Act 24 - Finale (Part 3)

The creaking echo of Cedric's footsteps was the only sound filling the vast, decaying hallway of La Belle Nuit. Dust danced in the air like ghosts, swirling in the golden glow of a single flickering chandelier. The hallway seemed endless, stretching forward as if time itself hesitated to bring him to the final act.

His hand trailed along the wallpaper, its velvet texture long worn and torn. His breathing slowed. And then… The memory struck.

Not like a gentle wave, but like a storm.

Years ago. A forest. An old villa buried in silence.

The building stood like a mausoleum of forgotten lives, its windows blacked out, its walls strangled by ivy. It was here that Elias had been taken. Here that the boy who once performed small plays for orphans and dreamed of stages was locked away.

Dr. Harold Cole's voice echoed like venom in the corridors.

"The world is not a theater, Elias. It is a machine. And you, my boy, are a malfunction."

Each day, Elias sat in the center of the cold, crumbling study, where books weren't read—they were used to shame. Every script he tried to write was torn to pieces. Every gesture punished. Every attempt to speak in metaphors or soliloquies was met with ridicule.

Cole would sit in his oversized chair, hands folded, eyes gleaming with disdain.

"People like you don't belong in reality. You belong behind glass, dissected. Watched."

Elias stopped speaking after a while. He began to draw instead—scripts, stage directions, masks. Every inch of his cell became a storyboard. A stage.

And one night, while watching him from behind a locked door, Dr. Cole whispered:

"You know what the tragedy is, Elias? You don't want to be understood. You want to be worshipped."

Back in the hallway of La Belle Nuit, Cedric's breath trembled.

His fists clenched.

He had seen evil. He had stared into the eyes of murderers, of fanatics, of manipulators.

But this?

This was where it all began.

"They didn't destroy you," Cedric whispered.

"They rewrote you."

And now, he walked toward the final page.

Toward Elias.

Toward the Puppeteer.

The days bled into each other like spilled ink on parchment. In the villa's dim-lit basement, the world was reduced to shadows and the click of a lock turning every morning. Elias no longer knew how many weeks had passed. Food arrived twice a day, always cold. The once theatrical sparkle in his eyes had dulled to a vacant stare. His hands trembled—less from fear, more from withdrawal. From the stage. From purpose. From meaning.

Dr. Harold Cole sat across from him on most days, watching, speaking, dissecting.

"You've stopped writing. Why? Have the voices in your head taken the pen from you?"

Elias didn't answer.

"You think silence is rebellion? No, Elias. It's surrender. And I don't raise cowards. I raise truths."

Every sentence was a scalpel.

Every word a stitch pulling tighter around Elias' mind.

There were days Elias clawed at the walls until his fingers bled, just to remember what pain felt like on the outside. Other days, he simply rocked back and forth, humming a song from a forgotten childhood play—

the one he and Cedric had rehearsed together in the orphanage, long ago.

But even those memories faded into smoke.

One night, it changed.

Cole walked in, the same clipboard in his hands, his usual smugness in his posture. But his words were different.

"You're not what I wanted. You're not a revelation. You're a failure—just a broken little boy playing pretend."

Elias raised his eyes. There was nothing left in them.

"No. I'm a puppet, remember?" he said quietly. "But you forgot something, Doctor…"

He leaned forward, lips twitching. "…Even puppets can pull strings."

Cole decided he was done.

The villa was no longer useful. Elias, no longer interesting.

So he drove him out into the black woods under cover of night. No words were exchanged. The silence between them was absolute.

The vehicle came to a halt before an abandoned warehouse—the same one Cedric would one day enter, oblivious to its history.

Cole dragged Elias out like an object, a failed prototype, and chained him in a corner of the cold, metallic interior. A month passed. Maybe more.

No light.

No books.

No monologues. No stage.

Just the sound of rats, rain on the tin roof, and Cole's fading interest.

But something inside Elias changed.

Not healed.

Not broke further.

Changed. "If I can't be understood… then I'll be interpreted," he whispered into the dark.

He began scratching words into the floor with a rusted nail.

Scripts.

Roles.

Deaths.

