Act 21 - Anticipation

The night air was heavy, dense with mist and the anticipation of something irreversible.

Eliza stood before the grand, stone-clad building that once represented law and order—now just a fragile shell of what it used to be. Harrington's office was on the top floor, its light still burning through the fog like a lonely lighthouse. But tonight, it wasn't a beacon. It was a warning.

She inhaled deeply, steadying her breath. This wasn't just another confrontation. It was the final one. A man she once admired—trusted—had become a monster in a suit, more dangerous than anyone she'd ever hunted.

Her reflection in the glass doors caught her off guard: tired eyes, messy hair, a faint scar under her chin. She didn't recognize the woman staring back. Maybe that was good. Maybe that was exactly who she needed to be to finish this.

The doors slid open with a hiss. No turning back.

Her boots echoed across the polished marble floor as she stepped inside, unnoticed, unseen. The night shift at the precinct had grown thinner—ever since Directive 9 had gone into effect, few wanted to be here when Harrington gave his next order.

Eliza took the elevator in silence. Each floor that passed felt like a countdown.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

The door dinged softly. She stepped out.

The hallway was dim, illuminated only by the flickering fluorescents above. At the very end stood the door—mahogany, old, the name Sir Jonathan Harrington engraved in brass. Eliza took one last breath, her hand already curling into a fist.

She raised it.

And knocked.

Her fist hovered in the air, frozen just an inch from the door.

For a moment, the hallway vanished. The weight of the present gave way to a memory—sharp, vivid, and haunting.

She had just turned twenty-two when she walked into this building for the first time. Fresh out of training, nerves tangled in her chest, heart racing like she didn't belong. And yet, he had been there—Sir Jonathan Harrington—smiling, offering his hand not like a superior, but like an older brother.

"Welcome to the real work, Cole," he'd said, voice warm, eyes kind. "We've got a lot of good to do."

And they did. Together.

They chased leads, cracked cases, exposed corruption. There were nights they slept in interrogation rooms, mornings where laughter rang louder than sirens. She remembered his terrible jokes, the coffee runs, the unshakable belief he had in justice—and in her.

He was the only one who never treated her like she had something to prove. She had admired him. Trusted him.

Loved him like family.

But that man was gone.

What stood behind the door now wasn't Jonathan Harrington. It was a shell, warped and twisted by paranoia, grief, and the venomous whispers of the Puppeteer.

He had become cold. Obsessive. Violent.

And when he invoked Directive 9—sanctioning the deaths of innocents for the sake of "control"—Eliza had realized there was no saving him. He was no longer the brother she never had. He was a weapon wielded by a ghost in the shadows.

A tool of the Puppeteer.

She lowered her hand slowly and stared at the name on the door.

"You're not Jonathan anymore," she whispered.

Then, without another second of hesitation, she opened the door and stepped inside.

The office was dark.

Blinds drawn, the once-proud banners of the Metropolitan Police cast in shadow. The air was heavy—too still, too silent. And there he was. Sir Jonathan Harrington, sitting behind his desk like a marble statue. Eyes fixed on her, unblinking. His hair grayer than she remembered. His presence… hollow and yet suffocating.

"Eliza," he said, his voice low, taut like a pulled wire. "You've come back."

"I didn't come to beg," she said firmly. "And I didn't come for forgiveness. I came because someone has to stop you."

A pause.

Then a chuckle. Cold. Detached.

"You always did like to play the hero," Harrington said, standing slowly. "But heroes don't win in the real world. Not anymore."

"I believed in you," she said, stepping closer. "Do you remember that? You were like family to me. And now you're hunting civilians. You're letting the Puppeteer use you like a puppet."

His eyes twitched.

"Watch your mouth."

"You think you're in control, but he's still pulling the strings. Everything you've done—Directive 9, the executions, the betrayals—it's exactly what he wanted."

The air cracked as Harrington's fist slammed into the desk. His voice thundered:

"I AM the only one who understands what needs to be done! I see the bigger picture. You… you're just too weak to make the hard decisions."

"No," Eliza whispered, her hand tightening around the baton clipped to her belt. "I'm just still human."

That word struck a nerve.

