John spent the rest of the day resting, letting his body and mind recover. He stayed either on his bed or by the window, watching the city stretch out beneath him. For the first time in a long while, he felt calm. No frantic rushing, no reckless decisions — only clarity.
He had finally faced the truth about himself. Before his father's departure, he had been a true, innocent child. But everything that followed — the beatings, the mocking, the bullying, the rage — had shaped him into someone else. Someone violent, enraged, broken. When he finally released that rage by killing his tormentor, the realization hit him hard: he had become a man defined by violence.
And now, standing above the streets, he understood the one thing he had been holding onto: the oath. The oath not to kill innocents. It had been his last tether to humanity, the only barrier between himself and a senseless monster. But even that had begun to crumble. His restrictions, his expectations, all of it had failed.
He could no longer pretend. He would not hesitate, would not care about collateral damage. The final tower awaited. The Templars' last stronghold. Destroying it was his goal, and nothing else mattered.
"I need to find a way to destroy this tower…" he whispered to himself, voice barely audible over the city hum. There was no fear in the words, only resolve. Calm, cold, and precise.
For the first time, John embraced the emptiness inside him. He wasn't good. He wasn't innocent. He was simply an assassin, bound by a promise he no longer needed to honor. The city, the innocents, the chaos — none of it would sway him anymore. The final tower would fall.
And then, only then, would he leave Son of York behind.
He walked outside without hesitation, heading straight toward the heart of Son of York — the central Cyntera Corp tower. The streets buzzed around him, but the tower itself felt dead. Because of the backlash and public outrage over their maintenance failures, the entire building had sealed itself off: gates locked, curtains drawn, not a single window revealing a scrap of life inside.
No movement.
No chatter.
No hum of machinery.
Just a hollow silence stretching through all floors, like the tower had already evacuated itself before he even arrived.
John slowed for a moment, frowning. Weird. He hadn't seen a single Cyntera employee anywhere in the district. No security patrols, no maintenance workers, nothing. The corporation that once felt like a plague on every corner now looked like it had vanished overnight.
He let out a rough sigh, almost a grunt.
"Doesn't matter."
Whether they'd fled or were hiding inside, it changed nothing. There was still one efficient way to destroy this tower, and he knew it well — he'd done it before.
"I can overpressure the power generator," he muttered. "Just like I did with the first tower."
But to do that, he needed to find a way in.
His eyes traced upward along the reflective glass surface of the skyscraper, stopping at the wide reinforced windows that wrapped around the upper floors. Too high to climb, too thick to break from the outside… unless he had rightly high angle and enough force behind him.
John's gaze shifted to the right. On top of a residential complex nearby, a tall metal radio tower rose above the rooftops — just high enough, just close enough.
"I could jump off that," he thought, calculating the distance, the drop, the angle. "Crash straight through the windows."
Now he knew what to do.
He exhaled once, steady and decisive.
"I need a parachute," he said aloud, voice firm and completely serious.
Just like that, John headed toward the one person who could actually help him pull off something this insane: Mike.
He made his way to the safehouse — same grimy exterior as always — but the moment he stepped inside, he froze. The interior had transformed. The smoke, the half-asleep drunks, the neon lights and cheap disco beats… gone. In their place were organized corridors, clean rooms, armed lookouts, and a sense of discipline that felt alien compared to the chaos it used to be.
John walked through the hallway slowly, taking it all in.
He had expected change — but not this much.
When he saw Mike, they greeted each other like actual friends this time, no stiffness, no lingering awkwardness.
"Cleaned up the place like I said, huh?" John said, giving a small grin.
Mike snorted. "Sure did. To be honest, I really did turn this place into a disco before."
He paused, eyeing John up and down. "You here for another bomb?"
John shrugged with a joking tone. "Nah. Nothing that destructive… but something that almost overshadows a bomb. I need a pair of parachutes."
Mike blinked. "Parachutes!?"
"Yeah," John explained, calm as ever. "One to get into the central Cyntera tower. One to get out. Think you can find them?"
Mike scratched his head, thinking hard… then motioned for John to wait. He disappeared into a small, warehouse-like room. For the next five minutes, all John heard was chaos — crates dropping, doors slamming, something shattering, followed by a muffled curse.
