Act 23 - Finale (Part 2)

The air above the business district was heavy with smoke and chaos. Sirens wailed in the distance, echoing between the steel and glass canyons of London's financial center. Eliza Cole stepped out of the black police van, her boots hitting the pavement with quiet determination. Around her, armed officers scrambled to establish a perimeter. Protesters-turned-rioters clashed with law enforcement in the streets below, their rage fueled by fear, misinformation, and the vacuum of leadership left in the wake of Harrington's fall.

A young officer approached her, his vest smeared with ash and sweat. "Ma'am, we've contained most of the lower floors, but the upper levels are still under control of Hale's people. They're using security drones and private guards to keep us out."

Eliza narrowed her eyes at the tall tower looming before her—an angular beast of glass and chrome, its mirrored surface cracked in places from stray gunfire and thrown debris. "And Richard Hale himself?"

The officer nodded grimly. "Last confirmed sighting, he's on the roof. He's broadcasting live statements—blaming the police for the chaos, presenting himself as a stabilizing force, offering citizens 'protection' in exchange for loyalty and shares." He paused, disgusted. "He's exploiting this to boost his empire."

Eliza's expression hardened. "Of course he is."

She stepped forward, eyes fixed on the building's peak. "What about elevator access?"

"Disabled. But the emergency stairwells still work. They're patrolled by his private guards. If you're planning to go up, it won't be quiet."

"It never is," she said softly, adjusting her gloves. Her voice was steady, but her heart pounded.

As she walked toward the building's entrance, the shouting around her faded into the background. The Puppeteer had broken Harrington. The Monarchs had plunged London into hell. And now, this parasite of a man was using it all to his advantage. It had to end here. Not with chaos. Not with empty vengeance.

But with justice.

The glass doors opened with a hiss as she stepped inside. The lobby was eerily silent. A receptionist's desk had been overturned. Paintings lay shattered on the floor. Blood stained the edges of the marble tiles. Hale's guards were well-trained, ex-military by the look of it. She could hear footsteps above—controlled, organized.

One step at a time, Eliza began her ascent.

As Eliza climbed the dim emergency stairwell, her breath steady and her mind sharper than ever, something clicked.

It wasn't the people. It was the voices.

Even through the chaos, the crowd noise, and the scattered resistance, three voices rang out like thunder—clear, impassioned, and infectious. The businessman, the ex-cop, the fanatic. Eliza realized with chilling clarity: They weren't leading the chaos. They were the chaos.

The average citizen wasn't fighting because they hated the system. They were fighting because someone told them to. And Richard Hale? He was the loudest voice of them all.

Every live broadcast. Every exaggerated death toll. Every edited clip of police brutality aired in perfect resolution across thousands of public screens. Richard Hale didn't just profit off fear—he manufactured it.

About halfway up, Eliza turned a corner and nearly drew her weapon—only to freeze as she saw a young man standing there, hands raised.

He looked about twenty-five, dressed in a half-buttoned shirt and sleek corporate trousers, but his eyes were tired, and his voice wavered with something real—regret.

"You're Eliza Cole," he said, breathless. "I—I know who you are. I'm Liam. I'm Richard's vice director."

Eliza kept her hand close to her weapon. "And why should I care?"

"Because I'm not with him," Liam said quickly. "I was. I believed in what we were doing. But this… this isn't order. It's not stability. He's gone completely off the rails." He hesitated, then stepped forward slowly. "I don't want this to be my legacy. Let me help you."

Eliza's eyes narrowed. "How?"

Liam reached into his pocket—slowly, deliberately—and pulled out a small keycard. "This gives access to the executive elevator. It still runs. I disabled the lockdown this morning."

"Why?"

He looked her dead in the eyes. "Because someone had to stop him. And I can't."

Eliza took the card. For a brief moment, their hands touched, and he whispered, "He's expecting you."

"Good," she said. "Let's not disappoint him."

