Act 22 - Finale (Part 1)

The wind howled against the windows of the armored vehicle as Marcus stared out into the distance, the silhouette of London slowly shrinking behind him. The rain had returned—of course it had. It always did during moments like this. The city seemed to cry when it bled, and right now, Marcus could feel its pain.

He sat in silence in the backseat, one leg bouncing restlessly, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. Trees blurred past in the darkness. His hands, bandaged from the last confrontation, rested on a folder marked with a red emblem: Arno's Army. His thumb brushed over the seal slowly, again and again, like a ritual—like it helped keep Arno alive just a bit longer.

His mind was racing, but not with panic. It was precision now. Calculated, quiet, sharp like a scalpel. For the first time in his life, Marcus wasn't improvising. He had a plan. A purpose. No more hiding in the shadows of geniuses. No more waiting to be useful.

"You were always meant to be the final piece."

Arno's words echoed in his head.

"The one who adapts. The one who survives."

Marcus clenched his jaw. He would not let Arno's sacrifice be in vain.

The GPS gave a soft ping.

0.3 km remaining.

The vehicle curved around a narrow road flanked by heavy forest. Through the fog, the faint silhouette of the military facility came into view—an aging fortress of concrete and steel, half-buried in the earth. There were no guards posted outside. No ceremony. No welcoming committee. Just the thick silence of something waiting.

The gates opened automatically as he approached, sensors recognizing his presence—or rather, the encoded ID chip he now carried as Arno's successor.

The vehicle rolled inside and came to a halt. Marcus stepped out slowly, the rain meeting him instantly. He looked up at the old structure and exhaled, long and steady.

This wasn't just a building. It was a weapon. And now, it belonged to him.

He walked toward the entrance, the door sliding open with a mechanical hiss. The inside was dimly lit, empty… but not abandoned. Monitors flickered. Lights hummed low. The base wasn't sleeping—it was waiting for a new command.

Marcus stood in the central control room and looked over the consoles, then down at the small drive he carried.

Arno's entire strategy. Every name. Every movement. Every file. Everything needed to finally bring the Monarchs to their knees.

He slid the drive in.

Lights turned red.

The command interface opened with one word:

"COMMANDER: WOLF"

Marcus didn't smile. But something in his eyes shifted.

This wasn't vengeance anymore. It was justice.

Calculated. Coordinated. Precise.

The strings were tightening.

And this time, the Puppeteer would feel them pull.

The command room glowed in a faint blue hue as Marcus shut down the main terminal. The final line of data blinked on the screen:

"Mobilization ready. Troop status: 100%."

He took a deep breath and turned—James was already standing there.

Not just Arno's driver. Not just an assistant. James had always been the quiet constant in Arno's world. Loyal. Lethal, if needed. And now, silently waiting for orders.

Marcus spoke without hesitation.

"Do they know?"

James gave a single nod.

"They've been waiting, sir. Since the moment Arno fell."

Marcus swallowed hard and gave a small nod in return. "Then let's not make them wait any longer."

The giant hangar doors opened slowly. Rows upon rows of elite soldiers stood tall under the metallic ceiling of the German field base outside London. They were immobile—disciplined. But the air was heavy. It was the first time Arno wasn't standing before them.

Marcus stepped forward alone.

Each bootstep echoed like a war drum against the steel.

No podium. No microphones. Just his voice—and the weight of legacy.

"I'm not Arno Wolf," he said, voice steady. "I wasn't born for this. I wasn't trained to lead. I didn't ask for any of this."

A pause. The silence in the room sharpened.

"But neither did he. He didn't want to be a symbol. He became one because he fought for what mattered."

Marcus clenched his fists. "Because he stood for something when no one else would."

He scanned the crowd. Soldiers. Warriors. Survivors.

"And now he's gone. And he handed this legacy to me—not because I'm stronger than him. Not because I deserve it. But because he believed that I would finish what he started."

There was a shift. Barely visible.

Eyes narrowing. Shoulders straightening.

"You've bled for this mission. Buried your comrades for it. And now, this is the endgame."

Marcus took one step forward.

"This is the final curtain. And when it falls, they will remember who stood tall when everything was burning."

No roar followed. Just a single, rhythmic stomp from the front row.

Then another.

And another.

Until the entire room echoed with the rising thunder of unity.

Marcus looked down and whispered under his breath:

"The war begins at midnight."

Amidst the thunderous stomps of soldiers affirming their unity, one figure stood still in the back row—arms crossed, expression unimpressed.

Felix.

