Aslan stepped forward slowly toward Ren, ignoring his brother, who now looked frail and withered by terror. "Thank you, Shiroi Hitsuji," Aslan said, his voice dripping with a chilling sense of triumph. "Thanks to your presence here, the seat of the Baron Family Head is finally mine."
With a sharp snap of Aslan's fingers, the muzzles of every agent's sidearm swiveled toward Frey. Aslan's gaze was now entirely fixed on Ren, savoring every frantic beat of his old rival's heart.
"You always did love playing a role, didn't you?" Aslan smirked, gesturing toward Ren's expensive suit. "Back then, you wore the tattered uniform of a low-ranking soldier to deceive my wife. Now, you've become an arrogant business manager."
Ren tilted his head slightly, his smile cold—a thin mask over an iceberg of repressed rage. "At the very least, every role I play achieves its objective. Unlike the role you've played by your brother's side."
The barb struck Aslan right in his hidden insecurities. His face hardened, and he stepped closer, his aura becoming as cold as steel.
"A shameful objective, Shiroi Hitsuji," Aslan hissed. "You sold your dignity for a vault code and a piece of paper. A code you obtained through a—"
"You are mistaken, Mr. Aslan," Ren interrupted, his voice remaining level, letting his anger serve as his final rampart. "I did not sell my dignity. I merely leased it for a satisfactory result."
Aslan's face flushed, proving that Ren's verbal strike had found its mark—but it no longer mattered. Aslan had the stage he desired.
Baron Frey stared at the pistols surrounding him with wide eyes, realizing he had fallen into a trap far deeper than the one he had prepared for Ren. He tried to scream, but his vocal cords were paralyzed by fear.
Aslan gave him no time to react. He addressed the room, his voice cold and official, like a decree being read. "How do you think the public will react to the news of the Baron Head being killed in a terrorist attack at Eye Tower, while Shiroi Hitsuji is found dying at the scene? Who will they blame?"
Ren knew. Aslan intended to make him the scapegoat for this coup. A scapegoat—the White Sheep. A cruel irony of his name, Shiroi Hitsuji.
He moved instantly. Ren didn't waste a second thinking. His hand snatched the velvet protective cloth from a chair—a remnant of the futile banquet setup—and hurled it to shroud Aslan's face, creating a precious blind spot.
Ren moved like a flash of lightning, attempting to secure Frey as the only living evidence that could thwart Aslan's plan. But Ren was a fraction of a second too late.
Aslan read Ren's movement with equal speed. His hand, driven by an instinct fueled by ego and vendetta, had already drawn his custom personal pistol. He fired a suppressed round into Frey's head without hesitation. It was a crushing emotional blow—Ren had failed to save the victim right before his eyes.
Ren's gloved hand touched only empty air a moment before Frey's hot blood sprayed violently, soaking the leather gloves and staining part of Ren's cheek. Baron Frey collapsed, his body hitting the banquet table with a muffled thud, scattering expensive porcelain.
The five agents who had previously held Frey at gunpoint coordinated coldly, instantly shifting their sights toward Ren.
Ren didn't wait to be shot. As the first thunderous crack echoed, he lunged from his position with practiced, acrobatic grace. He slid across the slick marble floor, using a heavy round dining table as a primary shield. Bullets ricocheted off the silver table legs.
As Ren sought cover behind a concrete support pillar, a buzz of static forced its way through his hidden earpiece. It was Isaac. While dodging fire aimed at his vitals, Ren immediately accepted the transmission.
"Ren! [static] Only 40 seconds! The coup... it's happening on every floor! There's a firefight in the other rooms!" Isaac's voice crackled, punctuated by the hiss of a breaking frequency. "Lockdown... [static]—! Eye Tower is being sealed! I'm trying to cut the signal, but [static] it's only partially working!"
Ren responded with a heavy breath. Lockdown means being trapped in the Eye Tower, he thought.
"He's escaping!" Vera's voice suddenly followed, her tone tense. "I'm still monitoring the main feed. He's left the Executive Room, heading for the top floor. A small helicopter is prepped for an aerial extraction!"
Ren flinched, not just from the information, but from a sudden, stabbing coldness in the center of his chest that radiated through his nerves. It was the effect of the alcohol antidote pill he had swallowed when the shock grenade first detonated. The pill was working too fast, triggering sharp pain and temporary numbness in some of his muscles—an inhumane forced reset of his internal system. Yet, he had no choice but to endure it.
Aslan was intentionally slowing Ren down using the remaining agents on the 6th Floor. Realizing this, Ren accelerated his mental processing. He was no longer just evading.
Using his speed and precision while fighting the agonizing reset of the pill, Ren kicked a porcelain chair with a single, sweeping arc toward the head of the first agent. As the agent stumbled, Ren grabbed a large table leg nearby. He hurled the table like a high-velocity frisbee toward two other agents.
Ren leaped behind a buffet table laden with luxury canapés. The agents advanced cautiously. Ren snatched a thin, hard silver dinner knife and smashed a porcelain plate in front of him into jagged shards.
He hurled a porcelain shard the size of a disc toward the necks of the first and second agents. Crack! The shards struck their collarbones and earpieces. The agents collapsed, their communication channels severed and their consciousness shattered.
Vera hissed in his ear, "Ren, did you lose your daggers?"
The third agent fired. Ren used a nearby porcelain chair as a shield, then with a swift, curving kick, he shattered the fourth agent's leg.
"No, but I'm not allowed to use them," Ren whispered, his voice strained from holding back the pain of the internal reset.
