Wen's eyes fluttered open, heavy and unwilling, as if they were lifting lead weights. For a moment, his vision was a chaotic, muddy swirl, a miserable watercolor painting. But as his consciousness dragged itself back from the abyss of sleep, the single, stark detail of his environment snapped into painful focus: a massive, dark void punctuated only by the relentless, hypnotic blinking of a screen directly in front of him.
He was seated on a hard, unforgiving wooden chair, his posture unnaturally stiff. The air was cold, damp, and tasted vaguely of ozone and stale concrete—the kind of environment that spoke of imprisonment, or perhaps, a very elaborate, very cruel prank.
Where am I?
His mind, sharpened by years spent atop the cutthroat hierarchy of the underworld, immediately began its frantic diagnostic scan. This couldn't be a simple arrest; the setup was too theatrical. This felt like a stage. Another ordeal? Or perhaps a twisted form of punishment orchestrated by one of his few surviving 'friends'—a grim reminder of the bloody path he had taken.
Wen. The title echoed in the hollow chambers of his skull, tasting like ash. He had been The Lord, the apex predator, the one who had shattered countless lives and left a trail of ruined careers and bodies to claim his throne. Now, finally released from the suffocating isolation of the State Penitentiary, was he meant to face the retribution for every single sin? The thought made his jaw clench, not in fear, but in weary resignation. He felt no desire to fight this inevitable karma.
The television screen, a bulky, older model, finally settled its frantic blinking. The static dissolved, replaced by a single, high-definition image. Wen's breath hitched, trapping the cold air in his chest.
It was Wang.
The face staring back at him was his own, separated only by the genetic lottery of identical twins—the slight difference in the cut of the hair, the intensity in the eyes. But Wang was dead. He had to be. Wen had lived with the agonizing, unbearable certainty of that fact for years, the memory of his brother's final, selfless act carving a permanent, bloody scar across his conscience. How could he be seeing him now, broadcasting like a late-night talk show host from some unknown, sterile location?
Wen's eyebrows arched so sharply they threatened to disappear into his hairline. His mind, which had always processed complex threats with terrifying speed, now stuttered and failed. A hallucination? Post-prison psychological trauma?
"I'm not dead, Wen," the figure on the screen, Wang, said, his voice calm, clear, and maddeningly familiar. The simple affirmation was enough to make Wen's entire reality tilt on its axis. "I would only come at the right time."
Wang's lips curved into a sad, knowing smile. "You remember how I died, right?"
The question acted like a physical blow, pulling the fragile threads of Wen's memory taut until they threatened to snap. The present room—the dark, the cold, the TV—vanished. Wen was suddenly back in the stench-filled concrete basement of Mr. Macroll, the former Gangster King he had sought to overthrow
Wen was tied, utterly helpless, to a rusted metal chair. The ropes bit into his wrists and ankles, a mere formality against the psychological torture Macroll intended.
Macroll himself—a mountain of a man, tall and husky, impeccably dressed in a custom-tailored suit despite the grim location, his Spanish hat casting his cruel eyes into perpetual shadow—moved with the lethal grace of a coiled viper.
"You want to tell me, Wen, that you didn't want to kill me?" Macroll's voice was a low, dangerous rumble, laced with an unnerving politeness. He prowled the perimeter of the chair, his face folded into an expression of grim determination, ready to execute anyone who dared to interrupt his personal brand of justice.
"You said you never had that in mind, right?" Macroll prodded again, fishing for a reaction.
Wen remained silent, his gaze distant. His focus wasn't on the man standing over him, but on the phantom of Mike. Mike, his trusted lieutenant. Mike, who had taken the payoff, accepted the blood money, and sold Wen out for a fraction of the power they could have had together. Wen had lost the top spot, but he had still trusted Mike to help him rebuild. Now, he was here because Mike had chosen cash over camaraderie, betrayal over loyalty. Even then, an illogical sliver of Wen still believed Mike wouldn't die here. But Macroll, he knew, was a man of cold, deliberate action; if he decided on death, it would be swift and conclusive.
"You don't wanna answer," Macroll sighed, a theatrical display of patience. He turned, his heavy footsteps echoing across the floor, to a makeshift table lined with blades and lethal tools.
He returned holding a combat knife, the steel gleaming malevolently under the bare, flickering bulb overhead. He spun it once, twice, a practiced flourish designed to inject pure, distilled fear into Wen's heart. Macroll clamped a thick, broad hand onto the top of Wen's head, holding it steady, then raised the knife, aiming for the eye—the ultimate, personal mutilation before death.
KRACK!
The sound of a large-caliber rifle shot ripped through the air, instantly silencing Macroll's sadistic spectacle.
Macroll froze, his body rigid with disbelief. "Who did you invite?" he hissed, abandoning the knife to stare at the single basement door, waiting for an entrance. The door frame was instantly blown open, but before anyone could fully step through, the person's sniper behind the door boomed. The bullet struck the Mr Macroll with enough force to lift him clean off his feet and slam him into the concrete wall. Mr Macroll slid down, lifeless, the Spanish hat and suit crumpled awkwardly. Macroll had died by the hands of an intruder without even seeing his face.
Then, from the smoke and dust of the entrance, stepped Wren.
He carried a sniper rifle with a casual expertise that sent a fresh wave of paralyzing shock through Wen. "Wren... what are you doing here?" Wen croaked, attempting a futile twist in the chair.
His identical twin, the banker, the quiet, measured one, walked with the steady, focused gait of a professional assassin, not a brother coming to save his reckless twin.