Scenes.

Every thought, every betrayal, every theory—written again and again like a cursed manuscript until his fingers cramped and bled.

"Cedric… Cedric…" he repeated like a prayer and a curse. "You said we were brothers. You said you'd never let them take me. You lied. You gave me to him."

One night, Cole returned with a final message: "I'm done. You're not worth the ink I've wasted."

He opened the van doors and dragged Elias, weak and near-mute, into the basement of La Belle Nuit. The ruined theater.

It was symbolic, perhaps. The perfect tomb for a failed actor. "I'll kill you here, and no one will ever know," Cole said, amused by his own dramatics. "You want a stage? Fine. Here's your last one."

He raised the knife.

But Elias had learned.

Not strength. Not speed.

Instinct.

He lunged.

The hidden shard he had palmed—broken mirror glass from the warehouse—found its mark in Cole's gut. The man gasped, stunned, and dropped the blade. Elias didn't stop. He plunged the shard deeper, blood soaking both of their clothes. Cole's eyes widened in disbelief, then went still.

Dr. Harold Cole collapsed onto the stage of La Belle Nuit.

Dead.

Elias stared at the body for a long time, barely breathing.

Then, slowly, he dropped to his knees.

His breathing became ragged, then harsh.

He let out a scream.

A scream that shook the dust from the ceiling.

"You did this to me, Cedric… YOU!"

He laughed, then sobbed, then laughed again.

"You want a villain?" he whispered. "Then I'll be one. You want a monster? I'll rewrite the whole damn script."

He looked down at his blood-soaked hands. "The world didn't understand me… but it will remember me."

His hand reached into Cole's coat pocket, pulling out the keys and a small notebook. A journal. Notes from the experiment.

He began to scribble in its margins.

Scene by scene.

Act by act.

And at the bottom of the first page, in sharp, perfect handwriting:"I am no longer Elias. I am the Puppeteer."

Back in the present, Cedric stood at the final door.

His fingers grazed the brass handle.

His eyes were glassy, haunted by what he had seen. "You never stood a chance," he whispered. "And now neither do I."

He took a breath. And opened the door.

The house was quiet.

The kind of silence that blanketed every breath, every step, as if even the air knew what was about to happen.

Elias stood at the edge of the hallway, dressed in black, his presence no more than a whisper between shadows. His hands were steady. His heartbeat calm. No tremor, no hesitation. Only precision.

He had rehearsed this moment in his mind for weeks. Not the logistics — those were easy. No, what he rehearsed were the emotions. The timing. The reveal. The monologue. It had to be perfect. Not for her. Not even for Cedric.

For himself.

Isabelle Ashwell sat at her desk, unaware. A candle flickered beside her, illuminating the pages of an old journal. She hummed softly to herself, the tune unfamiliar. Peaceful. Almost beautiful.

Elias stepped into the room.

She looked up, startled at first — then confused. "Do I... know you?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he walked slowly, deliberately, every footstep echoing like a countdown.

Her brows furrowed. "You're not supposed to be—"

A swift motion silenced her. Not pain at first — just shock. Her hand reached to her side. Blood bloomed across her shirt like ink spilled on stage curtains.

She gasped, stumbled, but Elias caught her.

He lowered her gently to the floor, almost tenderly, as if cradling a delicate prop in a tragedy. Her eyes locked onto his, pleading, asking why.

Elias tilted his head.

"Nothing personal," he whispered.

Her breathing faltered. She tried to speak. He placed a finger against her lips, gently, like a final stage cue.

"Your brother needs a reason."

He waited. And when her body finally went still, he stood up — slowly — and turned toward the open door.

And there he was.

Cedric.

At first, Cedric didn't speak. He froze at the doorway, frozen mid-breath like a statue carved from fury. Then he saw her. His sister. Lifeless. Blood pooling like a curtain call around her.

And the scream that followed wasn't human.

Elias watched him fall to his knees, watched his hands tremble as they gripped Isabelle's body. Cedric's sobs were loud, cracked, like something inside him had been shattered beyond repair.

Elias stepped into the hallway but did not leave.

He wanted to see it.