With Liam guiding her through a private corridor, they reached the executive elevator—sleek, gold-trimmed, untouched by the surrounding chaos. As the doors slid shut behind her, Eliza inhaled deeply.

The numbers climbed.

So did her pulse.

Next stop: the rooftop.

And Richard Hale.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft hiss, revealing the rooftop bathed in the pale glow of early evening. Eliza stepped out first, eyes scanning the space. Liam followed behind her—nervous but determined. The rooftop was deceptively quiet. The cool wind tugged at their coats, carrying with it the distant sounds of chaos from the streets far below.

Then—

A sudden movement.

Before Eliza could react, Richard Hale stepped out from behind one of the ventilation units, a pistol in his hand. In a flash, he lunged forward, grabbed Liam by the collar, and yanked him backward. The younger man stumbled, but before he could resist, Hale had the gun pressed firmly against his temple.

"Don't move," Hale snarled, his voice low and venomous.

"Liam!" Eliza shouted, stepping forward.

"Stay right there," Hale barked. "One more step and your little ally paints the roof red."

Liam's face was pale with shock, his hands slowly raising in the air. "Eliza… don't," he muttered.

Eliza froze, her hands slightly raised to show she wasn't a threat. Her eyes were locked on Hale.

"You've completely lost it, Richard."

"No," he said sharply. "I've found clarity. You think you can walk in here, take everything I built, and walk away with clean hands? I built an empire while the world tore itself apart."

"By tearing it apart further," Eliza shot back. "You're not a visionary. You're a parasite."

"You think I care?" Hale growled. "This business—this city—doesn't run on justice. It runs on power. And right now, I still have it."

Eliza's voice dropped to a lower, colder tone. "Then let's see how much power you really have… when your own company sees you holding your vice president at gunpoint."

That gave Hale pause. His eyes flickered to the side—just in time to see two senior employees stepping onto the rooftop. They had been silently watching through the access door. Their expressions were cold. Calculating.

Before Hale could process it, one of them hurled a metal clipboard at his hand. The gun jolted. Liam ducked and rolled away. In the same second, the other employee tackled Hale from the side.

Eliza moved.

She closed the distance in three strides, kicked the weapon away, and slammed Hale face-first into the rooftop tiles. Her knee dug into his back as she snapped the handcuffs over his wrists.

"Business closed," she said flatly.

Liam stood shakily, rubbing his temple, staring at Hale in disbelief.

"Thanks for not giving up," he said softly.

Eliza straightened up and looked out at the skyline. "One down. Two to go."

The ground trembled beneath the boots of hundreds as Marcus and his army stormed through the broken entrance into the underground facility of the Monarchs. Explosions rang in the distance. Shouts echoed down the halls. It had begun—the final assault.

Marcus led from the front, rifle in hand, eyes sharp and voice firm as he barked orders. "Push forward! Stay close! Watch the corners!"

Bullets flew through the air as the Monarch guards scrambled to respond. The first wave of resistance was fast, chaotic—Monarch Tier 1 fighters emerged from the shadows, firing desperately. But the soldiers were well-trained and motivated. They dropped the Monarchs with swift precision, moving like a storm of steel and purpose through the hallways Arno once walked.

Sparks flew as shots ricocheted from metal walls. Smoke and dust choked the corridors. Bodies fell on both sides—but the momentum was with the army. For every soldier that dropped, two Monarchs were brought down in return.

Marcus ducked behind cover, eyes scanning ahead. He glanced at the leather-bound notebook he kept strapped to his belt—the one Arno had filled with every detail he knew about the enemy.

He flipped it open with practiced fingers as gunfire blazed behind him.

Then he froze.

Tier 3 Units. Special Equipment. Gas Dispersal Weapons.

His eyes widened. "GAS! THEY'RE BRINGING GAS!"

He turned and shouted with all his might. "MASKS! NOW!"

Without hesitation, his soldiers scrambled, pulling their gas masks from their belts and packs. Just in time.

Ahead, the air hissed. Dozens of Monarch Tier 3 soldiers emerged—towering, masked, equipped with large pressurized canisters strapped to their backs. A faint green mist began to fill the tunnels.