Finally, Mike emerged holding two parachute bags.
"Here," he said, handing them over. "You just pull that string and it opens up. I… think."
He added a nervous smile, leaning his head back as if the parachutes might explode.
John raised a brow. "Where did you even get these?"
"My people found them in the Night Wolves' warehouse this morning," Mike said. "Brought everything over here."
"I see…" John nodded. "Haven't heard anything from them since then?"
Mike shook his head. "Nope. It's like they just disappeared. Honestly? That's probably for the best."
The two exchanged a long look — a real one — with tired smiles and mutual understanding. For a moment, it felt like the old world had returned, just a little bit.
As John turned to leave, Mike called out, worry breaking through his voice.
"John! Be careful on your mission."
John looked back. "I will… thanks."
Then he stepped out and vanished into the streets with two parachutes and a plan that bordered on madness.
Night had fallen again.
John stood on the rooftop of his apartment building, the highest point he could claim as his own. A cold breeze swept across the city, tugging at his coat, slipping through his sleeves, brushing past him like quiet reminders of the world he still hadn't escaped.
He stared at the distant silhouette of the central Cyntera Corp tower — tall, silent, waiting.
"Father… tomorrow I'll destroy that building," he murmured. "Wipe out the remaining Templars in the city and… leave. Once and for all. My promise will finally be fulfilled."
He paused. A sharp chill crept down his spine, and for a moment his breath felt thin.
"But… what happens after that?"
The question spilled out before he could stop it.
He wasn't an idiot. He knew exactly what finishing this meant.
He wouldn't be able to go back to the museum.
He wouldn't get another job in this city.
Everyone who suspected him would know.
"Sure, I'll try to reconcile with Ben and Lara," he said, eyes narrowing as he looked down at his own palm, the hand responsible for everything. "But what difference would it make…?"
He dropped his arm to his side. His shoulders sagged with it.
"My whole identity is built on being an assassin. Before that… I was just an empty, starving husk trying not to die in the streets."
His voice trembled between bitterness and resignation.
"When this is over… can I really go back to that original life? Could I even pretend to live normally again?"
Mike's words drifted back to him — casual, honest, annoyingly accurate.
'Fate throws things at me so out of nowhere I won't even know what the hell to do with them.'
"Let's… have faith in fate then," John whispered.
But the moment he said it, he remembered the night before — the fury, the confidence, the declaration that he would stop listening to fate and carve his own path.
He winced.
Looking back on it now, he felt stupid. Reckless.
An enraged idiot convincing himself he had power over forces he barely understood.
The truth hit heavier than the wind around him.
He was too weak to change the course of things.
Too small to outrun the life that had already swallowed him whole.
And tomorrow, he would still jump.
Day 14. September 1st.
John climbed the metal radio tower one rattling stair at a time, the whole structure groaning under the wind. Sun hitting from above hard, particles of cloud on the sky. The city lights swayed below him like a restless ocean. But he felt solid. Ready. No trembling hands, no weak knees. His hood was pulled low, blades strapped at his sides, two parachute bags weighing down his back.
He reached the very top and stood on the narrow ledge. The Central Cyntera Tower loomed across the district — silent, sealed, curtains drawn like an empty mausoleum.
Nobody on the streets looked up. Of course they didn't.
John inhaled once, deep and steady.
Then he jumped.
The wind punched into him as he pulled the ripcord, the parachute exploding open behind him. His fall slowed, tilted, came under his control. He aimed himself straight toward the tower windows, fingers gripping the parachute handles tight as he cut through the air.
He braced—
and slammed both boots through the glass.
The window shattered around him. John rolled in, tore the empty chute off his shoulders, and rose into a ready stance—
…but the conference room he'd crashed into was empty. Perfectly empty.
Chairs tucked. Papers untouched. Not a single breath of movement.
John frowned and checked the hallway through the cracked door. Still nothing.
"Strange…" he muttered.
No guards. No workers. No Templars.
He headed downstairs, passing through the lobby — also abandoned. The more he saw, the heavier the feeling grew in his chest. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
At last he reached the basement. The generator room thrummed quietly, the machine cycling at a stable twenty percent pressure. Just like the first tower he'd blown.
"Alright… let's finish this."