"You think this is about humanity?" Harrington roared, stepping out from behind the desk. "I watched this city rot from the inside out. I saw officers die with hope in their eyes and bullets in their backs. I carried this institution—alone. And you—YOU—abandoned me."

"You abandoned yourself."

He lunged.

The fight erupted in a blur of movement. Harrington swung with brutal force, years of combat training behind every strike. Eliza ducked, pivoted, and brought her baton up, deflecting the blow and countering with a strike to his ribs. He didn't even flinch.

"You think you can stop me?" he spat, grabbing a metal rod from the side of the desk. "I taught you everything you know."

"Not everything," she hissed.

The room became a warzone. Papers flew, furniture shattered. Each blow was personal. Decades of loyalty burned away with every strike. Harrington was relentless—fueled by betrayal, by pain, by the darkness that had swallowed him whole.

Eliza's breathing grew heavy. She was fast, precise—but he was stronger. And more unhinged with every second.

This wasn't just a fight.

This was a reckoning.

A heartbeat of silence.

Then Harrington moved.

Out of nowhere, his coat flared open and a pistol was drawn—too fast, too fluid. The muzzle flashed, and a deafening crack echoed through the room.

Eliza gasped, stumbling backward as the impact threw her against the wall. Her baton clattered to the floor.

She slid down the plaster, breath knocked out of her, eyes wide. Blood didn't bloom from her chest. But the pain radiated like fire.

Harrington stepped forward, slowly, the pistol raised. "You shouldn't have come back."

He aimed again.

But Eliza's voice cut through the silence. Strained, but alive.

"I wore a vest. You taught me that too."

She raised her arm. Her own sidearm now pointed squarely at him.

He fired again.

She dove to the side, the bullet grazing her arm and shredding through a cabinet behind her. She rolled, ducked behind the shattered desk, and returned fire—two shots cracking like lightning across the office.

Glass exploded. A lamp shattered. Harrington cursed and took cover behind a filing cabinet.

They were in a deadlock. A standoff of minds and reflexes.

"Still so predictable," Harrington growled. "You never had the stomach for this."

"And you never had the heart," Eliza shot back.

Another exchange of fire. Sparks danced off metal. Books fell from the shelves like silent witnesses.

Eliza crawled closer, her ears ringing. She could feel her pulse in her throat. One shot left. She steadied her breathing.

Harrington stood. His gun raised.

So did she.

Two figures, once allies. Now opposing sides of a broken dream.

The final shot was coming.

The air trembled with tension—then Harrington shifted his aim.

Not at Eliza.

At the exposed gas line in the corner of the room.

BOOM.

The shot rang out, and a split-second later, a violent blast erupted behind her, flames licking the air as the gas ignited. The shockwave threw Eliza to the floor, ears ringing, lungs burning.

She rolled, coughing, stumbling to her feet as the office behind her went up in a storm of fire and smoke.

She didn't have time to process it—only to run.

Boots pounding against scorched tile, she sprinted into the hallway just as Harrington emerged from the smoke, coat billowing, eyes filled with unholy fury.

"You're not walking out of here," he shouted, his voice distorted by the heat and his own madness.

Eliza dashed down the corridor. She turned left—barricaded. Thick metal bars welded into the wall, cutting off the emergency stairwell.

Only one path remained.

The one he wanted her to take.

She bit her lip and pressed forward, heart pounding, every sense on high alert.

Click.

Too late.

A steel cable snapped upward, just missing her leg as sharpened metal spikes slammed into the wall beside her. She gasped and dove aside.

A trap.

And not the last one.

Eliza froze for a moment, scanning the hallway. Small pressure plates, wires running along the ceiling—tripwires disguised as light fixtures.

He had planned this.

He had fortified the entire building like a maze of death, anticipating her return, anticipating this very moment.

"You turned this place into a deathtrap," she hissed under her breath. "You really did lose yourself."

She kept moving, slower now, eyes scanning every inch, mind racing. Harrington was still behind her, his footsteps patient, deliberate.

"This building used to protect people," she muttered. "Now it's just your stage."

The scent of smoke followed her, the groan of stressed metal echoing through the halls. Every corner felt like a trap. Every breath was a countdown.