The exact moment the transformation began.

And then, it came.

Cedric looked up — eyes blazing, voice shaking, soaked in tears and rage.

"I swear to God… I will find you. And I will end you."

Elias smiled.

There it is, he thought. The spark.

He turned and walked away, hands in his pockets.

He felt nothing for the girl. Nothing for the crime.

But for the aftermath?

For that moment of emotional crescendo?

It was perfect.

And as he stepped into the cold night, his mind began to work again — not in circles, but in lines. Threads. Strings.

Cedric had become obsessed with him.

But Elias needed something new now. Something bigger. A grander act. A performance that would eclipse everything before it.

Something worthy of a final bow.

And that's when the idea took root.

He didn't know all of it yet — not the shape, not the method. But the target?

Oh, yes.

He had just found it.

Cedric reached the stage like a shadow given form — boots silent on the rotting velvet carpet, heart pounding like war drums in his chest. The theater, once regal, now bathed in dust and decay, stretched wide before him, an empty coliseum awaiting its final bloodstained performance.

On the main stage, beneath the crooked chandelier and behind the half-drawn curtain, stood the Puppeteer.

He stood with his back turned, arms folded behind him, posture calm and composed like the conductor of some ghostly orchestra.

"You're late, Marcus…" he said quietly, without turning — the words laced with disdain, expectation, certainty.

But the voice that answered was not Marcus'.

It was the sound of rushing wind — of footsteps breaking into a sprint.

The Puppeteer began to turn, and in the very same instant, Cedric was already airborne.

A blinding leap.

A twisting motion mid-air.

His heel flew toward the masked man's head with deadly precision.

But the Puppeteer tilted his body just enough for the kick to miss — just enough for it to look like he was still in control.

And yet… Cedric landed exactly as he planned. He wasn't aiming to land the blow.

He only needed the angle.

In a fluid movement born from pure instinct and months of fury, Cedric's hand slipped behind his back, into the folds of his long coat — and emerged with a concealed revolver.

He pulled the trigger.

Bang.

The shot rang through the hollow theater like thunder breaking the sky.

The Puppeteer staggered back. A sharp hiss escaped his mouth as the porcelain-white mask shattered — splintering mid-air before falling in pieces to the floor.

For the first time, Elias' face was exposed.

His skin pale from years in the dark. His eyes wild and sharp. A smile, thin and unnatural, spread slowly across his face.

He looked… almost amused.

Cedric's eyes narrowed. "So it's true."

Elias tilted his head, blood from a graze on his temple trickling down his cheek. "You came in Marcus' place. I must say… poetic."

He took a step forward.

Cedric raised the gun again. "One more word and I swear I'll blow your jaw off."

But Elias didn't flinch.

He dropped his coat.

And underneath, he wore black, tightly fitted gear, adorned in thin strings — not for show, but for control. Along his belt were knives, wire, a garrote, and strange, curved instruments Cedric couldn't name.

"The finale was planned to take place tomorrow. This stage was meant for me," Elias said softly, almost reverently. "But if you insist… let us rewrite the scene."

He lunged.

And Cedric was ready.

Fists collided.

Blades scraped against metal.

Strings were thrown like whips — and Cedric barely ducked beneath them, countering with a strike to the ribs.

Elias twisted mid-air and countered with a kick to Cedric's shoulder, sending him sprawling. Cedric rolled, landed on one knee, and fired again. The bullet clipped Elias' shoulder, spinning him, but he used the momentum to hurl a knife — grazing Cedric's arm.

Blood sprayed. Breaths came fast.

But neither stopped.

The theater around them groaned with age as dust fell from the ceiling, shaken loose by the sheer violence of their duel.

Cedric lunged again — not as a puppet, but as a man with nothing left to lose.

And Elias?

He danced backward, not as a killer, but as the final act of a tragedy he had written from the beginning.

The fight had begun.

No masks.

No illusions.

Just Cedric Ashwell and the man who had once been his friend — now the Puppeteer.

And only one of them would take the final bow.