He gripped the pressure wheel and yanked it hard to the left. The gauge spiked.
20… 60… 100… 150—
The machine screeched, shook, and—
whuuump
It reset itself back to twenty. Automatically. Instantly.
John froze.
"What… the hell? What kind of generator is this?"
He stepped closer to check the machinery—
—and a voice drifted down from the stairs above.
Light. Casual. Almost childish.
A voice John knew.
"Hey, uh… aren't you lost?"
John froze.
Shock and disbelief hit him at the same time, his eyes widening as he turned toward the stairs. Under the shadow of his hood, he saw the man clearly—black jeans, a brown jacket, a silver cross swaying lightly against his chest. Dark-framed hair. Relaxed posture.
And that smile.
His hands were clasped behind his back, casual. Patient.
Memory crashed into John all at once—the grand meeting, the shot, body falling.
"Greetings…"
The man's voice was low, calm, edged with quiet amusement.
"The murderer. Or should I say… the Assassin?"
John's composure shattered.
"How is this possible?" he shouted, rage tearing through his voice. "I shot you. I killed you. I watched you fall—how are you still alive?!"
The Master Templar tilted his head slightly.
"Oh, that?" he said lightly. "I was fast enough to dodge."
John staggered back a step, his breath catching.
"No—no, that's impossible. I heard the hit. Someone fell. Someone died."
The man chuckled softly.
"Yes. One of my Templars."
His smile sharpened.
"You see, Assassin, if you believe you've killed someone simply because you heard them die… then you may genuinely be the most idiotic man I've ever met."
John's eyes darted around the room, desperate, searching for an exit.
There was only one.
Through him.
The Master Templar continued, voice smooth, almost conversational.
"Surprised, I imagine.
Why the generator didn't explode.
Why the tower is so… empty.
Where the others are."
He began descending the stairs, one slow step at a time.
"I analyzed you. Everything you did."
John clenched his fists.
"The first tower was obliterated completely—overpressured generator. Obvious.
The second collapsed inward—foundation sabotage.
The third?" He smiled. "Three precise explosions before structural failure. Carefully placed."
He stopped a few steps above John.
"So I asked myself—how would you approach this one? No tunnels. No weak foundation points."
A pause.
"Of course. You'd return to what worked first."
His gaze flicked toward the generator.
"I automated its failsafes myself. Pressure overrides. Emergency resets."
A faint smile.
"Do you like it?"
John's chest tightened.
"This entire scene," the Master Templar continued calmly, "is an ambush. A trap.
The other Templars?"
His eyes gleamed.
"They're here. Waiting."
John swallowed hard.
"If you've been watching me all this time," he snapped, "why not stop me earlier? Why let me destroy three towers?!"
The Master Templar sighed, almost disappointed.
"Because you're unpredictable. You Assassins always are."
He gestured vaguely.
"Yes, I watched through the city cameras. But I wanted patterns. Methods. Limits."
He smiled again.
"I could have sent search teams. You would've escaped—or slaughtered them."
A brief pause.
"Just like you did to that elite unit chasing you down. You remember."
John's mind raced.
He's been watching me. Studying me. Learning.
Enough.
There was no point anymore.
John reached for his sword—
"A-a."
The Master Templar raised a finger, still smiling.
"I wouldn't rush, if I were you."
He chuckled. "I could have neutralized you much earlier. But why bother?"
He tapped his chest theatrically.
"Talking is… rather my thing."
Then he stepped aside.
Someone emerged from behind him.
The helmet.
The vest.
The weapons.
The AMDs.
An elite Templar.
John's blood ran cold.
"How?!" he shouted. "The elite units were disbanded! You showed it on the news!"
The Master Templar grinned.
"Don't believe everything you see on the news. After all…"
His eyes hardened.
"We control it."
The elite lunged.
Metal slammed into John's face. Pain exploded as he staggered back, the air ripped from his lungs. A steel grip closed around his throat, pinning him against the wall.
John gasped, choking.
"Careful," the Master Templar said coolly. "We need him alive. For now."
Then he turned his gaze to John.
"Now, Assassin," he said softly. "Tell me your name."
John struggled, vision blurring. His strength was draining too fast—too fast to harden his elbow, too fast to deploy his hidden blades.
This can't be the end.