But Marcus' army was ready.

The gas slithered harmlessly through the ranks, unable to break their line. The Tier 3s, now expecting easy kills, were met instead with gunfire, smoke grenades, and precision strikes.

Marcus aimed down his sights and fired, dropping one of the gas-wielding soldiers with a clean shot to the chest. "That's for Arno," he muttered under his breath.

The battle pressed forward, brutal and relentless—but the army held strong.

And Marcus?

He didn't slow down for a second.

Rain splashed against the cracked pavement as Eliza arrived in front of the abandoned police station — once a proud building, now turned into a stronghold by chaos. Crowds had gathered outside, many armed and wearing makeshift uniforms, some even carrying real police gear from old supply lockers. At the center stood Thomas Greaves — once a respected officer, now a self-proclaimed savior.

He stood on a concrete platform, addressing the crowd with booming authority.

"The system failed you!" he shouted. "I was once a protector of order — and I still am! If you follow me, you follow the real law!"

The crowd cheered. Desperate civilians, misled and angry, hung on his every word.

Eliza watched from a distance, her fists clenched. This was no longer about politics or control — this was Milgram's experiment reborn. That infamous test, where ordinary people inflicted pain on others because a man in a lab coat told them to. Greaves had become the lab coat. The illusion of legitimacy.

"He's not powerful," Eliza whispered. "He's just a loud voice in a uniform."

But the voice had an army. And so did she.

Over her comms, she rallied her allies — ex-police, trusted fighters, loyal to her cause. As they approached, Greaves' followers drew weapons. The parking lot became a warzone.

A civil war in blue.

Bullets flew. Shields clashed. The echo of gunfire mixed with shouting. Eliza darted between barricades, giving commands, disarming opponents, striking with precision. Her squad pushed forward, regaining ground.

Then — an opening.

She broke through a side entrance, took down two guards, and stepped into the building's heart. There he was.

Thomas Greaves.

The man turned, smiling coldly. "You finally made it."

"You're brainwashing them," she said. "You're not saving anyone."

"I'm giving them strength," he snapped, drawing a heavy baton. "You always talked, Eliza. You were always soft. That's why you were never good enough."

She took a breath, dropped into a stance. "Maybe. But this fight isn't about words."

His smile faded. "No. It's about who survives."

Then it began.

No mind games. No tricks. Just raw instinct and skill.

And Eliza had plenty of both.

The air inside the decrepit police station was thick — with dust, tension, and the weight of everything Eliza had been through. Across from her, Thomas Greaves gripped his heavy baton in both hands, his muscles tense and his eyes locked on her like a predator preparing to strike.

"I was a lieutenant before you even wore your first badge," he growled.

Eliza didn't flinch. "And yet I'm the one still standing for the people."

With a roar, he charged.

The baton whistled through the air — a wide arc meant to break ribs. But Eliza dodged, graceful and efficient, using the footwork she had once been taught by the very man who betrayed her — Harrington. Greaves spun around for a second blow, but Eliza stepped inside his guard, slammed her elbow into his ribs, and pushed him back.

Greaves was fast, brutal, and powerful — but Eliza had fought smarter monsters.

He feinted high and struck low, nearly sweeping her legs. She rolled away and drew a smaller baton from her belt, catching his next strike mid-air with a sharp clang. They traded blows, batons clashing, fists landing. Sweat and blood mixed on the cracked station floor.

Then — she saw it.

A familiar stance. The exact same one Harrington had used in their final fight.

A weakness.

She exploited it instantly — sidestepped his overhead swing, locked his arm mid-swing, and drove her knee into his stomach. He staggered. She twisted his wrist, disarmed him, and sent him crashing to the floor with a heavy thud.

He reached for a hidden weapon — but Eliza was faster.

She pressed her baton to his throat, pinning him.

"It's over, Thomas."

He growled up at her, defiant — but the fire in his eyes had dimmed.