Marcus faced King in the heart of the Monarchs' fortress — a massive hall now torn apart by war. Sparks danced in the air, debris littered the floor, and fires flickered in the cracks of once-pristine walls. The sounds of distant battle echoed through the underground base. But all of that faded.

In this moment, there was only Marcus and King.

King stood tall, his body half-replaced by brutal cybernetics. His right arm was a reinforced alloy cannon of destruction. His left eye glowed red beneath a steel-plated skull. Mechanical joints hissed with steam as he stepped forward.

"You shouldn't have come alone," King said, his voice deeper, distorted by synthetic enhancements.

Marcus didn't answer. He calmly dropped his rifle to the ground and rolled his shoulders.

King smirked. "Trying to be a hero, Ashcroft? That's cute."

And then, without warning—

The fight began.

King moved like a tank, his first punch denting the ground where Marcus had just stood. Marcus retaliated with a series of rapid strikes to King's side. He hit hard — but King barely flinched.

Steel clashed with flesh. Sparks flew with every movement. Marcus weaved through the mechanical blows, ducked under King's wide swings, landed a kick to the knee, a fist to the jaw.

For a moment, it looked like he could keep up.

Then King grabbed him by the throat and slammed him into the wall.

Marcus gasped as air fled his lungs. He fought back, clawed free, and rolled away just as King smashed the wall again.

But the damage was adding up.

King's strength was monstrous. His strikes shattered concrete, crushed steel beams. Marcus, even with all his training, was bleeding, limping, struggling to stay on his feet.

Another punch to the ribs. Another to the shoulder. Marcus hit the ground, coughing blood.

King approached, towering over him. "This is who Arno left in charge? Pathetic."

Marcus chuckled through the pain, then looked up.

And smiled.

King frowned. "Why are you smiling?"

Marcus, bloodied and bruised, grinned.

"Because I already won."

BANG.

A bullet struck King's back.

He stumbled, whirling around — and his eyes widened.

Behind him stood hundreds of soldiers.

The German task force.

Arno's army.

Fully armed. Fully ready. Surrounding him on every side. All with weapons trained on King.

600 men.

King turned slowly, eyes darting across the countless rifles aimed at his chest.

From the shadows, Marcus pulled himself up and stood beside him.

FLASHBACK – EARLIER THAT DAY

Marcus stands in a war room, a large tactical map laid out in front of him. Officers gather around.

"He'll come," Marcus said. "King won't let this go. He'll come for me, personally."

"You can't win against him," one of the officers warned.

"I'm not trying to," Marcus replied. "But he'll think I am."

Another officer leaned in. "Then what's the plan?"

Marcus smiled.

"I'll stall him. You finish him."

BACK TO PRESENT

King stood frozen, surrounded. His mechanical fists clenched.

"This is dishonorable," he hissed.

Marcus looked at him with cold, unwavering eyes.

"No. This is war."

And from the shadows of the tunnels, one by one, the 600 soldiers stepped into the light.

King was no longer the monarch.

He was just a broken machine.

And the kingdom around him… had fallen.

The stage was silent, haunted only by the creaking wood beneath Cedric's boots and the flickering remnants of spotlight that had long since burned out. Across from him stood the Puppeteer—no longer masked. No longer hiding. Elias.

Their eyes locked.

Then it began.

Elias lunged first, striking with a graceful brutality that seemed rehearsed—every movement a part of some twisted choreography. Cedric blocked, counterte, ducked under a swipe, then responded with a vicious punch to Elias' side. But Elias absorbed the hit like a phantom, twisting away with inhuman fluidity.

The clash was feral, yet elegant. The floorboards splintered beneath their boots as fists connected, knives slashed, and bodies were thrown across the stage like ragdolls in a battle of mirrored obsessions.

"I gave you everything!" Cedric roared, tackling Elias into a wall of hanging ropes.

"You gave me nothing!" Elias hissed, driving a knee into Cedric's chest and launching them both through the trapdoor—down into the basement.

Cedric stumbled forward, vision blurred. The stage was cloaked in thick black. No sound. No light.

Then came the voice.

"You're all alone again, Cedric," Elias called from the shadows. "Just like that night."