Before Wren could reach Wen, the air was suddenly shredded by the cacophony of automatic fire. "Krrrrrrrrr!" Bullets sprayed the room, impacting the walls and floor around Wren's position. He smoothly retreated behind the substantial concrete pillar, the sniper rifle instantly becoming a precise counter-weapon. Pop... Pop... Pop... Each deliberate shot silenced one source of the enemy fire, dropping a henchman with clinical accuracy.
That can't be his first time. A banker doesn't carry guns. He doesn't shoot like that!
Wen's thoughts were a frantic storm, completely overriding his desperate survival instincts. He had always dismissed Wren's advice, seeing him as soft. How much of his brother's life had he missed? His guilt was momentarily displaced by a deep, confusing awe.
My family... The sudden, sharp memory of his parents and Wren's wife, Luna, and their daughter, Mina, hit him. He had convinced himself they were safe, isolated from his madness. A tiny, fragile thought whispered that they were likely better off not knowing his current state.
"Move or I kill you!" a voice roared.
Miraculously, the chair Wen was tied to was forcefully rotated. He stared at the newly opened scene. Wren emerged, his hands raised in surrender, walking backward. Behind him, holding a pistol to Wren's head, was a second, perfectly identical Mr. Macroll.
Confusion turned to sickening horror. But I saw him...
Wen looked at the body Macroll had shot. Two of Macroll's men rushed to the corpse and peeled away a prosthetic mask—a perfect replica of Macroll's face. It was someone Wen didn't recognize, a decoy.
"Surprised, right?" The real Macroll sneered, pausing only to have his men hand him an identical mask, which he donned instantly, covering his recognizable features. A camera was positioned to capture the entire, carefully orchestrated scene.
"Your brother is a detective," Macroll revealed, the words landing like fatal blows. The accuracy of the shots made awful sense now. Wren was a State Detective—the ultimate betrayal of Wen's world. "He came to help you."
Wen looked at Wren's face. His twin wasn't afraid. He was smiling. A grim, sacrificial smile. Why would someone facing death look happy?
"Before you say anything, let him go," Wen pleaded, his voice ragged with fresh despair. "It's me you want. Let him go!"
Macroll ignored the desperate plea. "No. I have a better plan."
He pulled the trigger.
Wen's scream was a raw, primal noise, ripped from the core of his soul. He watched his brother's blood erupt in a sudden, violent spray, staining the cold concrete. Wren's body collapsed, sinking onto his knees first, a final, serene smile directed at Wen before his face met the dirty floor.
The rest was a blur: the ropes loosened, the escape of Macroll's team, the eventual arrival of the police. Wen was arrested, the charge clear: the video, masterfully edited and sent by Macroll, showed Wen, driven by greed, killing his detective brother. The setup was complete, the narrative sealed.
Wen gasped, his body convulsing in the hard wooden chair. He was drenched in cold sweat, the memory still fresh, vibrant, and utterly consuming. The prison sentence had faded, but the image of Wren's final smile had not.
He forced his vision back to the TV. The film—the playback of his worst memory—had ended. Wren's face, the image static and framed, returned.
"I just want to tell you something," Wren's image said, his recorded voice resonating with an unbelievable calm.
Wen was shaking violently, his equilibrium shattered. He didn't know if he was running mad. He felt the cold air, but his seat was searingly hot due to the sheer volume of sweat soaking his clothes.
"I am everywhere," Wren continued, pausing to look down at something, maybe a physical clue, maybe just a dramatic pause for the camera.
Everywhere? Wen scanned the dark, empty room, his old survival instinct screaming at him to find the hidden threat. Was this Macroll's lingering psychological warfare? Or was this a fresh stage set by his newly released rivals?
He forced himself to calm down, clutching his knees. He could not break here.
Wren looked back up, his eyes seeming to pierce the screen and look directly into Wen's tormented soul. "And I know Luna and Mina are not dead."
The sentence didn't just shock him; it obliterated the foundation of his guilt. He had mourned them, too—Wren's wife and daughter, who had supposedly perished in the subsequent police raid, a tragedy Wen had blamed on his own existence.
"Take a look beside you," the TV instructed.
Wen turned his head with a slow, agonizing creak. Tucked between the armrest and his body was a thick, off-white envelope, bearing the same specific calligraphy that Wren used on his personal banking letters. It was real.
"Inside it is the address."
The screen instantly went black, plunging the room back into absolute darkness, save for the faint, lingering warmth of the TV glass.
Wen snatched the envelope. His hands, usually steady enough to hold a pistol perfectly still, were trembling uncontrollably. Wren's wife, Luna, had visited him in prison, her face a mask of grief and accusation, convinced he was the killer. Yet, this message claimed they were alive. The conflicting realities were a terrible, beautiful assault on his sanity.
With desperate eagerness, he tore the envelope open. Inside, a paper with a familiar, textured design. Engraved on it was a simple, yet complex drawing of a house, and right in the center, an address.
Wen stared, his eyes wide and fixed. He read the numbers and street name again, then again, then a fourth time to be certain he wasn't dreaming or having a psychotic break. The cold reality of the characters was unmistakable.
707 Northwood Lane.
It was the address of his parents' old house. The childhood home he had been told was sold years ago.
How?
A terrifying, thrilling thought surfaced: If Luna and Mina were there... was it a sanctuary? Or was it the final, cleverest trap laid by Macroll, using his dead brother's ghost and his living family's old home to lure him into the light?
Wen stood up, the chair scraping loudly against the concrete floor. The paper crumpled slightly in his sweating fist. The moment he had accepted his fate was gone. Now, the bitter, exhilarating taste of hope and vengeance filled his mouth. He had to know the truth. He had to face his past, not just the ghost of his brother, but the women his brother had died trying to save.
He stepped forward, leaving the dark void of the room and the chilling memory of his ghost brother behind him, pulled by the inescapable gravity of 707 Northwood Lane.