"I led them... I made them believe—"

"And now they see the truth."

Behind her, the sound of boots and footsteps. Dozens of Greaves' loyalists — armed, confused — stood at the doorway. But none moved to attack.

Instead, they lowered their weapons.

One by one, they raised their hands.

"We're with you now, Commander," one of them said. "Do what he never could."

Eliza stood, still breathless, and handcuffed Thomas Greaves. The baton clattered to the ground.

London had just taken back one of its stolen hearts.

The battlefield echoed with the sounds of war — rifles firing, boots pounding, commands shouted through static-laced radios. Smoke clung to the ruined corridors of the Monarchs' underground base, but the tide was turning. Marcus and the army were making their way through with expert coordination, reclaiming the shadows Arno had once fought in.

But then — everything stopped.

A low, heavy thud resounded from the far end of the hall.

Another. And another.

The soldiers turned, weapons raised, breaths held.

From the dark, a figure emerged — burned, scarred, but towering.

King.

Only now… he was something else entirely.

His once-majestic presence had transformed into a mechanical monstrosity. One arm was now a gleaming cybernetic weapon, humming with stored energy. His right leg had been entirely replaced by a reinforced mechanical limb. Tubes, bolts, and surgical plates ran along his spine, disappearing under scorched clothes. His eye glowed red — artificial and calculating.

"I crawled away," King growled, his voice distorted through a modulator. "Not out of weakness… but rebirth."

Soldiers aimed, but Marcus held up a hand. He stepped forward, calm and resolute.

"This one's mine."

The army parted, creating a corridor through the debris.

Marcus and King locked eyes.

"You should've stayed down," Marcus said coldly, stepping into the ruined main chamber. "You lost."

"I evolved," King spat. "Just like your precious Arno. But unlike him… I don't die."

Marcus clenched his fists and entered the chamber.

The steel doors groaned shut behind them.

Two men. One mission. One would not walk out again.

The narrow streets of the slums were silent — not with peace, but with tension. Eliza drove slowly, her eyes scanning the alleyways and rooftops. The rain had returned, soaking the cracked pavement and dripping from rusted drainpipes. This part of London had always carried a kind of forgotten sadness, but today, it felt like a war was hiding beneath the surface.

Ahead, a lone building rose through the fog — old, made of blackened stone and fractured stained glass: St. Ignatius Church.

She pulled the car to a stop, stepped out, and adjusted her coat. Her boots echoed against the wet cobblestones as she approached the arched entrance. The door was already open, creaking faintly in the wind.

Inside, the church was dimly lit by flickering candles. Rows of worn pews stretched out like broken ribs, and the scent of incense clung to the air. At the far end of the church, a tall figure stood before the altar.

Father Elijah Drayton.

Clad in a tattered priest's robe, his back was straight, hands folded calmly in front of him. His hair was slicked back, silver streaks running through black. The moment Eliza stepped in, he turned — and smiled.

"Detective Cole," he said, his voice soft but resonant. "I wondered when you'd arrive."

Eliza's jaw tensed. "You've been busy, Father."

Drayton stepped down from the altar, hands still clasped like a man in constant prayer. "They come to me lost… and I give them purpose. You see corruption. I see salvation."

She didn't reply. Not yet. Her hand brushed her sidearm, instinctively.

He noticed.

"Violence, even here?" he said, shaking his head slowly. "You're no different than the others, child. But I will hear you out. Come. Let us speak… in the house of God."

Eliza narrowed her eyes, then stepped forward. She had come to end this. One way or another.

The light from the stained-glass windows painted fractured patterns across the stone floor, casting reds, blues, and yellows across Eliza's face as she stood across from Father Drayton. He removed his robe, revealing simple black garments beneath — not meant for combat, but he carried himself with the confidence of someone who had nothing to lose.

"You're too late, Eliza," he said with serene conviction. "The city is already purging itself. I simply gave it permission."

Eliza's eyes didn't flinch. "You twisted desperate people into your tools. You called it salvation. It was manipulation."