And Harrington was the director of it all.

Eliza pressed forward, every muscle taut, her breath shallow. The corridor narrowed, strewn with debris and glinting wire. She crouched, moving carefully beneath a tripline, then rolled over a pressure plate, her body grazing the edge by millimeters.

Clink—

A blade snapped from the ceiling.

She ducked low, hearing it whistle past her ear.

Behind her, footsteps echoed—slow, steady. Jonathan wasn't rushing. He was enjoying this.

"You're good, Eliza," his voice drifted down the corridor like a ghost, calm and taunting. "But I taught you everything you know."

She didn't respond. Her focus was razor-sharp. The hallway split. One side sloped downward—a trap. She took the narrower path. A swinging pipe slammed toward her; she slid beneath it on instinct.

A siren blared above her. Red lights began to flash.

Harrington had activated lockdown protocol.

Doors slammed shut behind her. One nearly clipped her heel.

She kept moving.

Past a severed support beam.

Over broken tiles.

Through a flickering archway.

And then—finally—she reached it.

The cafeteria.

The once-bustling heart of the precinct now lay in eerie silence. Plastic trays still on tables. Chairs scattered. Fluorescent lights buzzed softly above cracked linoleum. It was a strange, almost nostalgic calm amid chaos.

Eliza exhaled sharply and collapsed against a support pillar, sweat beading on her forehead. She wiped soot from her face, her pulse still hammering.

Then—footsteps again.

He was still coming.

And this time, she wasn't going to keep running.

Not anymore.

She scanned the room quickly.

Metal forks. Gas burners. Heavy chairs. A ventilation shaft.

Her mind pieced them together like a puzzle.

If this place was going to be a trap, it was going to be her trap now.

She stood up slowly.

And waited.

The cafeteria door creaked open.

Eliza turned, fists clenched. Harrington stepped into the pale light. His once-pristine uniform was torn, his face smeared with soot, but his eyes—those cold, sharp eyes—had never been more focused.

He said nothing. He didn't need to.

With a flick of his wrist, two curved daggers slid from holsters at his sides. The sound of metal against leather echoed through the room like a warning bell.

Eliza took a breath. No more talking. No more hesitation.

He lunged.

She sidestepped, narrowly dodging the right blade. The left came in low—she blocked it with her forearm, gritting her teeth at the burning pain that followed.

Eliza retaliated with a solid elbow to his jaw. He staggered back, only for a second, before slashing forward again.

Steel met air.

Again.

Again.

Each strike was calculated, brutal.

He was faster, stronger—but she was smarter.

She rolled over a cafeteria table, kicked it into his path, and used the brief pause to grab a steel tray. Not ideal—but it would do.

He slashed at her; she blocked with the tray. Sparks flew. He snarled and kicked her hard in the ribs. She crashed into a counter, groaning.

"Still standing?" Harrington growled.

"Always," she spat, wiping blood from her lip.

He charged.

They grappled now, no room for distance. She ducked under his blade, wrapped her arms around his torso, and slammed him back into a fridge. One of his knives clattered to the floor. She reached for it—but he caught her wrist and twisted hard.

She screamed and headbutted him.

He stumbled.

And that's when she saw it—the emergency exit door with a fire sign leading upstairs. Above it: Roof Access.

Of course. The helipads. She just needed to make it there.

She kicked a rolling food cart into him and bolted.

Harrington roared behind her. "You're not escaping!"

But she was already sprinting up the stairs, two at a time, the steel thudding beneath her boots. Her lungs burned. Her vision blurred. But she didn't stop.

She couldn't stop.

Because this time, it wasn't about survival anymore.

It was about ending this.

The door to the rooftop burst open with a bang as Eliza stumbled into the cold night air.

Rain lashed her face like needles. The city lights shimmered below in a blur of gold and red. Wind howled past the rooftop ledges, carrying with it the scent of smoke and something worse—metallic, sharp. Blood.

Eliza looked around frantically.

Nothing.

No helipads.

No choppers.

No escape.

The rooftop was barren.

Her stomach sank. "No…"

It had all been a lie.

She staggered forward, scanning the dark corners. A faint hope that maybe one remained. Maybe—

Footsteps.

