I feel… new.
A breath. A real one. Something I never had. As if my lungs were finally breathing something other than fear or emptiness.
The energy of Words… I feel it.
It runs through my veins. Through my nerves. Through my bones.
My body. My soul. Everything vibrates.
I close my eyes.
A brutal return.
The black.
This bag.
Still this bag.
But something has changed.
I feel it.
I'm different.
I'm no longer just locked in: I am capable.
I think of my bike.
A flash. It appears. Right there. In this nothingness.
Then of my headphones. They spring up too… cracked along the side. Damaged. Broken.
But here.
Did my power bring them to me? Even here?
Even in this place without logic, without ground, without time?
My heart speeds up.
I test something.
I think of yesterday's burger. The one I stared at in the window—the one I couldn't afford.
And then — BAM.
It's there.
A burger. Hot. Juicy. Perfect. Just the way I like it.
I hardly dare believe it. But I reach out.
It's real.
I bite into it.
And damn… it feels good.
My body steadies. My head calms.
I swallow everything. I eat like it's my last meal. Maybe it is.
Water.
I need water.
And just by thinking it, a bottle appears.
I grab it. I drink. I live.
I climb onto my bike.
I pedal.
Hard.
I rush forward, even if I don't know toward what. Even if I'm still in a bag. Even if nothing makes sense.
I rush.
And then —
A light.
Violent. Bright. It blinds me.
As if a door were being opened.
As if someone were opening… the bag.
This is MY CHANCE.
I don't think.
I pedal like a madman. Toward that light. Toward the opening.
And I get out.
I get out of the bag.
Air slaps my face. The real world tears me out of confinement.
I keep riding. I look nowhere. Only straight ahead.
I pedal.
And suddenly.
Nothing.
My bike disappears.
Just like that.
And I'm flying.
I smash into the ground, roll several meters.
But I'm outside.
I get up. With difficulty.
— What the hell is this now…? Since when can they make objects disappear…?
I raise my eyes. Around me, a wide, green expanse. Vast. Too vast. Green, sparse trees, emptiness, mostly emptiness.
And there, in the distance… a small guy. With my bike. And the bag belonging to the guy with the glasses. Seriously? He's dressed in green from head to toe, like a poorly disguised bush, with a balaclava on top. Does he think he's discreet, or is this cosplay? Is he a mercenary too? Mostly, he's ridiculous.
— Hey, you there! Give me back my bike!
He turns, stares at me… then raises his arms like a cartoon villain.
— My name is Brechi! My Word is Thief! And I stole your bike! Ahahaha!
His voice is high. Almost a helium mouse. He snickers like it's the best punchline of the year.
I freeze.
He just… introduced himself?
He just snickered?
Who does this guy think he is?
My teeth grind. I want to squash him like a fluorescent insect.
I hear a voice in the distance.
— Get back here, you bargain-bin thief!
A figure drags itself toward me. The other one. The Kidnapper. All skinny. Still filthy. And on his shoulders, Kairo, relaxed like a little girl on her father's back.
… Is this a joke?
They're chasing me… with a guy on his shoulders?
If you're going to send mercenaries after me, send professionals. Not this circus.
I exhale hard. I point at the little green gremlin.
— Okay. You. The bike. Now.
Why is he jumping and waving like that?
— Never! I'm going to—
BANG!
A dry sound.
His head explodes. Literally. A bullet. Straight through the forehead.
He collapses at once. Like a puppet with its strings cut.
Blood spreads across the grass.
I turn my head. He's there. Walking. Calm.
Smoking a cigarette.
I see him coming.
Not like the others.
Tall. Lean, compact silhouette. Every step precise. No waste. No hesitation. As if he'd learned never to make noise.
He has the gaze of a man who seeks nothing anymore. Only a contract to finish.
His eyes are gray. Not dull. Not dead. Sharpened.
Pale complexion, deep circles. Black hair. A scar splits his lip. Cigarette at the corner of his mouth.
He doesn't smile. He aims with those eyes.
A long, worn coat.
A discreet tattoo under the collar. A black line. The shadow of an oath.
He approaches.
And I feel it in my bones:
Every time he appears, someone disappears.
And it might be me.
I feel trapped.
Not just physically. Mentally.