Ren desperately wanted to end this obstacle quickly with his blades, but the signature kill-style of the daggers would only reinforce the narrative of Shiroi Hitsuji as a terrorist. His twin black daggers would rest this time.
The fifth agent was the fastest. Ren managed to slip beneath the gunfire, and as they came face-to-face, Ren used his leather gloves—now slick with Frey's blood—as a weapon. With a precise forearm strike, he slammed into the agent's solar plexus.
"Isaac, after this, use the limited communication window to guide me to the top floor. I obviously can't use the lift." While fighting the numbing reset weighing down his muscles, Ren locked the agent's arm, twisted it, and slammed him onto a collapsed table.
The last three agents crumbled under a combination of blunt objects and extraordinary speed. Gasping for air, Ren felt the pain in his chest and numbness spreading through his left shoulder. He had made it. The 6th Floor grew silent amidst the ruined ballroom.
Isaac's voice broke the silence through the earpiece. "The lift is still functional, but it's likely a trap. Get out of the Executive Room. The north hallway is the only way; you'll have to go through the emergency stairs, which are guarded by 2-3 agents on every floor."
"Good. Make sure they're all carrying pistols." Ren's answer left Vera and Isaac in a confused silence, ending their communication session. He stepped slowly toward the exit of the Executive Room.
Aslan was running. He had to catch up. But his hurried gaze stopped in the center of the room.
There, amidst the shattered crystal of the overturned banquet tables and crumbs of expensive appetizers, lay a pool of blood. It was Baron Frey's blood—dark and thick. However, what caught Ren's breath was another red liquid mixing with it.
A wine glass had shattered, and the dark red liquid was spreading across the white marble.
The metallic scent of fresh blood mingled with the sweet, tart aroma of alcohol. In Ren's eyes, the puddle on the floor was no longer just liquid; it was a sickening visual, representing two different but connected types of betrayal. He looked at it with deep loathing.
The betrayal he had to commit to survive during his teenage years.
Suddenly, the voice of a man familiar to Ren—the one who had forged him into a slick blade—echoed as if it were only yesterday.
"General Aslan's security system isn't your problem. The 'Fake Drawing' blueprint data we need isn't in the office; it's in his private vault..."
Ren stood frozen, his blood-soaked gloves suddenly feeling incredibly heavy. His breath hitched as traumatic memories flowed unbidden into his mind.
General Aslan's Residence, Two Years Ago
Inside a temporary safe house near the Merge District lighthouse, a thin moon shone in the bleak sky of the Marble Kingdom. Seventeen-year-old Ren—an age not even legal to hold a Kingdom weapon—wore a soldier's uniform as a perfect disguise. He sat on a steel chair, mechanically wiping his dagger.
A flat, slightly distorted adult male voice spoke through his hidden earpiece. "General Aslan's security system isn't your problem. The 'Fake Drawing' blueprint data we need isn't in his office; it's in his private vault, on the dressing table in his young wife's bedroom. Use all your tools and skills to steal the key."
Ren didn't answer. He merely tightened his leather gloves. The initial plan using a digital backdoor and force had failed completely. Meanwhile, the General's wife, Lilith, was an unexpected emotional firewall. Ren racked his brain, realizing that the only way through her psychological defense was via emotional betrayal.
Late at night, Lilith sat alone on a velvet sofa in the luxurious lounge of General Aslan's residence. At twenty years old, the boredom of her status and the coldness of her marriage made her feel much older. Her silk evening gown touched the cold marble floor.
In the corner, Ren stood tall in his uniform disguise—as a temporarily assigned personal bodyguard. Ren looked like a marble sculpture: young, rigid, and radiating a cold aura of danger. The youthful Lilith couldn't lie to her own heart; she was tired of the pretense of her status.
Lilith sipped her red wine. Her eyes weren't focused on the fireplace, but on Ren's unnatural composure.
She whispered softly, "You never drink, Soldier. Aren't you cold here? This fireplace is just a decoration, I think."
Ren didn't move from his position, his posture perfect. "My superiors forbid alcohol on duty, Madam. And cold is the optimal condition for vigilance."
Lilith laughed—a sound like breaking glass. She pointed to the sofa beside her. "So formal. Sit down, Soldier. The General won't return until dawn. And I need a friend to break this expensive silence."
Ren analyzed the situation. The General's trust in his wife was too great. The wife was the only access point to the vault. Ren saw this as an emotional crack he had to exploit carefully.
Ren walked toward the sofa. He didn't sit as ordered. He had only one chance—success or total failure. His mind calculated the emotional opening. "If you need assistance, simply say so, Madam."
Lilith's eyes flashed. She exhaled, leaning in toward where Ren stood. The scent of red wine filled his nose. "Drink. Accompany me in a drink." Lilith poured red wine into a fresh glass on the table.
Ren merely stared at the red liquid. Alcohol was a red line. It would dull his senses.
"My apologies, Madam—"
Lilith was already standing in front of Ren, trapping his words with her fingertip. She accepted no refusal. "This is not an offer; it is an order. Come, drink with me." Without waiting for Ren's response, Lilith took a sip of the red wine, then quickly landed her lips against Ren's. She forced the wine to pass from her mouth to his.
The cold, tart, metallic taste of the wine surged through, flooding Ren's senses. This was not just a forced physical invasion; it was a poison that jeopardized his entire mission. In a split second of struggle to restrain himself, the disciplined soldier felt that his red line had been violated. And there was no turning back.