Cedric turned, trying to sense where the attack would come from. He couldn't see anything. He couldn't breathe.

Then—

CLICK.

A blinding spotlight exploded to life, bathing Cedric in warm, golden light.

From above the stage, a voice shouted:

"CEDRIC! NOW! This is your moment! END IT!"

It was Eliza.

She had reached the lighting rig, her voice cutting through the void like a flare of hope.

Elias flinched from the sudden light. He was exposed now—no shadows to hide in.

The Puppeteer's perfect control shattered for just a second.

And that was all Cedric needed.

The room trembled with screams and gunfire. Explosions rattled the steel foundations as chaos unfolded—but at the center of it all, one figure towerte above the rest.

King.

A monstrous blend of flesh and steel. Half his face burned, the other half encased in crude mechanical plating. His arms, now metallic, slammed down like warhammers, sending soldiers flying. He roared—not with pain, but with fury.

"You're all insects!" he bellowed, grabbing a soldier by the leg and slamming him into a pillar.

More screams.

But the soldiers didn't falter.

Led by Felix, James, and the rest of Arno's elite unit, the squadron moved in synchronized formation, coordinated, efficient, relentless.

"NOW!" Marcus shouted.

With flawless execution, ropes, grappling hooks, stun batons—everything came into play. Ten men leapt at once, bringing King to his knees. Twenty more swarmed him, holding down each arm, each leg, each mechanical joint.

King roared, flailing—breaking one man's arm, denting another's armor—but the pressure grew. Fifty soldiers. Sixty. Seventy.

Until King, the unkillable machine, was completely pinned down, writhing beneath a sea of disciplined fury.

Marcus stepped forward.

Calm. Unflinching. His footsteps echoed in silence as the chaos quieted.

He stood before the fallen giant. Looked him dead in the eyes.

And asked—quiet, cold, and deliberate:

"If you pit one hundred people against a single gorilla… who wins?"

The silence was thick.

King glared at him, blood and oil dripping from his lips.

Marcus didn't wait for an answer.

"Of course it's the people," he whispered.

And with one savage motion, he grabbed the mechanical plating on King's skull—and ripped it free.

Sparks. Screams. Metal tearing from bone.

King howled in agony.

He tried to crawl away. Broken. Pathetic. He dragged himself, bleeding, leaving behind pieces of his own body.

But Marcus followed slowly. Eyes hollow. Emotionless. A shadow of the man who once smiled with his friends.

King whimpered, "Please… I—"

Marcus raised his weapon.

His voice was cold, vengeful—inhuman.

"That's for Arno."

He pulled the trigger.

"Die."

And with that one word, the last beast of the Monarchs fell.

The battlefield had gone quiet. Helmets scattered across the broken ground, rifles still smoking, the air thick with the stench of metal and sweat. Soldiers gathered in small groups, treating wounds, sharing quiet words.

Felix, his arm bandaged, walked slowly toward Johannes, who was lighting a cigarette and staring up at the sky.

"Hey… Johannes," Felix started, his voice a bit unsure.

Johannes turned his head slightly, raising an eyebrow.

Felix looked down. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry. For what I said before the mission. About Marcus. That he was too stiff, not like Arno."

Johannes looked at him for a moment, then let out a soft chuckle. "You said what you felt. I can't blame you. I overreacted too. Shouted at you like a damn sergeant."

Felix gave a sheepish grin. "Yeah, wasn't exactly my finest moment either."

Johannes handed him the cigarette, which Felix waved off.

Johannes took a slow drag. "Marcus today… he was more than we expected. Maybe even more than Arno."

Felix nodded. "I mean… the guy threw himself at a cybernetic monster just to buy us time. And he still won."

They both stood in silence for a moment, letting the weight of it settle.

Felix finally smiled. "Come on. Let's go grab a drink. We survived a damn war – we deserve a shot or two."

They looked over and saw Marcus walking past them – bruised, bloodied, eyes sharp and focused.

"Hey, Marcus!" Felix called. "Join us for a drink? One for Arno… and for us!"

Marcus stopped briefly. He glanced back at them, a faint smile ghosting across his lips.

"I'd like to," he said softly. "But I have something left to do."

