The night was quiet — too quiet.
The air inside the hideout was heavy, the kind of silence that only comes after pain and exhaustion. Everyone slept like the dead — Kane on the couch, Mostang half-slumped in a chair, Valeria curled up near the heater.
But not Emma.
She sat by the window, knees slightly bent, the pale moonlight brushing across her face. Her eyes were open — blank, focused on nothing, yet full of something that never left her. The reflection in the glass looked hollow.
Her fingers trembled faintly.
She hadn't slept for days.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw it — blood, faces, her hands shaking, that same rain from years ago.
She didn't move. Didn't blink. Just sat there, staring out the window.
Then, from behind — a faint rustle.
Diana stirred, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. She sat up, still wrapped in a blanket. And then she saw her — Emma, motionless, staring into the night like she was seeing ghosts.
Diana's chest tightened.
She didn't say anything at first. She didn't have to.
She just watched her for a few seconds — the way Emma's shoulders barely moved with each shallow breath, the tired look in her eyes that spoke louder than any words ever could.
"You're not sleeping again… are you?"
Emma didn't turn around. Her voice came out low, quiet, almost detached.
"I can't."
Diana lowered her gaze, nodding slightly, already knowing why.
The nightmares never really left her. They just waited for the dark.
Flashback. When Emma was 7 years old.
The house was quiet that afternoon — too peaceful for the world Emma would one day come to know.
The smell of warm food filled the air. Her mother, Asuka, smiled softly as she set the plates on the table. Her father sat by the open window, his elbows resting on the wooden frame, staring out at the endless blue sky.
It was calm. The kind of calm that stays in your memory forever.
Emma, barely a teenager then, had her usual expression — serious, a bit detached, but curious. She noticed how long her father had been staring up, his eyes distant, thoughtful.
She walked over, stopping beside him.
"Why are you always staring at the sky, Dad?"
He blinked, glancing at her with a small, warm smile — one that reached his tired eyes.
"Just thinking."
"About what?"
He looked up again. The clouds were slow, gentle. His voice carried a quiet weight.
"You are… born a hero, Emma."
She frowned slightly, tilting her head.
"What does that mean?"
He smiled again, softer this time.
"It means one day, when the world turns dark, you'll still choose to protect it… even when it doesn't deserve saving."
Emma's lips parted slightly — she didn't fully understand. She just nodded, her eyes tracing the same sky her father admired.
"A hero…" she whispered.
He placed a hand on her head — firm, gentle.
"Even heroes get tired, Emma. But they never forget who they are."
At that moment, her mother called them for lunch.
Her father gave one last look at the sky — and then turned away.
That was the last peaceful lunch they would ever share.
----- back to Present
The night was still — the moonlight pouring through the cracked window of the hideout, painting Emma's face in pale silver.
Everyone else slept soundly, breaths slow, the chaos of their lives momentarily quiet.
But Emma… couldn't.
Her eyes were fixed on the stars, distant and hollow, her reflection faint in the glass. The memory of her father's voice replayed over and over — "You are born a hero, Emma."
Her fingers clenched against her coat.
Her throat tightened.
"How…" she whispered to herself.
"How did you know?"
She could almost see his silhouette again — standing by the window, eyes lifted toward the sky, like he knew she'd end up here one day.
Blood on her hands. Pain in her heart. Fighting for people who'd never even know her name.
Emma exhaled slowly. Her voice was low, almost trembling, though her expression remained still.
"You predicted it, didn't you, Dad?"
"You knew… what I'd become."
For a brief second, she closed her eyes — the sound of the past echoing in her mind: her father's hand on her head, that quiet smile.
"Born a hero…" she muttered.
"Even when I'm not one anymore."
Her gaze dropped, shadowed by her hair.
And in the dim light.
Skip.. to Emma..outside.
Emma froze mid-step.
Her boots scuffed against the cracked concrete, breath caught halfway through her throat.
That voice—low, calm, and almost regretful—belonged to the last person she wanted to hear.
"Shadow…" she muttered, turning slowly, her eyes narrowing. "You again."
But Shadow wasn't smirking this time. His hands were down. No weapon. No tension.
