The silence in the Prime Minister's office was heavy, thick enough to choke on. Outside the rain-streaked window, the world continued to turn, oblivious to the fact that two men were discussing the end of a life.
Michael Thompson stared at Damien. He looked for a flinch, a sign of hesitation, a crack in the soldier's armor. He found none. Damien stood there, calm and resolute, like a man who had already made peace with the hangman.
Michael ran a hand through his hair, which was the same deep violet shade his daughter's had been—a genetic marker of the Thompson line that always made his heart ache when he looked in the mirror. He slumped back into his chair, the leather groaning under the weight of his exhaustion.
'It's ridiculous,' Michael thought, his mind racing through political strategies, military protocols, and fatherly instincts. 'Absolutely fucking ridiculous. He wants to go alone. One man against an army of monsters that could level a continent. No sane commander would agree to this. No sane father would allow it.'
But then, Michael looked closer. He looked past the uniform, past the medals, and into Damien's eyes.
They were obsidian black. Not dark brown, not dark grey. Black. Like the void between stars.
He remembered when they used to be amber. He remembered the shy, awkward recruit Melissa had brought home for Thanksgiving six years ago, the boy who blushed when Sasha complimented his manners. That boy was gone. In his place stood a weapon that had been forged in the fires of grief.
Michael realized then, with a jolt of terrifying clarity, that Damien wasn't asking for permission to fight. He was asking for permission to die.
'He really changed so much after Lisa's death,' Michael thought, a wave of sadness washing over him. 'Sigh... I thought he could at least try to be happy. I thought that maybe, with time, he would find someone else, or at least find a reason to live for himself. But he really just wants to die. He's been walking toward a cliff for five years, and I've been the one holding onto his coat tails.'
Michael closed his eyes. 'I don't even know what to do anymore, Lisa. I failed you my daughter. And now I'm failing the man she loved.'
The silence stretched for a minute, then two. Finally, Michael opened his eyes. The anger was gone, replaced by a profound, hollow resignation.
"Fine," Michael said, his voice raspy.
Damien blinked, surprised by the sudden capitulation.
"You want to die?" Michael continued, his voice strengthening. "I'll gladly give you the permission, since I already figured out why you made such a ridiculous proposal. You aren't doing this for the strategy. You aren't doing this for the glory. You're doing this because you're tired, Damien."
Damien opened his mouth to protest, to offer some tactical justification, but the words died in his throat. Michael raised a hand to stop him.
"Don't lie to me, son. Not now."
Michael stood up and walked around the desk, leaning against the heavy oak wood.
"I will approve the order. I will override the Pentagon, the Joint Chiefs, and the Hunter Association. I will tell them that this is a classified Black Ops strategy involving experimental tech or some other bureaucratic nonsense to shut them up."
Damien's shoulders sagged, a mixture of relief and guilt flooding him. "Thank you, Dad. At least you are on my side for this."
"Yeah, I am on your side," Michael sighed, crossing his arms. "But that doesn't mean I really fully accept this decision of yours, son. It tears me apart. But I won't force you to live a life you hate anymore."
Michael stepped forward and poked Damien hard in the chest.
"But I have conditions."
Damien straightened. "Name them."
"Just promise me... don't die early, huh?" Michael's voice cracked slightly. "Give those monsters what they really deserve. Make them fear the name of the Wombat Squad. And... just survive as long as you can. After all, you are an A-Rank Soldier by the sense of the Hunter Association, which is what they gathered when they scanned every one of the military personnel. Show them that their scanners are broken."
Damien nodded solemnly. "I will take as many as I can with me."
"And," Michael added, his expression hardening, "still visit us in our house in the evening. Before you deploy. You have to say goodbye to my wife. You have to say goodbye to Sasha."
Damien froze. Facing an SSS+ monster was one thing. Facing a grieving mother who treated him like her own son was another.
"If Sasha hears this now," Michael warned, a grim smile tugging at his lips, "she's going to scold you. Then she's going to strangle me for reluctantly agreeing and supporting your decision. I need you there to act as a human shield, Damien."
Damien gave Michael a bitter, genuine smile. It was the most emotion he had shown all day. "Thanks. Really, thank you, Dad."
"Sigh, just go before I change my mind," Michael grumbled, turning back to his desk to hide the moisture gathering in his eyes. "And don't you dare forget to visit us in the evening to at least say goodbye to my wife. Or... say goodbye to my daughter."
Damien paused at the door, a confused look crossing his face. A question mark practically floated above his head. "You want me to visit Mel's grave again? I was just there this morning."
Michael looked up from his papers, his gaze intense. "Yeah. At least you could say goodbye to her properly. Tell her you're coming."
Damien tilted his head, his social aptitude failing him as it often did. "Why? I mean... I'm already joining her in the afterlife. I'll see her in like, forty-eight hours, tops. Isn't it redundant?"
Michael's face turned a violent shade of red. Veins popped out on his forehead. The poignant moment shattered instantly.