Heavy. Deliberate. Slow.

She turned.

Harrington emerged from the rooftop door, soaked in shadow and rain, blood dripping down the side of his face. His remaining dagger gleamed under the stormy sky like the teeth of a wolf.

Eliza backed away, her heart thudding like a drum.

"There were never any helicopters," she whispered. Her voice nearly lost in the wind.

"No," Harrington said, stepping forward. "There weren't."

"You knew I'd come here."

"I counted on it."

His face twisted into something that once resembled a man—now just rage and delusion bound in flesh.

"This ends tonight," Eliza said. "Not with me running. Not anymore."

Harrington stopped, tilted his head slightly.

"Good," he said darkly. "Because I wasn't going to let you leave anyway."

The wind whipped between them.

No more words.

Only purpose.

Eliza planted her feet.

She had no backup. No exit. No plan.

Only resolve.

It ends here.

The storm above cracked open like a final curtain rising.

Eliza surged forward, rain soaking through her clothes, boots slamming against the rooftop tiles as she met Harrington head-on. Steel clashed—his last dagger against a metal rod she'd wrenched from a broken pipe on the stairwell. Sparks flew. Every blow between them echoed with years of buried emotion.

He had once taught her how to fight.

Now he was trying to kill her.

Harrington roared, swinging wide. Eliza ducked, rolled, and came up swinging her makeshift weapon. He parried and countered with a knee to her ribs. She stumbled—but didn't fall.

"You were better than this!" she shouted through gritted teeth. "You were supposed to protect people!"

"And what did protecting them get us!?" he howled back, his voice raw, cracking with madness. "Slaughtered by fanatics? Betrayed by shadows?! The system is broken, Eliza!"

He struck again—vicious, fast. She barely blocked.

"You don't fix a broken system by becoming a monster," she spat.

But Harrington didn't hear her anymore.

He was beyond reason now. Just a beast of purpose with no morality left.

He swung down with full force.

Eliza caught the blade in both hands, the edge inches from her face, trembling against her grip. Blood ran from her palms.

Her eyes met his. They weren't the eyes of a mentor anymore.

They were hollow.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

And with all her strength, she twisted.

The dagger clattered to the ground.

Before Harrington could react, she drove the steel pipe through his chest.

He gasped—a broken, stunned sound.

The rage drained from his eyes. For a moment, just a moment, there was clarity again.

"Eliza…" he rasped, collapsing to his knees.

Rain mingled with the blood that spread from the wound.

She stepped close, holding his face in one trembling hand.

"I wish you had stayed the man who taught me what justice meant," she whispered.

Harrington blinked slowly, eyes distant now.

Then Eliza leaned in and said her final words, the words that would haunt the city long after the curtain fell:

"You let the darkness write your ending. I chose to rewrite mine."

With that, Jonathan Harrington—once a protector, then a tyrant—slumped forward.

The rooftop went still.

The storm began to fade.

The storm had quieted, but the weight in Eliza's chest hadn't.

She stood over Harrington's still body, soaked in rain and blood, her makeshift weapon clattering from her trembling hand. Her breaths were uneven. Each inhale felt like it dragged a lifetime behind it. Her shoulders slumped—not from exhaustion, but from grief. From release. From the crushing knowledge that it had come to this.

Footsteps echoed on the stairwell behind her.

For a heartbeat, her instincts flared—ready for more fighting. But when the rooftop door swung open, it wasn't more enemies.

It was her fellow officers.

Five… ten… twenty… They spilled onto the rooftop, weapons lowered, hesitant at first—then stunned.

One of them, Officer Harlow, stepped forward. He looked down at Harrington's lifeless form, then up at Eliza. His eyes glistened. Then he saluted.

"You did it," he said quietly. "You actually did it."

Another officer nodded. "He wasn't a leader anymore. Just a monster."

"We all saw it," someone else said. "We just... didn't know how to stop him."

Eliza stood in stunned silence, and then—a single pair of arms wrapped around her. Then another. And another.

One by one, the officers stepped forward. No longer saluting. No longer bound by rank.

They hugged her. They thanked her. They whispered things they'd kept buried for too long:

"I hated what he'd become." "He would've gotten us all killed." "You saved the city."