Without another word, he turned and continued toward the ruins' exit. His goal: London. Cedric. Eliza. The Puppeteer.

Felix watched him go. "What a guy…"

Johannes patted him on the shoulder. "Let's drink anyway. For him. And for Arno."

Cedric burst through the rooftop door, the Puppeteer crashing out just behind him. The cold night air whipped around them as they stepped onto the rooftop, surrounded by the distant wail of sirens and the chaotic flicker of lights far below.

London burned. Fires raged in the distance. Helicopter spotlights swept across the sky like watchful eyes. The civil war was far from over.

Both men staggered apart, bloodied and breathless, their lungs heaving in the freezing air.

The Puppeteer stood at the edge, his silhouette framed against the glow of the city. He looked down at the chaos with something close to reverence—a maestro admiring the symphony of destruction.

"You see that, Cedric?" he said, voice calm. "That's the real performance. Not the plays. Not the puppets. This." He gestured toward the burning skyline. "The collapse of illusion."

Cedric, standing a few meters away, clenched his fists. His chest rose and fell with the weight of grief, fury, and something deeper—resolve.

He remembered Isabelle. Her smile. Her laughter. The last time she looked at him.

He remembered Elias. The brother he thought he knew.

The rage came back—not wild and uncontrolled, but forged into something sharp and unrelenting.

"You didn't just kill her," Cedric said quietly. "You broke everything I was."

The Puppeteer turned toward him, his face unreadable behind the mask. "And look what rose from the ashes."

For a moment, neither of them moved.

"You were wrong," Cedric said. "This was never your story."

The Puppeteer tilted his head slightly. "Wasn't it?"

Cedric's voice was steady now. Unshakeable. "No. You were just a chapter in mine."

They began walking toward each other—slowly, purposefully—like two actors returning to the stage for the final act.

The wind howled across the rooftop. The world seemed to hold its breath.

No more words.

Just two men.

Two fates.

And one ending.

Then, they clashed.

The rooftop lights flickered, casting eerie shadows over the two broken figures.

Cedric and the Puppeteer moved like ghosts across the rooftop, their silhouettes blurring into the night. Every punch, every clash of fists echoed with years of pain. Rain began to fall—cold, relentless, almost theatrical—as if the sky itself wept for the end.

The Puppeteer was faster, more agile. Cedric was rawer, heavier, driven by fire. Their blows were no longer calculated—they were personal. Rage against guilt, revenge against regret.

Eliza's voice echoed in Cedric's head. Isabelle's laughter. Arno's sacrifice. Marcus' defiance. Every person who ever bled because of this man.

Cedric swung wide—missed. The Puppeteer caught him across the jaw and sent him stumbling.

"You can't kill the idea," the Puppeteer whispered, circling. "You can't kill the show."

Cedric's knuckles bled. His arms trembled. He dropped to one knee.

The Puppeteer moved in for the final strike—his blade raised.

But Cedric was ready.

With a guttural cry, he surged forward, letting the blade graze his side as he closed the distance—and with both hands, he plunged the dagger straight into the Puppeteer's chest.

Time stopped.

The blade sank deep.

The Puppeteer's eyes widened behind the mask, his body freezing.

Cedric stood there, face inches from him, both hands still clutching the hilt. His breath shook. The rain poured between them like curtains closing on a tragedy.

But then… the Puppeteer laughed.

Low. Hollow. Like wind in a mausoleum.

And then louder. Maddening. Triumphant.

"You think it ends here?" he rasped, voice trembling with blood. "You really think this wasn't… all part of it?"

He raised his voice, no longer to Cedric—but to the city.

"To the streets below… to the masses… this civil war, your rage, your hate, your despair… it was all part of the final act. My final act!"

His voice echoed across London's rooftops like the last monologue of a dying villain.

Down below, crowds were fighting, looting, rioting.

But they heard him.

They heard everything.

And they stopped.

One by one.

Eyes looked up. Hands dropped weapons. Mouths parted in stunned silence.

Someone murmured, "It was all... him?"

A man in a bloodied suit sank to his knees. A woman clutching a bat looked at her reflection in a broken window.