Drayton's smile remained. "Is there a difference? They were broken, lost. I gave them a purpose. Isn't that what your so-called justice tries to do too?"

"You used fear and guilt to poison their minds."

"And yet they followed. Happily. Willingly."

He gestured to the pews, where his followers now watched silently, eyes filled with fervor. A few muttered prayers under their breath — not to God, but to Drayton himself. Their faith was absolute. Unshakable.

He stepped forward slowly. "Let me ask you, Eliza. How many people did you save? And how many did you let fall because your 'system' didn't reach them in time? I did what you were too scared to do. I created a new order. One without doubt. One without pain."

"You created a cult," Eliza said coldly, raising her voice now. "One that treats you like a god and demands blind obedience. That's not order. That's control."

The room grew tenser. One of the followers moved forward, but Drayton raised his hand slightly. "No. This is between us."

Eliza stepped into the aisle. Her voice cut through the air like a blade.

"You preach control while pretending it's faith. You preyed on their trauma. You turned fear into loyalty. You're no shepherd — you're just another man who couldn't accept that the world doesn't revolve around him."

Drayton's smile faded for the first time. "You dare speak to me like that? You, a relic of a broken justice system?"

"Better a relic than a false prophet."

Drayton lunged.

It wasn't strength or skill that powered his attack — it was pure, religious fanaticism. A madness that burned in his eyes as he swung at her with a concealed blade. Eliza dodged, swept his legs, and sent him crashing into the altar steps.

The followers gasped. Some took a step forward — but again, Drayton held up a trembling hand.

He stood, blood trailing down his forehead. "You cannot kill an idea, Eliza. You cannot stop belief."

"I don't have to," she said, stepping forward, grabbing his arm, twisting the blade from his hand. "I just have to take away the voice feeding the illusion."

She slammed him to the ground, twisted his wrist, and cuffed him in one smooth motion. The fight was over — not with violence, but with the breaking of a lie.

The followers stood silently, some crying, some stunned. The illusion of power, of divine purpose, was shattered. Drayton, once their voice of God, now lay broken on the church floor.

Eliza stood tall, catching her breath.

"Let it go," she said to them all. "You're free now. Choose what comes next."

None followed her as she walked away. But no one stopped her either.

Outside, the storm was fading. The air felt lighter. Eliza climbed into her car, threw the folder with the recovered documents onto the passenger seat, and started the engine.

"Hang on, Cedric," she muttered, gripping the wheel tighter.

She hit the gas. There was no time to waste.

<1 hour until midnight>

The engine was running, the wipers brushing away the drizzle as Eliza gripped the wheel, her foot ready to press down. Beside her, a uniformed officer with a tense expression tapped on his earpiece and turned to her.

"Ma'am," he said, voice tight, "Headquarters just radioed in. This unit is being rerouted to the front. They need every available vehicle."

Eliza blinked. "No—no, I don't have time to wait. I have to get to Cedric before midnight. We made a plan."

"I'm sorry," he said with a grim nod. "Orders."

For a split second, she stared blankly at the road ahead. Rain trickled down the windshield like tears, blurring the lights of London beyond.

Then she exhaled sharply, flung the door open, and stepped out. "Fine," she muttered. "I'll go on foot."

"Eliza—"

But she was already running.

Her boots splashed through puddles as she sprinted through the winding side streets of London, darting through alleys and leaping over discarded barriers. Her breath came in sharp bursts, her lungs burning — but her legs didn't stop. She didn't care about the pain. She didn't care about the noise. Every second mattered.

Street by street, block by block, the city blurred past her.

All that mattered was the station.

Inside the dimly lit police precinct, silence reigned.

Cedric Ashwell sat alone in the holding cell, legs stretched out, his back against the cold concrete wall. The door was open now. No guards. No handcuffs. Just time — ticking away slowly.

He didn't move. His hands rested in his lap, his eyes fixed on the old analog clock mounted above the doorway.

The minute hand twitched.