Barely twenty. Buzzcut. Boots too clean for a real soldier, yet his record showed three deployments, two commendations, and one disciplinary note for "excessive sarcasm in hostile environments."

He clicked his tongue, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

"Great. Another dramatic speech. How original," he muttered under his breath.

The soldier beside him shot him a glance. "Show some respect. That's Arno's successor."

Felix rolled his eyes. "Yeah, and Arno didn't talk like he was reading from a eulogy. He felt like a leader. Marcus? He's... I don't know. A walking PowerPoint with trauma."

He looked up toward the stage, watching Marcus's sharp posture as he descended the stairs.

"No jokes. No fire. No 'let's burn them to the ground' speech. Just... 'honor, duty, legacy.' Blah blah blah."

The other soldier frowned. "Maybe he's trying not to get us all killed."

Felix smirked. "Or maybe he's trying not to become Arno. Which, spoiler alert—he won't. At least Arno cared if we laughed once in a while."

His voice lowered as his smirk faded just slightly.

"Besides... I didn't join this war to stand still. I came for action. For a fight. Not for speeches and slow marching. Let's get to the real part."

He adjusted his rifle, slinging it over his shoulder. The kind of impatient fire in his eyes that could get someone promoted—or killed.

Then, with a quiet scoff, he whispered to himself,

"Let's see if he's more than just a name."

An older soldier gave Felix an incredibly serious look. His name was Johannes, a 29 year old who was known for taking everything seriously. "Are you crazy, Felix? You can't say something like that to a stranger you don't even know. He witnessed Arno's death. Probably even more happened to him. We should respect and support him. We should accept him as our new leader and Arno's successor."

Felix quickly turned away from Johannes. "You're even more boring than Marcus. From now on, I'll call you Johannes Boredom."

Johannes looked at Felix angrily. "Stop talking and focus on Marcus, you goddamn idiot!"

Felix gave Johannes a disgusted look. "Oh should I? But you're talking too!"

Even though both of them were talking loudly, the rest of the army just stood there and listened to the speech.

Marcus stood before the vast formation of soldiers, their silhouettes framed by the grey sky and the flags whipping in the wind behind him. His hands trembled slightly—not from fear, but from the weight of what was to come. His voice had been steady, composed, but something was still missing.

He paused. Then stepped forward.

His tone shifted—deeper, rawer, louder.

"I know I'm not Arno."

The murmurs died.

"He was your hero. Mine too. And he should be here—right now—leading you into battle, cracking some dumb joke before making the impossible feel easy. But he's not. Because the Monarchs took him from us. Because we let them."

He looked across the crowd—hundreds of faces. Different ranks. Different backgrounds. One army.

"I'm not here to replace Arno. I'm here to avenge him. And I swear—on his name, on every drop of blood we've lost, on everything that still makes us human—we end this now."

He raised his fist.

"They wanted a war in the shadows. But we're bringing the light."

The soldiers stirred.

"They turned our cities into battlefields. Then we'll turn their thrones into rubble."

More fists rose.

"They think they're untouchable—untouchable because of fear, because of chaos, because we've been leaderless. But look around you! You are the shield London forgot it had. You are the sword they never saw coming. Because I am not his true successor… YOU are Arno's legacy!"

The roar that followed could've cracked the sky.

"We strike at dawn. We do not retreat. We do not hesitate. We do not break. Because the last thing these bastards will ever see—"

He drew Arno's badge from his coat and held it high.

"—is us. United. Relentless. Unstoppable."

The cheer that followed was deafening. Even Felix, who had spent the speech grumbling and scowling, found himself clapping.

Marcus lowered his fist and stepped down, sweat beading on his brow. But in his eyes—finally—was that fire. The kind that could lead an army.

The road was long, winding through overgrown woods and forgotten outskirts—far enough from the city that even the sirens of the civil unrest couldn't reach it. As Eliza stepped out of the car, the silence felt unnatural. Not peaceful. Hollow.

Before her stood the old psychiatric clinic.

Northshire Psychiatric Hospital.

The sign was rusted and crooked, one chain barely clinging to the post. Ivy had devoured the outer walls, and several of the windows were boarded up. It looked less like a place of healing and more like a mausoleum built for secrets.

Eliza stepped forward.

The iron gates let out a groaning screech as she pushed them open. With each step down the cracked stone path, memories clawed their way back from the depths of her mind—faint, fragmented ones. Her father's voice. The smell of sterile hallways. The cold air of the waiting room. A warm hand on her shoulder.