And then, for the first time in what felt like forever, Eliza cried. Not from sadness. Not entirely. But from the unbearable relief of not being alone anymore.

Later, when the rain had thinned and dawn was beginning to bleed into the sky, Eliza stood before the assembled officers inside the briefing room of the precinct. No grand speech. No fanfare.

Just words that mattered.

"We rebuild now," she said. "But not with fear. Not with tyranny. We do it right. And we finish this."

There were no objections. Only quiet nods.

Eliza turned to the communication terminal and picked up the secure line.

"This is Commander Eliza Cole," she said into the mic. "Authorization 5-A. Operation Dawnfire is now active."

She paused, then added:

"Marcus, your army has clearance. Move in."

A long silence answered her—then Marcus' voice came through, steady and fierce:

"Understood. Let's end this."

And for the first time in what felt like forever, hope wasn't just a word. It was action.

Eliza stood once more in the ruins of Harrington's office, the storm outside finally calming into a dull patter against the shattered windows. The air inside still carried the metallic tang of gunpowder and the scorched scent from the damaged gas line, but beneath the chaos, something caught her attention.

His desk.

It stood there, almost untouched—a symbol of power now stripped of its owner. She walked slowly toward it, her boots crunching on scattered debris. Her hands moved with purpose, sweeping aside the books and loose files until her fingers found a false panel beneath the drawer.

Click.

Inside was a small black box. She opened it carefully—and there it was.

The key to the lower cells.

Her breath caught. This was it—the thing she needed to free Cedric.

But beside the key, nestled under a stack of folded papers, lay something else. A leather-bound folder with a faded seal she hadn't seen in years: Northshire Psychiatric Hospital.

Her hands trembled slightly as she opened it.

Inside: old patient records. Some she recognized—others were redacted, scribbled out in thick black ink. But one stood out.

Cedric Ashwell.

A file she had never seen before.

Scans of therapy logs. Psychological evaluations. A schedule of medication. But it wasn't just Cedric's file. She flipped further and found another name.

Dr. Harold Cole.

Her father.

Her eyes widened. He had worked there—she had known that. But this… this was something else. Dates and notes revealed he'd been Cedric's primary caretaker. And near the back, a note in her father's handwriting:

"The boy knows more than he realizes. But the real danger lies in what the Puppeteer left behind in these halls. God help us all if anyone ever finds it."

Eliza closed the folder slowly, her thoughts racing.

This place... this clinic... It's the last piece of the puzzle.

The key in her hand, the folder under her arm, Eliza left the office—not just with a renewed mission, but with the chilling realization that the final answers weren't buried in the war they were fighting now.

They were buried in the past.

And it was time to dig them up.

The heavy metal door to Cedric's cell creaked open with a slow, resonant groan. The dim light of the hallway spilled across the cracked floor, illuminating Cedric's silhouette as he slowly rose from the narrow bench where he had been waiting, silent and motionless.

Standing in the doorway was Eliza.

She didn't speak at first. Her eyes met his, and for a moment, no words were needed. She stepped forward and held up the key—his key—then slipped it into the lock on the inner gate. The mechanism gave way with a solid click.

"You're free," she said quietly.

Behind her, Marcus stepped into view. His face was more serious than Cedric had ever seen it. There was a fire in his eyes now—focused, disciplined, and burning with quiet determination. Gone was the boy who hesitated. This was someone who had decided.

Cedric stepped forward, slowly, as if unsure whether to believe the moment was real. Then he reached through the bars and took Eliza's hand, stepping fully into the corridor.

No one spoke for a few seconds.

Then Cedric, voice gravelly from disuse, finally broke the silence. "It's almost time."

Marcus nodded. "The army's waiting. The Monarchs won't know what hit them. I'm going to finish what Arno started."

Eliza looked between the two of them. "I'm heading to Northshire. The clinic. There's something there. Records. Files. The truth." She held up the folder she had found in Harrington's office. "I think that's where I'll find his real identity."

Cedric took a breath, sharp and clear. "And I'll be at La Belle Nuit. Midnight. He'll be there. And when he shows—" his voice turned cold, razor-sharp, "—I end him."