"Just go!" Michael roared, grabbing a stapler. "I swear, you will be the reason I die early! You socially inept moron!"
"You're already old," Damien deadpanned.
"This motherfucker!" Michael wound up his arm to throw the stapler.
Damien didn't wait. He slipped out the door just as the heavy metal object slammed into the wood frame where his head had been a second ago.
Inside the office, Michael stared at the empty doorway. His anger evaporated as quickly as it had come, leaving him alone in the quiet room. He sank into his chair, covering his face with his hands.
'Sigh... I really hate that kid sometimes,' Michael thought, a tear finally escaping and tracing a path down his weathered cheek. 'Goodbye, son.'
***
It was already 4:00 PM in the afternoon when Damien returned to the Pentagon. The sky had darkened significantly, the storm clouds now looking like bruises against the atmosphere.
Damien drove his Nissan GTR with a reckless urgency, the engine roaring as he cut through the traffic. He wasn't rushing to save the world; he was rushing to finish his goodbyes so he could finally be alone.
He parked the car in his reserved spot, the tires screeching slightly on the concrete. He didn't bother locking it this time. It didn't matter anymore.
He walked into the locker rooms, the air thick with the smell of sweat, boot polish, and damp wool. It was a familiar scent, one that usually brought him comfort, but today it just smelled like the past.
He went to his locker and stripped off his dress uniform. He folded the jacket meticulously, smoothing out the wrinkles, and placed his medals on the top shelf. He wouldn't need them where he was going.
He pulled on his casual clothes—a black tactical shirt and cargo pants. He walked over to the mirror above the sinks and splashed cold water on his face. He gripped the edges of the porcelain sink, staring at his reflection.
Specifically, he stared at his eyes.
Before the "incident"—before the Twin Dungeon, before Mel died—Damien's eyes had been a warm, vibrant amber. They were human eyes.
But now, staring back at him were two voids of obsidian.
He activated his mana, just a trickle. Immediately, black markings began to crawl up his neck, emerging from beneath his shirt like sentient tattoos. They were jagged, tribal-looking lines that pulsed with a dark, necrotic energy.
'Black Death (L),' he thought, touching the markings on his neck.
The trait he had received five years ago. The trait that made him the greatest sniper in history, a peer to legends like Simo Häyhä. But it came with a cost. It required sacrificing his lifespan to buff his eyesight and firepower.
Every time he used it, he felt his life draining away, like sand slipping through an hourglass.
'I don't know why I have this,' Damien mused, tracing the black veins. 'I don't know why the System gave me a trait that eats my soul to kill my enemies. But I couldn't care less. For me, that trait was always useless from the very first place. It couldn't save her. It just made me a monster who lived while she died.'
He let the mana fade. The markings receded, retreating back under his skin, but his eyes remained black.
"Sigh."
Damien turned away from the mirror. He grabbed his bag and stepped out of the locker rows.
Waiting for him, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, was Ricky.
Ricky was still in his dress uniform, looking uncomfortable and out of place in the casual atmosphere of the locker room. His face was drawn, his eyes red-rimmed. He had clearly been crying, though he was trying to hide it.
"So," Ricky said, his voice rough. "How did it go with the meeting with the Prime Minister?"
Damien slung his bag over his shoulder. "All in all, good. I got his support. Though not 100%, but at least I got his word. The mission is a go."
Ricky flinched. He looked at Damien's casual clothes, then back at his face. He seemed desperate to find a flaw in the plan, a reason to stop it.
"Why are you not in dress uniform?" Ricky asked, grasping at straws. "We're still in HQ. Regulations, Captain."
Damien ignored him. He walked past Ricky into the hallway. "Where's our squad?"
Ricky sighed again, a sound of pure frustration, and muttered something under his breath about stubborn mules before following Damien.
"Still in the briefing room," Ricky answered. "The Commander already left to deal with the paperwork and the inevitable shitstorm from the Hunter Association. But the squad... they stayed there. They haven't moved. They don't accept what you said, y'know. Of all of us... and you too... you know how ridiculous that proposal of yours is."
Damien didn't break stride. "If you think my decision would change? No. I won't."
"I know," Ricky said, his voice cracking. "I know, dammit. Just... try not to die when the Hunters and the other military battalions newly enter the dungeon, alright? Just hold out until we can... I don't know... sneak in?"
Damien stopped and looked at Ricky. He laughed, a dry sound. "Yeah, sure, sir. I'll just hide in a corner."
"Fuck you," Ricky replied, sniffing.
"Fuck you too, brother," Damien said softly.
They both laughed in unison, a fleeting moment of normalcy in a day defined by tragedy. They reached the heavy double doors of the briefing room.
Damien paused, his hand hovering over the handle. He took a deep breath. This was the hardest part. Convincing the Prime Minister was politics. Convincing the Commander was duty. This? This was family.
"Hah," Ricky exhaled. "This is it. Just say goodbye already."
