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Chapter 2 - CH.1:One Final Play

In a dimly lit room that reeked of smoke and silence, a man sat alone in a chair. He might've been called handsome once, if not for the jagged scar running down his cheek—a brutal slash of memory carved into flesh. His eyes, sharp and distant, stared ahead, not at the room, but at everything that led him here.

He never liked hospitals.

Too sterile. Too bright. Too honest.

The kind of place where no mask could hide you—not even his.

Lucien sat near the window, overlooking the city that once called him a genius, then a monster. Skyscrapers clawed at the sky. Below, life moved on—cars, people, laughter, sirens. All of it felt… distant.

Like a show he had long stopped watching.

On the table next to him, a small black folder lay open—documents, names, photos, red circles. The final pieces of a game he had spent years perfecting.

A game he no longer wanted to play.

He wasn't even thirty.

But he felt ancient.

People called him a prodigy when he was a child. A strategist. A visionary. Then they called him a tyrant. A manipulator. A snake.

Maybe they were all right.

He had built empires—not of steel or stone, but of people, secrets, and silence.

One word from him could change someone's life. Or end it.

And yet, for all that power…

He had no one to call a friend.

The door creaked behind him.

He didn't turn. He already knew who it was.

> "You're late," Lucien said quietly.

> "You didn't think I'd actually come, did you?"

> "I trained you better than that," Lucien replied, eyes still on the window. "I taught you how to lie. How to hide intention. How to wait for the right moment."

> "And now you'll see how well I learned."

The click of a safety.

A shift in the air.

Lucien smiled faintly. Not surprise. Not fear. Just… tired amusement.

> "So this is the end, then?" he asked.

> "It has to be."

> "I know."

He finally turned, meeting the eyes of the boy he once considered his successor. His only mistake—and his only hope.

> "You're doing what I would've done," Lucien said.

> "That's what scares me."

The shot rang out.

And for a moment, everything was silent again.

The bullet tore through the silence like a whisper with teeth.

Lucien staggered, not from surprise, but from the force itself. Blood seeped slowly through the fabric of his shirt, warm against his skin, like a final cruel embrace.

He didn't fall—not yet.

He looked up at the boy holding the gun. No hatred in his eyes. No rage. Only a cold, tired smirk.

> *"Fitting,"* Lucien whispered, voice barely audible. *"This is how it ends."*

As his knees buckled, time fractured.

And in that broken silence, his mind began to rewind—

not to the moment of betrayal,

but to the beginning.

To when he was still human.

A small apartment, cluttered with books and warm light. His mother's laugh. His father's tired smile.

Safety.

Until the night flames swallowed it whole.

Screams. Smoke. Sirens.

Lucien, no older than six, standing on the sidewalk barefoot, eyes wide, watching his world burn.

They told him it was an accident.

He never believed them.

Then came the system.

Foster homes. Institutions. Evaluations.

Cold hands patting his head while calculating his IQ.

He learned to smile. To obey. To impress.

And slowly, the wolves began to circle.

> "You're special, Lucien."

> "You could change the world."

> "Do this for us. Just this once."

They gave him scholarships. Labs. Projects. Access.

And in return, they took pieces of him—his time, his youth, his soul.

Until one day, he stopped caring.

The boy who once cried for his parents became the man who made others cry for theirs.

He rose.

He built empires.

Burned bridges.

Cut down anyone who stood in his way.

They called him a monster.

But he had only become what the world had taught him to be.

As the blood spread beneath him, Lucien let out a single, breathless laugh.

> *"I tried."*

He didn't know what that meant.

Tried to change the world?

Tried to be better?

Tried to care?

Maybe all of it. Maybe none.

He lay on the cold floor, staring at the ceiling. The lights above blurred, not from pain, but from exhaustion.

The smirk never left his face.

> *"I wonder…"* he thought, eyes growing heavy, *"…if it would've been different, had they not died."*

And then-

Nothing,

Just quietness and peace.

The smirk stayed on his lips, even as the light dimmed around him.

Even as the warmth drained from his fingertips.

He didn't beg.

He didn't scream.

He didn't reach out for help.

Because there was no one left to reach for.

> *"So this is how it ends…"*

Not with revenge. Not with redemption.

Just silence.

He had lived like a weapon—sharpened, used, and eventually discarded.

But in that final moment, as the pain faded into numbness,

he saw something else.

A boy.

Small, curious, naïve.

The version of himself that once believed in heroes.

That version was long gone.

Buried beneath years of blood, betrayal, and cold logic.

> *"I became what they made me."*

And yet…

something in him still mourned the boy he used to be.

The world around him blurred, the sound of sirens in the distance folding into nothing.

The ceiling, the lights, even the face of the one who killed him—

all vanished into darkness.

And in that darkness…

…there was peace.

Or so he thought.

There was no light.

No warmth.

Only the quiet hum of stillness.

Then—something.

A tug. A breath. A faint pulse at the edge of nothingness.

The silence cracked.

Lucien stirred.

His thoughts were foggy, like shattered glass rearranging itself.

His body… wrong. Heavy. Soft. Too soft.

The air smelled different.

Clean. Perfumed. Artificial.

He opened his eyes slowly—

light poured in, forcing him to squint.

A chandelier?

Silken sheets?

Pillows under his head?

He shifted—and immediately felt it.

His chest heaved more than it should have.

His limbs felt sluggish.

His stomach… jiggled?

Lucien froze.

What… what was this?

He pushed himself upright, groaning.

The mirror across the room greeted him with a face that was—

> "That's not me."

A boy.

Plump cheeks. Pale skin. Silvery white hair. Crimson eyes.

Lucien blinked.

Once. Twice.

Then narrowed his eyes.

> "Where the hell am I…?"

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