There was a heavy silence again, but this time it wasn't emptiness. It was purpose.

Eliza stepped closer. "Three paths. One goal."

Marcus looked at both of them, then extended his hand.

"Together."

Eliza placed hers over his.

Cedric, after a moment of hesitation, put his hand over theirs.

All three looked at one another—scarred, broken, but unbowed.

"We finish this," Cedric said.

"We finish him," Eliza added.

Marcus gave a small smile. "And we don't stop until it's over."

They broke the hand stack, nodded once more—then turned without another word.

Three figures moving in three directions.

But for the first time in a long time… not alone.

The tension in London had long passed its boiling point—now, it had erupted.

In the heart of the city, on Parliament Square, hundreds of angry civilians gathered. Makeshift banners were held high, slogans chanted, megaphones blaring demands for justice. But this wasn't a peaceful protest anymore. This was war.

At the front of one group stood a sharply dressed businessman, his tie loosened, eyes blazing with fury. "They think Harrington's death changes anything?" he shouted. "They allowed him to rule unchecked! They're all guilty!"

Beside him was a former police officer, his badge tossed into the dirt at his feet. "I tried to fix things from the inside," he growled to those around him. "They silenced anyone who questioned the orders. Harrington was just the face—this system is diseased."

And next to them, standing slightly apart, was a man in a tattered robe, holding a worn Bible and muttering prayers. His eyes were wild, his voice feverish. "This city must burn for its sins. The Puppeteer is judgment, and we... we are the fire!"

More and more gathered. Some were misled by fake evidence still circulating from the Puppeteer's manipulations. Others simply wanted blood for the losses they had endured during Harrington's rule.

But not everyone agreed.

As the crowd surged forward, a line of uniformed officers stood in defense—not just police, but citizens too. People who had seen Eliza's rise, who had watched her fight for justice, who believed in change.

Tensions snapped.

In an instant, chaos ignited.

Glass shattered. Smoke grenades hissed. Screams rang through the night as police stormed several assembly points to prevent escalation—but it was too late. Across the city, smaller gatherings turned into riots. Pro-police and anti-police factions clashed violently. Fires were set. Shots were fired.

This wasn't a protest anymore.

This was civil war.

The Puppeteer's vision was becoming reality. Not through force—but through fear, mistrust, and chaos. And now, as London burned from within, the final act approached.

The air inside La Belle Nuit was still—almost reverent.

Dust hung in the theater like a curtain of its own, catching the dim light from the shattered chandelier above. The once-grand seats stretched out before the empty stage, watching in silence like loyal subjects before their king.

And there he stood.

The Puppeteer.

Alone.

Draped in his dark, finely tailored coat, hands clasped behind his back, he gazed out across the stage from the orchestra pit. His porcelain mask, now slightly cracked near the jaw, reflected the flicker of a single spotlight overhead. The room, like always, obeyed his silence.

But inside?

Inside, he was thinking.

Processing.

Feeling... disrupted.

He had just received the report. Harrington—his most chaotic pawn—was dead.

Shot.

By Eliza Cole.

A death he hadn't planned.

The Puppeteer stepped slowly onto the stage, the wooden floor creaking beneath his boots. He reached the center and looked up, toward the rafters. Then he raised one hand and pulled at a hidden string.

With a soft groan, the red velvet curtain began to fall.

And yet he didn't speak. Not yet.

He turned, glancing at the small notebook on the edge of the stage—his script. Pages filled with maps, movements, dialogues, contingencies. Harrington's demise was... not there.

The Puppeteer exhaled through his mask. A sound low and hollow.

He murmured, to no one but the theater walls,

"How strange..."

He closed the book.

"...You were supposed to last longer, Jonathan."

For the first time in years, his voice held something alien to him: uncertainty.

He sat at the center of the stage, crossing one leg over the other, fingers steepled beneath his chin.

"The stage still stands... but the actors improvise now."

He leaned forward, eyes narrowing behind the mask. "That's new."

A slow grin began to form beneath the porcelain.

He whispered—quiet and dangerous:

"So be it. Let's see what chaos looks like... without strings."

< 8 hours until midnight >