People began to realize.

They weren't warriors.

They were puppets.

Manipulated.

Played.

A city stirred from its nightmare—not with a scream, but with stunned, collective silence.

Above them, Cedric held the dying Puppeteer by the collar.

"You… lose."

But the Puppeteer only smiled wider, blood running from the corners of his mouth.

"Do I?" he whispered.

He wasn't dead.

Not yet.

The rain had quieted, reduced to a mere whisper on the stone tiles of the rooftop. Cedric stood still, breathless, drenched in blood and storm, his hand slick with the crimson that had come from the man now before him—no, the idea now before him. The Puppeteer.

For a fleeting moment, their eyes met—Cedric's burning with fury and purpose, the Puppeteer's gleaming with something else entirely.

Satisfaction.

Not of victory.

But of conclusion.

Without a word, the Puppeteer took a step back.

Cedric flinched forward, but it was too late.

The Puppeteer let himself fall.

He did not scream.

He did not reach for the ledge.

He simply descended, arms wide, head tilted back, like a performer giving himself to the applause of an invisible crowd.

As the wind howled around his body, the city lights below spiraling like stars in a dying dream, he smiled.

A soft, satisfied smile.

A director who had just witnessed his final scene unfold—flawed, brutal, human—and utterly magnificent.

"A tragedy," he thought, as his coat flared like broken wings behind him. "But isn't that always what the greatest stories are?"

His mind wandered, not in panic or regret, but in reverie. He saw the pieces moving—the stage, the spotlight, the marionettes… the strings.

Isabelle's cold, unmoving hand.

The way Cedric had screamed her name.

The boy who had broken.

The boy who had hated.

And himself, the boy who had watched it all from behind that locked door. Who had screamed, too. But nobody heard.

Nobody answered.

Only Dr. Harold Cole did. And even then, it was not salvation. It was design. A plan.

He had died once before. As Elias.

He had been reborn not in fire, but in silence.

"Every great villain," he mused, "is born from the wound the hero refuses to acknowledge."

He could have killed them all.

And how easily it would have been.

Marcus, the hacker. Arno, the soldier. Eliza, the detective. Cedric, the crusader.

He had their names. Their habits. Their fears.

But he needed them.

He chose them.

They were his cast. His ensemble.

Each act, each revelation, each murder—it had never been about chaos. It was about structure. About story.

He had placed the clues with care.

Left messages like breadcrumbs in the forest.

Every scream, every gasp, every twist—it was all part of the play.

He had been the hand that guided the curtain.

The voice behind the lines.

The shadow behind the mask.

"If I am to be the villain," he thought, the wind now deafening, "then let me be a villain worthy of your spotlight, Cedric."

He thought of the trap in the warehouse.

The misdirections.

The speeches.

The way he had brought Eliza and Marcus to Cedric's prison, leaving just enough trail to force them together again.

All of it... was to push Cedric forward.

To make him the protagonist.

Because, in the end, Cedric had to be the one who struck the final blow.

"A play is not a play without its lead."

And as the street neared, glowing like the ending of a scene, he closed his eyes and whispered something, almost inaudible over the roar of the air:

"Thank you, Cedric. You were everything I needed."

His back hit the ground like punctuation.

A final, silent period.

Blood bloomed around him like a curtain closing on a masterpiece.

And above, the rain began again.

The world, unaware it had just witnessed the death of its greatest director.

And somewhere in the silence that followed...

A marionette string snapped.

Cedric stepped out of the grand doors, the crimson curtains of La Belle Nuit closing behind him one last time.

The rain had stopped. The wind was still. The world, as if in mourning, held its breath.

His footsteps were slow. His shirt torn, his knuckles bruised. Dried blood clung to his side like a reminder of the life he'd waded through. But his eyes—his eyes were clear.

The stage was empty now.

The puppets were gone.

The show was over.

Down the steps, two figures waited.

Marcus. Eliza.

Neither spoke.

They didn't need to.

When Cedric reached them, Marcus was the first to step forward. He looked at his friend—his brother—not with pity, not with apology, but with something stronger.