"We help people here, Eliza. We help them find clarity."

He had said that once, when she visited him after school, her little backpack bouncing behind her. Back then, the clinic had been alive—full of nurses, doctors, patients. Now, it felt like the building itself was holding its breath.

She reached the front doors. One was slightly ajar, as if waiting for her. She hesitated.

Not because she was afraid—but because for the first time in a long while… she wasn't sure what she would find.

Eliza closed her eyes and exhaled slowly.

"Dad… if you knew what happened to this city…"

Then she stepped inside.

Dust swirled in the slanting light. The front desk was still there, half-collapsed. Folders were strewn across the floor. Somewhere deep within, she could hear the creak of metal—a door moving. Or maybe it was just the building groaning from old age.

No matter.

She was here now.

And if this place truly held the truth behind the Puppeteer, her father, and Cedric's past…

She would find it.

The Northshire Psychiatric Hospital loomed like a forgotten wound upon the land, its facade cracked, windows shattered, and iron gates groaning behind Eliza as she pushed them open. The air was thick with mold and history — a silence so deep it felt almost sacred. With each step, dust swirled around her boots like ghosts rising from the floorboards.

Her breath was shallow as she walked through the entrance hall, the faint outlines of institutional signage still barely legible on the crumbling walls. "Administration," she whispered, eyes locking onto a plaque half-dangling from rusted screws. That's where the office would be — her father's old office.

As she entered the main corridor, the temperature seemed to drop. Shadows stretched longer than they should have, and the air felt alive, pressing in on her from all sides.

Then she heard it.

"Eliza…"

A whisper — low, broken, trembling with something between love and rage.

She turned. Nothing.

Then again — from the hallway ahead.

"Eliza… why are you here?"

A figure flickered at the edge of her vision, a man in a white coat, eyes hollow, mouth twisted with grief. Her father. Or something that wore his face.

She kept walking, pushing forward.

"You weren't supposed to come back," the figure hissed, now standing in the hallway ahead. "You'll only ruin what little is left."

She shut her eyes, breathing deeply. "You're not real," she murmured. "You're not him."

But the vision stepped closer. His face was half-burnt, his voice hoarse. "I tried to protect you. I gave you everything I had, and you just left. Left me to rot in this place. You abandoned me, Eliza."

She walked through him — or through where he once stood — refusing to let her stride falter.

The walls seemed to close in tighter with each step. Lights flickered from nowhere. Whispers echoed behind her: "You're just like him." — "You're a failure." — "You couldn't even save Harrington."

Hands reached from the walls. A scream tore through the corridor — her father's scream — not of pain, but of despair.

One hand gripped her wrist, another clawed at her shoulder. She cried out but didn't stop. "I'm not here for you," she spat through clenched teeth. "I'm here for him."

"Then you'll die here, just like the rest of us," a voice screeched in her ear — and suddenly the shadows vanished, the hallway snapping back to stillness.

Eliza stumbled forward and collapsed to her knees, panting hard, sweat soaking through her shirt. Slowly, she looked up. A faded metal plaque hung crooked beside the door she now faced:

Dr. Harold Cole – Chief Psychiatrist.

She swallowed the lump in her throat.

"I'm sorry, Dad," she whispered. "But the truth doesn't hide in grief."

Her hand reached for the doorknob.

The door creaked open with a low groan, revealing the dust-choked remnants of an office long abandoned. Faded certificates lined the walls. A shattered photograph lay face down on the desk. Eliza stepped inside, careful not to disturb the silence that seemed to have settled like a second layer of dust.

Her flashlight flicked across rows of filing cabinets — some ajar, others sealed shut by rust and time. She moved to the nearest one, forcing the drawer open with a grunt. Inside: paper after paper, most yellowed with age, some barely legible.

Patient reports.

She flipped past names she didn't recognize. Some had scribbled red ink notes across them — Transferred, Deceased, Escaped.

Then she found it.

Ashwell, Cedric.

Her breath hitched. She pulled the file free and opened it.

It wasn't long. A few psychological assessments, a medical form, and a page that had been almost entirely blacked out. But one detail stood out:

"Extremely intelligent, yet emotionally unstable. Subject shows dissociative tendencies, acute observational capabilities, and persistent delusions involving guilt and control. Shows extreme care about his family. Possible psychogenic amnesia suggested."

She closed the file, eyes narrowing.

"Cedric… you never told me all of this," she whispered.

Still, she tucked the file under her arm and continued searching. A locked drawer caught her eye. With a firm pull and a sharp snap of old metal, it gave way.

