Blood.
It pooled on cold concrete, steaming under the pale glow of moonlight. Riven's boots skidded as he sprinted through the burning alleyway, lungs searing with every breath. His eyes locked on Lucy—her body collapsing ahead, executioner blade slipping from her fingers and clattering uselessly to the ground.
Standing over her, the rogue Executioner loomed like a shadow carved from chaos. His blade pulsed with corrupted binary—crimson energy twisting and crackling like unstable lightning. A jagged smile split across his face.
Then, the blade plunged straight into Lucy's chest.
"No—!"
Riven screamed—
And bolted upright in bed, drenched in sweat, gasping for air.
His heart slammed against his ribs, a rhythm of panic and helpless rage. He stared into the dim apartment, the quiet hum of city life bleeding through the blinds. Pale light bathed the room in a silvery hue, softening the sharp lines of the world.
"Two weeks..." he muttered, pressing a hand against his chest. "And I still can't get this image out of my head."
Beside him, Lucy stirred. She blinked sleep from her eyes, her voice groggy yet laced with concern. "Another dream?"
Riven didn't respond.
She reached out, fingers brushing his arm gently. "Come back to sleep. We've got a long day tomorrow."
He glanced at her—alive, breathing, safe. That was all that mattered.
"…Yeah. Alright."
By midday, the two stood inside the cold, steel-lined briefing room of Death Protocol HQ. A place that had seen too many missions, too many names etched into digital gravestones.
Cigar, the unflinching leader of Death Protocol, stood behind his desk. The low burn of his cigarette cast faint red embers across the dark space.
His expression was unreadable. But something was different. The air was heavier.
"You're here because the system selected your next target," he said, voice like gravel scraping steel. "The Execution Code pinged hours ago."
A low hum filled the room as a holographic dossier flickered to life in front of them. Static danced across glitching red text. A face blinked in and out—unreadable, like a corrupted file.
"But this mission…" Cigar paused, exhaling smoke. "…it's different."
"Another Phantom?" Riven asked, eyes narrowing.
Cigar shook his head. "No. Worse. We don't know who he is. No ID. No rank. Just carnage."
Lucy crossed her arms. "Shouldn't Division A be handling something like that?"
"They are," Cigar replied. "This briefing isn't about that mission."
He tapped ash into the tray. "You've lost too many already. With the assignments coming, you need replacements."
Riven tensed. He hadn't forgotten Moses. Or the silence that followed.
Cigar's eyes flicked toward the sealed door. "Meet your new team."
The door hissed open with mechanical precision.
A tall man stepped through first, silver-haired and sharp-eyed. His long black coat fluttered slightly as he moved. Rimless glasses reflected the low light.
"Klaus," he introduced flatly. "Strategist. Rank C."
He was followed by a woman with crimson dreads and combat armor hugging her athletic frame. She wore a smirk like it was a blade.
"Combat specialist. Try not to get in my way." Rita. Ranck C.
"They're good," Cigar said simply. "You'll need them."
He gave the team one final look, and his words came like a warning.
"Try not to die."
While Lucy took Klaus and Rita on the standard HQ tour, explaining their protocols, access points, and training routines, Riven vanished into the city's underbelly. He moved like a shadow, following a path carved into muscle memory.
Past broken buildings and forgotten streets, he reached an old parking garage—abandoned to the world, but not to him.
Deep within, beneath layers of rust and dust, the binary lights of Cipher's hidden chamber flickered to life.
Cipher was already waiting, leaning against a cracked pillar. A faint smirk played on his lips as he tossed Riven a practice blade—its code pulsing in the dim light.
"You're late."
Riven caught the blade. "You're lucky I showed at all."
Their training began in silence.
Clashes rang out— steel crashing against steel. Fast. Brutal. Cipher was still faster, more refined, but Riven was learning. He was adapting.
"You're still hesitating," Cipher barked, slamming him against the wall.
Riven spat blood. "Because I don't want to kill you."
"You might have to. Soon."
Their blades hung frozen in the air, tension simmering.
Cipher lowered his weapon.
"I need something from the Death Protocol archives. Something buried deep. I want access to their underground database—the one Cigar never talks about."
Riven scowled. " I don't know about anything."
"I didn't say you," Cipher replied, lips curling. "I've got my own team now."
Riven's eyes widened. "If you attack HQ—"
"Then stop me," Cipher said coldly. "If you can't kill me, you'll never survive what's coming."
10:32 p.m.
Death Protocol's security systems screamed to life. Sirens blared. Red warning lights bathed the halls in urgency.
Cigar didn't flinch. Within sixty seconds, two of Cipher's six attackers were nothing but smoldering ash—burned alive by Cigar's touch. His Execution Code flared, a wildfire of authority and death.
Then Rita and Klaus joined the fray.
Rita's claws—extensions of her Execution code—ripped through cyber-armor like paper. Klaus manipulated magnetic fields, redirecting bullets mid-air and sending them back at supersonic speeds.
But Cipher's team was relentless. Explosions rocked the halls. Code fractured walls. Chaos reigned.
Cipher himself burst through the front line—but even he barely laid a hand on Cigar. The man was a monster. A few exchanged blows. That was it. Cipher was forced back.
Another loss.
A few hours later…
A bar on the far edge of the city, quiet and soaked in neon.
Riven sat across from Lucy in a dim booth. His drink sat untouched, condensation dripping down the glass.
She eyed him. "You've been tense all night. What's going on?"
Riven sighed, fingers tightening around the rim. "I didn't want to tell you. But have been training with Cipher."
Her expression on shaken. " I could have guessed?"
"He's not trying to destroy Death Protocol," Riven continued. "At least… not directly. He's looking for proof. He believes there's a hidden base beneath HQ. That someone above Cigar is pulling the strings."
Lucy didn't answer.
"I thought if something happened, they'd send a mission. Something. Anything." Riven's voice dropped. "But nothing came."
She stared at him. "You think he attacked tonight."
"I don't think." He met her eyes. "I know."
12:30 a.m.
Cipher's new hideout—dark, scorched, empty.
Lucy and Riven entered quietly. The silence was loud, heavy with loss.
Cipher stood alone, a fresh gash across his arm. Blood soaked the front of his coat.
"They're gone," Riven said.
Cipher nodded slowly. "All of them."
Lucy stepped forward. "Did you get the files?"
He shook his head. "No. There was no file."
Riven frowned. "What?"
"I planted a tracker," Cipher said. "On Cigar himself."
Lucy's jaw clenched. "They died for that?"
Cipher met her gaze.
Far beneath Death Protocol HQ, Cigar stood once more before the shadowy council.
Eight chairs surrounded him—silent figures cloaked in digital haze.
"They attacked," Cigar said, his tone devoid of emotion. "Cipher led them."
One figure leaned forward, features still obscured. "Did he succeed?"
"No."
Another voice whispered from the shadows. "Good. Then he remains useful."
Cigar's brow twitched. "You want him alive?"
"For now," came the reply. "Let the dog keep chasing."
Cigar turned away, jaw tight. Silent. Watching the storm build on the horizon.