The daylight gave way to dusk as Atlas walked through his garden. His gaze fell upon a single kiku, a chrysanthemum, its bud poised to break its shell and bloom with quiet anticipation.
From the side, a figure appeared.
"I thought after retirement you would finally settle down, old friend."
Atlas smiled faintly.
"Look who is talking about retirement and settling down. I suppose age has finally started to play tricks on your mind."
He raised a hand, stopping the man's reply.
"Come inside," Atlas said, gesturing toward the house.
They entered together. The room smelled faintly of cedar and old paper. The visitor looked around, his eyes tracing the wooden shelves and dimly lit portraits that hung upon the wall.
"I have to admit," he said, "you did well with this place."
Atlas went to a shelf, pulled out an old bottle of wine, and placed two glasses on the table.
"Cut to the chase," he said evenly. "You did not come all the way down here just to visit."
He poured the wine and slid a glass across the table. The man took it carefully, lifting it to his nose with a nostalgic smile.
"I never thought you would save this bottle for so long, Atlas. The aroma reminds me of that day, the day when Kaito became Atlas."
Atlas froze for a moment, his eyes sharpening.
"What do you want?"
The man's tone turned serious.
"We have started a new project. I named it Black Box."
Atlas's gaze darkened. The name stirred old memories. It had once been a dream whispered in the laboratories of the old world, a project to create the next generation of super soldiers, faster, stronger, and more adaptable than ever before. It was meant to correct the fatal flaws of the earlier cyborg units, those mechanical shells that had strength but no will, speed but no soul. Black Box sought to give them what the old ones lacked: consciousness, emotion, control.
He looked up slowly.
"What does that have to do with me?"
The man met his gaze.
"Nothing in particular. Our test subjects are not surviving. We need young blood, fresh minds, something our generation once had. And we can shape them into whatever we want."
Atlas's expression hardened as he looked out the window.
"So you want to shape young minds before they even understand what they are stepping into. Sounds efficient. But what makes you think they will not turn against you, against the organization, like the first generation of super soldiers did? That is why we stripped the cyborgs of free will in the first place."
His words hung heavy in the silence.
After the New Order was established, some of the first generation super soldiers rose against their masters, seeking power for themselves. Before the rebellion could spread, the Echelons deployed cyborgs to crush the uprising. The battle was fierce and merciless, and the one who led the cyborgs was Atlas. That day, the world learned to fear his name.
Though the war had ended, only a handful of those soldiers remained—relics of a past no one dared to speak of.
Z leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting to the ceiling as memories passed through his mind. He drew a slow breath, then stepped toward the table.
"Yes, the battle. I remember it well. Soldiers screamed your name. Whispers in the streets said your veins were made of steel. The glory you had was unlike any other."
He paused, his tone darkening.
"Now you see why I came straight to you. The Triads have made their decision. They want more men, men who will follow orders like good dogs. And it is always easier to tame a good dog when it is still a vulnerable puppy."
Atlas listened silently, sipping his wine.
"So how large is this program?"
Z laughed softly.
"Across the three nations. They have built hidden facilities and placed three leaders in charge of them."
Atlas met his gaze.
"Let me guess, you are the one representing Nyxara."
Z smiled.
"That's right. You have until the end of this month to declare the name. And make sure you include the kid from Inferno the one who beat up those three brats. He seems like a worthy candidate. After all, you went to great lengths to threaten the Watchers and even take one down. Till next time."
Z walked out the door. Atlas rose and followed him to the entrance as a Vcraft descended from the sky. Its polished surface reflected the dim evening light, and the emblem on its side bore a serpent coiled around a blade, glinting faintly in the shadows.
Atlas watched in silence. So much had changed since he left. He and Z had once fought side by side through ten years of war and oppression. When it was finally over, Atlas chose to walk away to live a quiet life, far from commands and bloodshed.
Only then did he begin to understand how deeply the loneliness had set in. Yet even now, his faith and loyalty to the Triads remained unbroken.