The Republic

Stein knew that Francis was right. As much as it pained him to admit, there was a bitter relief in knowing Secrets wasn't operating under the Republic's direct control. 

Because the Republic was no longer for the people.

Once, it had been a democracy—flawed, corrupt, but still functional. A government that, at least on the surface, pretended to serve its citizens. But that illusion had shattered long ago. The Republic had rotted from the inside out, and when the coup came, it was swift, merciless. Politicians, drunk on greed and blinded by their own self-importance, had sold their country to a monster. They thought they could control him. They thought they could use him.

Instead, he used them.

And so, the Republic fell.

Now, it was something else entirely. A nation built on blood and silence. A war machine feared by the world, hated by the world. The pretense of morality had been stripped away, leaving nothing but a ruthless, unrelenting force. It was a country that devoured its own people, reduced them to nothing more than fuel for the endless march of conquest.

And yet, despite it all, it thrived.

Sixty percent of the Republic's population belonged to the military. Soldiers weren't men anymore—they were something else. Stripped of their emotions, conditioned to kill without hesitation, forged into weapons without conscience. The Devil's own legion.

All because of him.

The one man who had orchestrated it all. The one man who had torn the Republic apart and rebuilt it in his own twisted image.

The tyrant whose name was spoken in hushed whispers, in nightmares, in prayers that went unanswered.

Stein exhaled sharply, dragging himself back from the weight of his thoughts. He was on the verge of steadying himself when something hit him. A memory, sharp as a blade.

The bodies. The guards.

His stomach twisted.

His voice came out strained, his hands clenched into fists. "Why did you kill them?" He could barely keep his voice steady, barely keep the anger from cracking through. "They had nothing to do with this."

Francis barely reacted. He simply sighed, tilting his head slightly as if the question itself was exhausting.

"No witnesses, Stein. No loose ends." His tone was cold, detached—void of hesitation. "What if they had opened their mouths and spouted shit no one was supposed to hear?" He gestured vaguely toward the bodies strewn outside the lab, lifeless and still, their blood staining the cold, sterile floor. "Trust me, this was better."

Stein's stomach churned. Better?

Disgust clawed at his throat, tangled with rage and something else—something he didn't want to acknowledge.

Fear.

"How can you say that?" His voice was quieter now, tinged with something almost pleading. "What even are you? Do you even feel anything?"

Francis met his gaze with an eerie calm, his expression unreadable. Then, with a nonchalant shrug, he said, "Yeah, I guess not."

He stepped forward, his boots crunching softly against the blood-stained floor. The sound was quiet but deafening in the stillness. "My 'heartless' decisions have saved countless lives, Stein. So no, I don't care. I don't mind being like this."

For a moment, the room was silent, the only sound the low, ominous hum of Veilith, pulsing steadily in the center of it all—alive, ancient, watching.

Then Francis exhaled sharply, as if bored, and flicked a hand at the swirling energy. "Enough chatter. Shut that annoying little thing down already."

Stein hesitated. His gaze locked onto the impossible energy he had spent years trying to understand. His life's work. The culmination of everything he had sacrificed.

Francis' patience was razor-thin now. His voice cut through the lab like a blade. "Shut it down and get the fuck out."

He cast a glance around the lab, already picturing what was coming next. A slow, almost amused smirk tugged at his lips.

"We're burning this place to the ground." He shook his head slightly, exhaling a short chuckle under his breath.

"I can already see tomorrow's headline—'Fire Breaks Out in Stein Labs.'"

***

Stein and Alex moved quickly, gathering every file, every scrap of data—every last trace of their research. Their hands worked fast, shoving documents into a pile, ensuring there would be nothing left but ash.

The soldiers watched them closely, fingers hovering near their triggers, ready to pull at the first sign of trouble.

Francis, as always, remained eerily composed, leaning against the wall, cigarette in hand. Wisps of smoke curled around him, his expression unreadable, his posture deceptively relaxed.

While everyone else focused on their tasks, Allen stood apart. Unmoving. Silent. His gaze locked onto the Veilith.

Stein and Alex stacked the last of the papers. The soldiers moved in, carrying canisters of gasoline. The acrid scent filled the room as they drenched the desks, the floors, the walls—soaking everything in flammable certainty.

One of them jerked his head toward the door. "Move. All of you. Now."

Stein, Alex, and Francis turned to leave.

"Hey! Are you deaf? I said get out of the room!" One of the soldiers barked.

Stein turned back.

Allen hadn't moved.

His posture was rigid, his eyes vacant, fixed on the swirling energy before him.

Something was wrong.

Stein felt a cold weight settle in his chest. "Allen, let's go." His voice was steady, controlled—but beneath it, an edge of unease.

A pause. Then, barely above a whisper—

"N...N...no."