A different set of files. Older. Labeled by number rather than name.

She flicked through them—until her hand froze.

A name.

A name she recognized instantly.

The name alone was enough to stop her breath. She stared at the cover, not believing it. A deep, sudden chill spread through her.

"…No way," she whispered.

She clutched the file tightly to her chest, closed the drawer without another glance, and turned for the door.

No more whispers. No more ghosts.

She had what she came for.

"I need to get this to Cedric," she muttered and broke into a sprint through the hallway, her boots thudding against the broken floor tiles as she vanished into the dark.

< 6 hours until midnight >

The tanks rumbled across the fractured outskirts of London. Rain whipped against the armored glass of the lead vehicle, but Marcus barely noticed. He sat in silence, staring dead ahead, his thoughts a storm louder than the one outside.

Behind him: dozens of armored trucks, hundreds of soldiers – Arno's army. And now his.

They crossed into the city like a phantom force, disciplined and focused. Civilians stood aside, some watching with awe, others with fear. But Marcus paid them no mind. There was only one goal. Only one destination.

The road narrowed as they approached the familiar ruins – the crumbling ground above the secret entrance to the Monarchs' underground base. The place where Arno had fallen. The place where everything had started.

The convoy came to a halt.

Marcus stepped out.

Boots hitting wet concrete.

He walked to the center of the clearing and pulled the heavy metal emblem from his coat – Arno's military insignia, now his.

With both hands, he raised it.

And then, without a word, he slammed it into the earth.

The sound echoed like thunder.

Soldiers behind him straightened their backs. Some lowered their heads. Others pressed a fist to their chest.

Marcus stepped back, rain streaking down his face, but his expression was like carved stone.

"He died here," he began, voice rising over the storm. "Arno Wolf. A man who didn't know how to quit. A soldier who gave everything – for us, and for the people we swore to protect."

He looked at the soldiers behind him – their eyes locked onto his.

"He gave me this army. And with it, I make you this promise: We will finish what he started."

The wind howled.

"We are the last wall standing between this city and annihilation. The Monarchs think they've won. They think they can replace order with chaos. But today, they'll see what happens when you back good men into a corner."

He paused, letting the words settle.

"Today, we fight not just as soldiers... but as his legacy."

With a nod, he turned to the massive hatch set into the ground – the same one he and Arno had once escaped through.

Marcus raised his hand.

"Open it."

With a mechanical hiss and the grind of gears, the iron gate of war creaked open – revealing darkness below.

Marcus pulled his rifle from his back, loaded it in one smooth motion, and spoke one final word:

"Move."

And so they entered the abyss.

Eliza's car rolled over shattered glass and smoldering debris as sie made her way back into the city. The skyline of London, once proud and noble, was now splintered by columns of smoke and flashes of fire. Sirens wailed in the distance. Gunshots rang out like a heartbeat. The city was at war.

She slammed the brakes near a barricaded checkpoint manned by a handful of loyal officers.

"Chief Cole!" one of them called out, wide-eyed and relieved. "You're alive!"

Eliza stepped out, slamming the door behind her. "What the hell happened?"

"The Puppeteer's death squads were just the beginning," the officer said, leading her toward a hastily built command station. "After Harrington's fall, the chaos spread. All the mistrust, the hate—it boiled over. Three separate factions declared war on us. Civilian-led, each one armed to the teeth. And people are listening."

Eliza's heart sank. "Where are they?"

He pointed at a digital map on a flickering screen.

"Here," he said, tapping the first. "A businessman named Richard Hale. He's seized the financial district, claiming he'll rebuild London under 'rational leadership'."

Another tap.

"Second, Thomas Greaves. Ex-police. He's taken control of several outposts and is calling on the remaining officers to join his law."

Final tap.

"And then there's Father Elijah Drayton. A religious fanatic who says this is God's judgment. He's turned an old cathedral into a fortress. His followers would die for him."

Eliza narrowed her eyes. "Let me guess. We can't send troops in?"

The officer shook his head. "We're stretched too thin. But if someone can take out the leaders… the rest might stand down. They're scared. Lost. Without their icons, they'll break."

Eliza looked at the map again, jaw set.

"I'll go," she said. "All three. One by one."

"Alone?" the officer asked.

She turned, already heading toward her car. "I won't be alone for long."

The engine roared to life, and as the rain began to fall again, Eliza Cole drove into a burning city with three names in her mind—three flames she would extinguish before dawn.

< 5 hours until midnight >