"KNUCKLE… Knuckle… Knuckle."
The name passes from one officer to another. They aren't afraid—just shocked to see him again after what happened. Some raise their eyebrows, some exchange quick looks, but none step back. They simply can't believe he's really here.
Commander Rourke walks toward him with steady steps, though a hint of worry shows in his eyes.
"Knuckle, where have you been?" he asks.
Knuckle doesn't reply. His eyes stay fixed on the ground, calm but distant.
Rourke continues, softer, "What happened to you? This isn't like you. When did you become so silent… so cold?"
He glances at Knuckle's hands. The blood on them is half-dried, dark, and cracked along his knuckles, as if he hasn't even bothered to wipe it off.
"Look at your hands, they're covered in blood. Tell me what happened, my child."
He moves a little closer, not scared—just concerned.
But before he can speak again—
BOOM!
The truck loaded with serums explodes. A wave of heat spreads out, and sparks shoot into the sky. Every cop turns toward the blast, instincts kicking in.
Rourke looks back to ask Knuckle if he saw anything—
But Knuckle is already gone.
No footsteps. No sound. Not even a hint of where he went.
Rourke sighs, eyes filled with regret, not fear.
"It's always the same… you leave without saying a word."
He faces the ocean and whispers a quiet plea to his eternal god.
"Whatever this child is searching for… let him find it. Otherwise he'll keep chasing people endlessly… or someone will turn him into his game of pawn."
19th November
The entire city wakes up to one headline:
THE HERO RETURNS.
News channels, newspapers, talk shows—everyone discusses Knuckle.
Some support him.
Some criticize him.
Some don't believe he survived at all.
But far away from the crowd, one person wearing a faded gray sweater that hung loosely over his slumped shoulders, paired with wrinkled brown trousers that had clearly seen better days. His bare feet were dusty and unkempt, grounding him in a plainness that left him almost invisible,watches the screen with a slow, knowing smile.
A smile that says he understands something the city doesn't.
Friend?
Family?
Fan?
Or maybe…
"LIAR."