Association better than anyone. Their clean truths, their dirty lies—I've seen it all. Doesn't matter if I walk now or later. They'll come for me either way. That's the game."
The line went quiet except for Ralph's breathing, hitched and uneven.
"That—"
"I know what I'm doing," Cahll cut him off. The words came out firm, though underneath, bone-deep weariness leaked through as he sighed.
He could almost see Ralph pacing his apartment, running a hand through his hair like he always did when he didn't know what else to do. The image almost made him laugh. Just Almost.
A long breath sighed down the line, heavy with surrender. "Hah. I can't stop you, can I? Same as always. Stubborn bastard. Fine. Just… watch your back, alright?"
Click.
The call ended, leaving only the hum of silence. Cahll lowered the phone and stared at the black screen. It reflected nothing useful back. His jaw tightened, lips pressing into a hard line.
His work had never interested him. Killing, running, surviving—it wasn't living. But orphans didn't get choices. You took what you could, or you starved. And Cahll had been very good at not starving.
Michael had made sure of that.
The Founder of the Association—Michael's shadow stretched across the city like a net. He had dragged Cahll out of the gutters, fed him, housed him, sharpened him until he was nothing but blade. In exchange, Cahll had given him loyalty, obedience, blood.
Everything but love.
Michael had saved him, yes. And now Michael would be the one to kill him.
A raw laugh clawed out of Cahll's throat. It sounded more like a cough than amusement. He pushed himself up, feet sinking into the cold boards of the floor. His steps carried no sound. They never did.
He yanked the curtains open. Sunlight burst into the room, harsh and uninvited, drawing lines across the scars on his face. The warmth should've felt like something. Instead, it burned against the emptiness.
The longer he lived under Michael's hand, the more he wanted the one thing the man never gave him. A father's embrace. A home. Love without strings. That hunger, that stupid yearning—he had never managed to kill it.
Pathetic.
The word rang in his head as he stared down at the city. Horns blared in the distance. A child laughed faintly below. Life kept moving, untouched by the knowledge that a ghost was watching from above.
And then—
Crack!
The window blew inward, exploding into glittering shards. The bullet tore past faster than thought, the sound punching through the room, ringing in his ears like a slammed bell.
Cahll's body reacted before his mind. He dropped, glass slicing across his skin in thin, stinging lines. His heart stayed steady—trained calm, razor focus.
But instinct didn't save him this time.
Thud.
Heat flared in his chest, sharp and consuming. He froze, stunned, until he felt the wetness spreading, heavy and warm under his palm. Blood. His own. His breath stuttered, catching shallow in his throat. The phone slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor, useless.
His knees gave. He pressed a hand to the wound, trying to hold the life in, but it slid through anyway, slick and unstoppable.
"Tch." The sound came out like a broken laugh.
So this was it. No mission. No glory. Just an empty room, shattered glass, and a bullet with his name on it.
A shard of glass winked up at him from the floor. In the fractured surface, a pale, dying reflection stared back.
Figures. No matter how fast you run, the past always finds its way home.
The world blurred at the edges. The city tilted outside the broken frame of the window, streaks of light bending as his vision swam.
If I had another chance… if I could go back…
His chest rose once more, shaky and thin.
…I'd still reach for your hand, Dad.
Even if it dragged me to hell.
And with that thought, darkness came fast, and it took everything.