He looked at Ricky. "Won't you want to go inside? Or else little Ricky is scared of seeing his brothers and sisters crying?"
Ricky looked away, staring down the hallway. "You know you're an asshole."
"That's why I'm your brother," Damien smirked. "Though you should not worry. After all, at least I could finally join her."
"Just go inside already, for god's sake," Ricky snapped, but there was no heat in it, only pain.
Damien bit his lip. He looked into Ricky's brown eyes and saw the depth of his friend's grief. Ricky didn't want to hear the final goodbye. He couldn't bear to watch Damien walk out that door one last time.
Instead of pushing him, Damien nodded. He understood.
Before he turned the handle, he looked at Ricky one last time.
"Also, Ricky."
"What?" Ricky whispered, wiping his nose.
"Thanks for everything, brother. For pulling me back from the edge all those times. For being there."
Ricky just nodded, unable to speak. He turned on his heel and walked away, his shoulders shaking.
Damien watched him go until he turned the corner.
'Alright,' Damien spoke to his thoughts. 'Let's finish this.'
-CLICK!
Damien pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The briefing room was dim. The holographic map had been turned off. The Wombat Squad—twenty of the finest soldiers he had ever trained—were scattered around the room. Some were sitting with their heads in their hands. Others were pacing. Jane was wiping her eyes with a tissue. Master Sergeant Katelain was staring at the wall, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might snap.
When the door opened, every head snapped toward him.
"CAPTAIN!" the whole squad shouted in unison, scrambling to their feet.
They rushed toward him, a wave of desperate loyalty.
"PLEASE RECONSIDER YOUR DECISION, CAPTAIN!" Jane cried out, grabbing his arm. "We can fight! We're not afraid to die!"
"Don't leave us behind, Sir!" Master Sergeant Katelain bellowed, his voice thick with emotion. "We swore an oath! To the death!"
The others joined in, a cacophony of begging and bargaining.
Damien just sighed. He raised his hand, a simple, commanding gesture.
Immediately, the room fell silent. They were soldiers, after all. Even in their grief, they followed his lead.
Damien looked at his squad. He memorized their faces. The scar on Johnson's cheek. The way Sarah twisted her hair when she was nervous. The fierce determination in Katelain's eyes.
'They are good kids,' Damien thought. 'They deserve to grow old.'
"I came back here to tell you something," Damien said, his voice steady and echoing in the quiet room.
"I know how ridiculous it is that I made that decision. I know you feel betrayed. I know you feel like I'm abandoning you."
The squad looked at him intently, hanging on his every word.
"But," Damien continued, "I won't change my mind. This is the only way to save all of you. After all, I promised your Late Captain... our Late Captain... that I would never let anyone in this squad get hurt or die again. I failed her once. I won't fail her again."
He took a breath.
"And I came back to say my final words."
The reaction was visceral. Jane screamed, covering her mouth to stifle a sob. Some of the men cursed and covered their ears, shaking their heads as if refusing to hear it would make it not true.
But Damien paid no mind. He needed to say this.
"Thank you," he said, his voice softening. "Really, thank you. For saving my ass many times when I was committing suicide by proxy. Thank you for being understanding of my trash personality and my temper."
The squad wanted to speak, to retort, to tell him he wasn't trash, but Damien cut them off.
"Thank you for giving your trust and loyalty to me, even when I didn't want to accept this position. You pushed me. You supported me without any second thoughts. You made me look like a leader when I felt like a failure."
Damien looked at them, scanning from left to right, making eye contact with every single one of them. He gave them a bitter, sad smile.
"Thank you for being part of my life and becoming my family. Really, I thank all of you."
He stepped back. The squad surged forward, but he held up a hand, stopping them.
"Don't," he whispered. "If you hug me, I might not leave."
He turned around and walked back to the door. He paused at the threshold, looking back over his shoulder one last time.
"Dismissed," he whispered.
He closed the door.
From the other side, he heard the wails. He heard Jane screaming his name. He heard the sound of a chair being thrown against the wall.
He closed his eyes for a second, letting the pain wash over him, then opened them.
He looked down the hallway. Ricky was waiting there, at the far end, near the exit. He hadn't left.
Ricky walked up to him. He didn't say a word. He just pulled Damien into a crushing hug. It wasn't a soldier's hug. It was a brother's goodbye.
"Keep an eye on them, okay?" Damien whispered into Ricky's shoulder.
Ricky just nodded against Damien's chest. Damien knew he heard his last goodbye.
Damien pulled away. He didn't look back. He walked out the double glass doors of the Pentagon and into the cool, damp air.
The rain had stopped, but the ground was still slick. The smell of ozone was strong.
Damien stood on the steps, alone. He looked up to the clouds and the darkening sky. Somewhere out there, in Nevada, a tear in reality was opening up. A gateway to hell.
But to Damien, it didn't look like hell. It looked like a door.
'One last step,' Damien thought, his black eyes reflecting the grey clouds. 'One last step. Before I could join you, Mel.'
'One last step.'