He smiled faintly.

"Almost time."

Eliza's boots finally skidded to a halt. Her chest heaved, lungs screaming, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. She looked up — the police station was still blocks away, too far with so little time left.

"No…" she whispered, her voice breaking. "I'm not gonna make it."

Rain trickled down her face, mixing with the sweat and grime, but it was the hopelessness that hit hardest. After everything—after the fight, the blood, the losses—it was going to fall apart because she wasn't fast enough.

She clenched her fists and turned to the side, collapsing onto one knee. Her mind swirled with guilt, frustration, helplessness.

Then she heard it.

A low roar, cutting through the wet silence.

A motorcycle engine.

She looked up, dazed.

The headlights beamed through the fog—and then the bike screeched to a stop in front of her. The rider kicked up the stand and pulled off the helmet.

"Eliza," he grinned.

"Harlow?" Her eyes widened.

Officer Ryan Harlow. The same man who had been the first to embrace her after Harrington fell. The same loyal officer who'd always stood quietly in the background—watching, trusting, believing.

Without a word, he stepped off the bike and wrapped her in a tight hug.

"I heard the call," he said into her ear. "Saw your name. Figured you'd need someone."

Eliza's breath shook. "I'm out of time."

Harlow stepped back and extended his hand. "Then give it to me."

She hesitated—then opened her jacket, pulled out the sealed folder containing the documents from Northshire. Her hands trembled slightly as she passed it to him.

Harlow secured it under his jacket and gave her a firm nod. "I'll get it to Cedric. I promise. You just keep fighting out there."

Eliza nodded, still stunned.

He put the helmet back on, revved the engine, and before she could say another word, he was gone—vanishing into the night like a bullet.

She stood there for a moment, the rain falling harder now. The city was still burning. The war wasn't over. Not yet.

But it was enough to take one breath, steel herself again, and whisper:

"Okay. Let's finish this."

<30 minutes until midnight>

Cedric stood.

The ticking of the clock above the barred window echoed like a countdown in the silence of the cell. He didn't look rushed. Didn't look angry. Just calm. Focused.

With a deep breath, he adjusted the cuffs of his dark coat and cast one last glance at the empty chair across from him — the one where his thoughts had sat for days.

He stepped out of the cell. The door had been left open, just as he'd predicted. No guards, no resistance. Just an eerie quiet, as if even the building itself knew that something was about to end — or begin.

His boots clicked softly against the cold floor tiles as he made his way down the hallway. Past the interrogation rooms. Past the evidence locker. Past the desk where so many officers had once laughed, argued, lived.

Now, the station was mostly empty. Only shadows remained.

As he approached the front doors, the light from outside cut through the cracks in the glass — grey, flickering light from the burning city beyond.

Cedric placed one hand on the doorframe and paused.

"This is it," he murmured.

No fear. No hesitation.

He pushed the door open.

And as he stepped into the chaos of the outside world, the wind pulled at his coat like invisible fingers — but it didn't slow him.

The final act had begun.

The door to the main chamber slammed shut behind Marcus.

Across the room, amidst smoke, rubble, and flickering emergency lights, stood King — or what was left of him.

His body was no longer entirely human. Mechanical plating covered his arms, his left eye glowed red with an eerie hum, and parts of his spine were reinforced with cybernetic implants. Tubes hissed faintly at his back like a breathing beast. His presence was monstrous — a terrifying amalgamation of man and machine.

Marcus didn't flinch. He just cracked his neck once, tightened the grip on his rifle, and stepped forward.

King tilted his head slowly. "You came alone," he said, voice now filtered through something unnatural — deeper, distorted, like metal grinding over gravel. "Bold."

Marcus raised the rifle and fired.

King was faster.

With a single dash, he closed the distance in less than a second. His metallic hand smacked the rifle clean out of Marcus' hands, sending it flying into the shadows. Marcus barely managed to dodge the follow-up strike, rolling to the side and pulling a pistol.

He aimed and fired several shots.