Pride.

The two embraced, briefly, without words. There had been too many already.

Eliza stood just behind, her coat still damp from the rain, a small file clutched in her hands.

"Is it done?" she asked, her voice quiet.

Cedric gave a small nod.

"He fell," he replied. "And with him… the strings."

Eliza looked away for a moment. "He was just a boy once."

"I know," Cedric said. "We both were."

There was silence. Heavy. Real. But peaceful.

Marcus looked between them, then toward the east, where the early light began to crest over the city skyline. Sirens still echoed faintly in the distance. Fires still flickered in the streets. But the worst was over.

The Monarchs were broken.

The Puppeteer had fallen.

The war, for now, was done.

As the first rays of morning reached them, Cedric sat down on the edge of the theater steps, his hands resting on his knees. He stared ahead at London. At the chaos that still needed mending. At the people who still needed healing.

Eliza sat beside him. Marcus followed.

For a while, none of them moved.

They just breathed.

Three people.

Three stories.

Tied together by tragedy.

Bound by fate.

But still alive.

Still free.

Behind them, the brass letters on the theater's marquee had begun to rust, the last word barely legible anymore:

"La Belle Nuit."

The Beautiful Night.

Cedric stood up one last time and looked back at the building that had haunted him for so long.

"I never wanted to be the hero," he murmured.

Eliza glanced over. "You weren't."

Marcus smiled faintly. "You were the ending."

And with that, they walked down the empty street, side by side.

No curtain call.

No applause.

Only the rising sun.

And silence.

The kind of silence that comes when the last page has been turned.

And so the stage dimmed, the strings fell, and the puppets became men once more—free not because the play had ended, but because they had chosen to walk away before the next one began.

Cedric Ashwell left London and disappeared from the public eye, choosing a quiet life far from the stage, never to chase another shadow again. He remained single.

Eliza Cole rebuilt the Metropolitan Police from the ground up, leading it with clarity, strength, and the compassion Harrington once lacked.

Marcus Sterling took command of the international strike force left behind by Arno and dedicated himself to protecting the world from the next darkness.

Officer Harlow became Eliza's most trusted second-in-command, always the first to stand up when others were afraid to speak.

Felix and Johannes opened a small pub in Berlin for veterans and soldiers, where they tell their story with laughter, drinks, and respect.

Liam Thatcher reformed Hale Industries into a foundation focused on rebuilding war-torn communities, determined to undo what his predecessor had done.

The City of London remained scarred, but slowly healed—its people no longer marionettes, but storytellers of their own lives.

In memory of those we lost:

Arno Wolf died on the battlefield as a soldier, but lived in memory as the man who never stopped adapting—who turned pain into purpose.

Jonathan Harrington was a good man lost to a cause too dark to carry; though twisted in the end, he once stood for something noble.

Isabelle Ashwell was the spark that lit the fire—her memory never faded from Cedric's heart, nor from the story itself.

George Holloway was a marionette builder and the first to help Cedric and Eliza on their mission. Sadly he passed away leaving a hint for the duo.

Elias / The Puppeteer was not born a monster, but made into one—and though the world was his stage, it was never truly his to control.

But in the hands of the broken, even the fragments can be turned into something new again.

Thank you for reading my story.

When I first began writing Puppeteer, I didn't know where the story would take me.

I just knew I had something to say—about control, about grief, about obsession, and the quiet hope that somehow, broken people can still be whole again.

This story was never just about murder or mystery. It was about masks. About how we wear them, how we tear them off, and how sometimes… we become them.

It was about puppets and the people who pull the strings.

And it was about what happens when one of them finally says: enough.

To everyone who followed Cedric, Eliza, Marcus, and the others through the darkest alleys of London and the darkest corners of the mind—thank you.

You didn't just read a story. You became part of one.

If you want to read the story in a completely different way, you can now read it again. You will see the whole story from another perspective, now that you know the Puppeteer's true intentions. Believe me - it will be a completely different experience.

So if Puppeteer meant something to you—Remember this:

A stage may fall silent. But a good story echoes forever.

With all my heart,

your Phleg (IG: @writerphleg)