Only a strange heaviness in his tone.
"Relax," he said quietly. "I didn't come to fight."
Emma didn't move. Her stance was sharp, defensive.
"Then talk."
Shadow took a breath. His eyes—usually cold and unreadable—looked… conflicted.
"You think Vencor ruined your life. Killed your family. Made you a monster."
"But the truth is…"
"Your father asked for it."
Emma blinked. The world seemed to stop.
"…What?"
Shadow looked down, his voice tightening.
"Your father was the one who contacted Vencor years ago. He wanted to create something. A 'hero' strong enough to protect humanity… even if it meant losing her humanity."
Emma's chest rose slowly, her eyes dimming.
"That's a lie."
"It isn't." Shadow's tone was steady now. "He offered his family. Said his daughter could handle the pain. Said she'd be the one to survive. He believed in you so much, it drove him insane."
Emma's lips trembled—but she didn't show it. Her fists clenched.
"You're telling me…" she whispered, "my father—my own father—was the reason I killed him?"
Shadow looked at her with something almost like pity.
"He knew it would end that way. That was part of the plan. He told Vencor that only through hatred… would you awaken your true potential."
Emma's breath hitched, her body trembling for the first time in years.
Rain began to fall, faintly, as if the sky couldn't bear to watch.
"He… wanted me to become this?" she said quietly.
"To live this nightmare?"
Shadow sighed.
"He called it 'the White World.' A world purified by pain."
Emma's gaze fell to the wet ground, her reflection rippling in the puddles.
"White World…" she whispered.
"So this… all of this…"
Her voice cracked slightly.
"Was my father's dream?"
"you could say. Yes."
Shadow said. Calmly.
The world lurches under her.
Emma collapses to her knees on the wet concrete, fists digging into the cold. The rain feels like punishment, each drop a tiny accusation. Her breath comes in ragged pulls. The name of her father — the man who once sat staring at the sky and called her a hero — curls through her mind like a blade.
"He made me do this," she whispers, and the words taste like ash.
Rage arrives slowly at first, then all at once — a furnace that burns away the stupor. It's not just betrayal anymore. It's fury at a father who sold his child, fury at a monster who laughed while turning that sale into a scaffold for torture. Vencor didn't only obey a request; he refined it, enjoyed it, sharpened it into something made to hurt.
Shadow watches from the edge of the light, unreadable. He doesn't say pity; he offers only the cold fact of what is: this was designed, deliberate. Emma looks up at him, eyes bright and terrible.
"So it was your plan," she says, voice flat. "My father gave you a body. You gave me the rest. You could've said no."
Shadow's jaw tightens. "We're not factory men here. We do what the market buys." He steps back, silhouette folding into the night. "Make it count, Phantom."
He turns and melts away. No grace, no apology. Just the echo of his boots and the cold that follows promises.
Emma stays on her knees until the city forgets the sound of her breathing. Grief and betrayal and hatred knot together into one hard thing in her chest. And then, almost mechanically, it becomes a tool.
Too late for forgiveness. Too late for any fragile dream of innocence. But not too late to end what started it.
She rises like a person who has been remade, slower now but with purpose. Rain streams down her face. She wipes it away with the back of her hand, cold and deliberate.
Her voice is low but steady, a vow that carries across the empty street: "Vencor dies. Every chain. Every ledger. Every man who thought this was justice — gone."
She slides her phone from her pocket, thumbs working with the same quiet efficiency she always uses. She calls the hideout.
One by one the muted replies come through: Diana, Mostang, Valeria, Carlo, Kane — awake at the sound of her tone, hearing the change in it. Emma tells them nothing of betrayal yet; she doesn't need to. Plans must be reset, targets sharpened. The war widens.
Behind her, the city keeps breathing. Lightning sketches the skyline. Emma presses the phone to her ear and, beneath the syntactic orders and routing of logistics, something fiercer blooms: the beginning of a plan to tear down what her father set in motion and burn the architect who made her into a blade.
She was made into a murderer by a father and a monster. Now she will be the answer to them both.
Chapter.. end..
Emma. Continues. Hearing. Things. That no human should hear.