Clang. Clang. Clang.

The bullets pinged off King's armor like pebbles.

Marcus gritted his teeth, ducked under another punch, and launched a counterattack — two strikes to the ribs, one to the jaw, a low kick to the knee. But it was like hitting a tank. King barely moved.

Then King hit back.

The punch connected with Marcus' chest like a sledgehammer, sending him crashing into a concrete pillar. His ribs screamed in protest as he fell to one knee, coughing.

"You're not Arno," King growled. "You're the shadow of a shadow."

Marcus wiped the blood from his mouth, eyes burning with fury.

"And yet," he said, forcing himself to stand, "I'm still here."

King lunged again — faster this time, adapting. A spinning kick, followed by a crushing elbow aimed straight at Marcus' skull. Marcus dodged by a hair, drawing a blade from his boot and slashing across King's side. Sparks flew, but the wound was superficial.

King grabbed Marcus by the throat and lifted him off the ground effortlessly.

"I was reborn in that fire," he snarled. "And you? You're just a boy playing soldier."

Marcus struggled, gasping, the knife slipping from his hand. His vision blurred.

It was becoming clear.

He couldn't win this. Not like this.

Not in a straight fight.

<10 minutes until midnight>

The streets of London were burning.

Screams echoed in the distance. Sirens wailed. Glass shattered. Gunfire and the thunder of boots clashed like an endless drumroll on concrete. Civilians and soldiers ran in all directions — chaos ruled every corner.

But in the center of it all, Cedric Ashwell walked.

Calm. Composed. Untouchable.

He didn't flinch when an explosion tore through a car a few meters to his left. He didn't turn when a group of rioters sprinted past him, chased by armored police. He didn't speak. His coat billowed behind him like a slow-moving shadow, soaked with rain and the weight of everything that had come before.

His boots tapped against the asphalt — steady, focused. Eyes forward.

It was just like that night in the warehouse. Back in Chapter 4. Nothing could stop him then.

Nothing would stop him now.

The La Belle Nuit Theater slowly emerged from the smoke. Its broken windows gleamed faintly in the firelight, the crimson curtain behind the shattered doors like a bleeding wound. The city had become a battlefield, and this was the final stage.

Cedric stopped.

He stood at the bottom of the steps.

And just then, a motorcycle skidded to a halt behind him.

Officer Harlow jumped off and approached quickly, holding a folder in his hand — the confidential files from Northshire Psychiatric Hospital.

He handed them over without a word.

Cedric took the folder, stared down at the papers for a moment, then looked up at the theater.

His grip tightened.

The rain began to fall.

And the curtains were about to rise.

Cedric stood frozen in place, the worn folder in his hand trembling ever so slightly. The rain dripped from its edges as he slowly opened it, flipping through the pages.

Then he stopped.

His breath caught in his throat.

Words, dates, photographs.

The documents felt heavier with each page turned. Every sentence was a blade. Every image a punch to the chest. His knees buckled, and he sank to the wet pavement, eyes locked on the paper in disbelief.

Diagnosis: Severe Dissociative Psychosis. Subject exhibits obsessive theatrical delusions. Extreme emotional trauma. Subject is highly manipulative. Deemed untreatable. Transferred to isolation.

Cedric's hands gripped the folder tighter, the rainwater smudging the ink as he read further — notes from psychiatrists, incident reports, detailed logs of behavioral shifts. It painted a picture of a boy consumed by something beyond pain.

Memories hit him like lightning flashes.

Elias, laughing by the window. Elias, performing a makeshift play for his friends. Elias, crying alone backstage when no one came to his show. Elias, disappearing.

One after another.

Like a flickering slideshow of a life distorted.

The last image was a grainy security photo — Elias, strapped to a chair, grinning at the camera. The kind of grin Cedric had seen far too often on far too many dead faces.

He couldn't speak for a moment. He couldn't breathe.

Then, barely above a whisper, as if the words were choking him:

"What in the world happened to you... Elias?"

<10 minutes until midnight>