He's right there. I can't lose here.
With the last of his strength, John reached into his wooden pocket.
The smoke bomb.
He smashed it upward into the elite's helmet.
White erupted.
The room vanished in choking smoke. The grip loosened. John collapsed to his knees, coughing, gasping for air.
Fear flooded him.
One thought drowned out everything else.
Escape.
He bolted for the stairs.
As he burst from the smoke cloud, he nearly collided with the Master Templar—standing calmly beside the path.
Still smiling.
Still unmoving.
He didn't stop John.
John didn't understand why—but he didn't stop running.
Behind him, the elite burst from the smoke.
"I'm sorry for my mistake, Master!"
The smile vanished.
"After him," the Master Templar said coldly. "Now."
The elite sprinted.
Then the Master Templar pulled a phone from his pocket.
He dialed someone.
When the call connected, he spoke quietly.
"…Commander Roger. Come out."
The hunt had begun.
John ran.
The entrance was sealed.
He remembered about the parachute.
He turned upward and charged for the higher levels, boots pounding against the stairs as the sound of pursuit closed in from every direction.
He kept climbing.
Templars appeared at landings and corridors, pistols raised, shouting orders—but John didn't slow down. Bullets cracked past him, shattered railings, sparked against metal. He didn't fight. He didn't think.
He ran.
When his legs finally screamed that he was high enough, he threw himself sideways into the nearest room.
Glass rattled. The door slammed shut behind him. Another meeting room—empty. A tall shelf stood beside the entrance. John shoved it with everything he had, wedging it against the door just as fists and gunstocks began hammering from the other side.
No time.
He sprinted to the windows. His heart was still racing, too loud in his ears. One kick—glass exploded outward into the streets. Wind slammed into him as he crouched at the edge.
The city unfolded below.
Lights. Streets. Distance.
The door behind him began to crack.
John jumped.
The parachute snapped open instantly, yanking him upward before gravity reclaimed him. He swung violently, then stabilized, drifting east—no choice in the matter. That was simply the side of the building he'd leapt from.
Below him, sirens ignited.
Police cars flooded the streets, lights flashing red and blue like a wound tearing open the city. Officers stood on rooftops, weapons already trained upward—as if they'd been waiting.
They opened fire.
Bullets tore through the parachute fabric, ripped through the air around him. Shots meant for the canopy. Shots meant for him. The city wasn't chasing him anymore.
It was hunting him.
A thought cut through the noise, sharp and hollow:
Even if I survive… where do I go?
Then—
Impact.
A bullet punched into his abdomen.
Pain vanished into numbness. Blood poured freely, trailing downward like a dark ribbon. His grip weakened. His vision dimmed. The city blurred.
As he fell, he drifted over something familiar.
The burned remains of the Evans mansion.
And then—the well.
The same one.
His body dropped into its mouth, but didn't fall.
The parachute caught on the stone rim, snapping tight and suspending him above darkness. Dim light filtered through torn fabric. Beneath him, water roared—sewers rushing violently below.
Blood dripped into the depths.
Footsteps echoed above.
"Alright," a voice said calmly. "Lift the parachute up for me, will you?"
Two officers grabbed the fabric from either side. Between them stood a man in a police helmet, his badge unlike the others. A dark, square moustache sat beneath his nose. Confident. Unbothered.
Commander Roger.
Back from the Temple of Assassins.
"So," Roger said, smiling as he looked down. "You're the peace-breaker Master's been talking about. I hit you pretty well, didn't I?"
He glanced at the others, amused.
"Alright. Before he bleeds to death—lift him up."
"Yes, Commander Roger."
The parachute began to rise.
John's body followed.
Roger kept smiling.
John's teeth clenched.
Rage burned through the haze.
"I get it now," John rasped. "Roger… the one Edwards talked about. I remember all of you."
In one violent motion, he slashed upward.
Hidden blades severed the cords.
The parachute snapped loose.
John fell.
"Shit!" Roger shouted. "Send a dive team! Now! Search for him!"
Too late.
John hit the water hard.
Cold swallowed him instantly, dragging him down into blackness. His body sank, heavy, broken. Consciousness slipped away as the roar of the sewers consumed him.
One thought lingered.
Simple. Fading.
It's cold…