Run? It doesn't make sense at this level. I know they'll find me. Sooner or later.
So I have to face them.
But… if they could argue a little first, honestly, I'll take it.
This time, no escape.
The Kidnapper picks up his bag.
Kairo slides off his shoulders in silence, stretches like a cat that slept an entire lifetime.
And then. A breeze passes through me.
It makes no sound. It simply… cuts everything in its path.
It's him. The man who killed the little ninja without looking.
I freeze. My muscles refuse to move.
I know—if I move, he kills me.
He walks past me.
He doesn't even see me. I am nothing. Just a pebble on the path.
His gaze fixes on the Kidnapper.
And his voice.
Calm. Low. With that kind of gravity you can't fake.
A man who has lived too much. Seen too much. Endured too much.
— What's your power?
The Kidnapper lifts his head. He trembles like a leaf.
— Ne… Ne… Nero Calver. Your Word is Mercenary. They call you the Enchanted Mercenary. I'm a big fan, really…
Nero doesn't answer. He steps closer.
— Your power.
The guy swallows, stammers:
— I… I can kidnap people. Lock them in my bag.
Nero extends his hand.
— Very well. Let's make a contract.
The guy hesitates, then obeys. The contact is brief. Icy.
And then everything snaps into place.
— Mercenary's Contract: Kidnapper's Bag.
He pauses. Draws on his cigarette.
— Mercenary's Weapon.
A black revolver appears in his hand.
Three shots. Three flashes. Three verdicts.
One in the heart.
One in the head.
One in the hand.
The body crumples without a sound.
He killed the Kidnapper and adds, as if nothing had happened:
— People like you disgust me.
He turns toward me.
I feel the heat leave me.
— Kidnapper's Bag.
Another bag appears. Clean. New.
But it reeks of the end. My end.
He stares at me. Seriously.
— Get in the bag.
I'm shaking.
I've got powers, yeah. But I don't know how to use them.
This man could kill me before I even think of a weapon.
But his mission… is to bring me back alive.
So maybe I can… play that card.
Fine.
If I'm going to die, I'll die standing.
I straighten up.
My arms rise slowly. My legs tremble, but they hold.
I take a fighting stance. Clumsy. Improvised.
But sincere.
— No. I won't get in that bag.
He stares.
Then he smiles.
A thin smile. Light. Almost… sincere.
He raises his arm. Fires.
I close my eyes on reflex.
…
But nothing comes.
When I open them…
The bullet is there. Right there. Floating.
It touches my forehead gently. Settles and falls.
He turns to Kairo.
— Now that is an interesting opponent.
He pauses.
— You're the little mercenary making big money? Good. I'll kill two birds with one stone. Eliminate a competitor… and fulfill a contract.
Kairo raises an eyebrow, bored:
— Just try not to kill the merchandise.
The merchandise.
That's what he calls me.
Not even a name.
Not even "him," or "the kid."
Just an object. A damn crate in transit.
I'm here, sweating, on the verge of exploding, with a bullet that just touched my skull…
and he's already filing me under "to be delivered."
I'm wedged between two lunatics.
Two monsters with a Word tattooed in their souls and blood in their eyes.
Seriously.
I don't want to die—if both of them could drop dead now, that'd be great.
And if I have to choose…
I'm betting on Kairo.
Not because he's kind. He isn't.
Not because he's fair. Even less.
But…
he looks lazy.
Like, truly.
The kind of guy who'd rather get fired than carry a bag that's too heavy.
So yeah.
If he wins, there's maybe a chance he'll let me rot quietly in a corner.
Because he can't be bothered to deliver me.
Best of the worst options.
I throw a glance at Nero. He smiles. Again. The kind of smile that doesn't reek of amusement, but of a promise.
A promise of pain. Of contract. Of clean elimination.
He starts spinning his revolver on his finger, like this is all a game.
Kairo, for his part, cracks his neck. Unhurried. He looks at the sky. Then at me. Then at Nero.
— I didn't sign up for this, he murmurs.
But he doesn't move.
He gauges.
As if deciding whether he's going to move or just… watch.
Nero is already ready. He advances. Slowly.
Not like a fighter.
Like an executioner.
I swallow.
And in a corner of my mind, something whispers:
You may have awakened your Word, but it changes nothing if you're dead before you can do anything with it.