Chapter 15: A New Hope

The command room was enveloped in a silence so thick that any sound would have seemed disrespectful. The floating screens bathed the room in a cold, almost artificial blue glow that failed to soften the tension in the air.

In the center, Magnus stood motionless, like a figure carved from stone. His breathing was slow but irregular. His eyes, red with contained fury, never left the transmission that played repeatedly: a battlefield reduced to ashes, a disaster that should never have happened.

Thomas.

Just a name. A young man of no tactical importance. According to records, merely an operative with a history of minor disobedience. Yet, he had left a legacy: an explosion that destroyed his own machine and, with it, a vital part of Magnus's squadron. An unexpected act. An impossible defeat to swallow.

The general's jaw was rigid. The muscles in his neck tensed with each second, and his knuckles, white from the pressure, gripped the edge of the command table as if he could break it.

It was Charlie, the chief strategist, who dared to break the silence. His voice was calm, almost emotionless. He offered no apologies; only data.

"The operation was designed to be precise," he said. "Projections indicated a high success rate."

Magnus slowly turned his head toward him. There was no reproach in his gaze. Only a rage so dense it seemed about to become physical.

"And this is the result you give me?" His voice, low and deep, vibrated with a dangerous weight. "'Projections'? 'Percentages'? You promised me efficiency. You assured me that small force would suffice."

His fist slammed the table with such force that the lights flickered. One of the screens went blank for a few seconds, as if the entire building had felt his wrath.

"That young man had no right to affect us..." he spat. "And yet he did. His sacrifice became a statement. A mockery of all our supremacy."

Charlie didn't look away. His face, as firm as ever, showed no emotion.

"Then let's eliminate any doubt," he responded coldly. "This time we won't send a division. Not even half. We'll go with everything: every unit, every drone, every combat tower. This victory is ours."

The silence returned, heavier than before. Magnus inhaled deeply and walked to the center of the room, where a hologram of Scott's country floated with bluish lines against a dark background.

"No warnings," he said. "No war codes. No transmissions. They taught us that courtesy is weakness."

He paused.

"This time we will fall like the end of days. Like a storm that leaves no shelters. I want absolute obedience. I want the memory of this nation to dissolve like smoke."

Charlie barely nodded. Both understood what that order implied. What was coming was not a military operation. It was total punishment.

Magnus raised his hand. The hologram reacted immediately: attack routes lit up like red veins traversing the enemy territory.

"We are going to seize their history, their language, their names. We will build our new regime on their ashes."

A dark smile formed on his face, and Charlie mirrored it with the coldness of one who had already accepted the price of power.

──•─•──•✦•──•─•──•

The sky over the capital city, minutes before serene and star-filled, suddenly turned black, darker than any night. It wasn't a premature dawn. It was the arrival of a definitive shadow.

On the horizon, a red line began to grow, slow and burning, like a wound opening in the earth. Then came the sound: a deep, vibrating roar that seemed to emanate from everywhere at once, like the echo of a civilization dragged to its condemnation.

From the shadows emerged a legion of steel and circuits. Thousands of armored units advanced in perfect formation, like an unstoppable dark tide. Mechanized walkers crushed the asphalt with strides that made the earth vibrate, while automated tanks deployed their laser cannons with a menacing hum. Assault vehicles, covered in intelligent plating that adapted to the environment, made buildings tremble as they passed. High above, swarms of tactical drones swept the sky like predators, their red lights flickering like thousands of eyes searching for prey. Each unit transmitted a sense of lethal precision, as if technology itself had decided to exterminate all traces of life.

There were no sirens. No warnings. Not even a formal declaration of war. Only darkness, falling over the city like a final curtain.

In the underground command center, hidden beneath the ruins of the old government, General George stood before a wall of screens displaying the catastrophe in real-time. Sweat ran down his forehead, but he didn't feel it. His eyes, fixed on the images, seemed vacant.

It was Magnus's entire army. Not a division. Not an elite detachment. The entire force advanced without restriction, like a punishment that left no escape.

"What... what's happening?" George murmured, more to himself than to the others. His voice was barely a trembling whisper.

He knew there would be reprisals after Thomas's sacrifice. He knew they had provoked something. But not this. Not a total attack.

A young technician, fingers trembling on the keyboard, turned to him with a livid face.

"Sir... there's no warning protocol. No demands. No transmissions. They're just... advancing. It's like they came out of nowhere. A ghost assault."

George clenched his jaw. The tension in the room was so thick it was hard to breathe. His voice, when he spoke, sounded harsh.

"Cowards... not an ounce of honor. Not even a military code."

He leaned over a monitor, where enemy routes unfurled in red, spreading like poisonous roots across the map.

"And the powers?" he asked with a flash of anger. "Where is the UN? The global condemnation? Any attempt at containment?"

The technician lowered his gaze.

"Charlie... sabotaged the strategic networks of the world powers. Their arsenals are blocked. Satellites caught in loops. Missiles, deactivated. Now he controls the red button."

George stood motionless. Blood thrummed in his temples.

Without a word, he turned to the security console. He lifted the armored steel cover. There was his last resort: a red button protected by tempered glass.

With an elbow, he smashed the glass. He pressed the button with determination.

A deep hum reverberated through the base. A mechanical voice filled the air:

"Self-destruction activated."

Lights began to flash red. Sirens wailed with a high-pitched, desperate tone, piercing every corner like blades of sound. The countdown appeared on the screens:

10:00... 9:59... 9:58...

"Evacuate!" George ordered, his voice resounding with the authority of a man not yet willing to die in silence. "Code Ash! Everyone out!"

The walls vibrated. Cracks spread across the ceiling like open veins. George rushed through a narrow corridor. At the end, a wall slid open as his iris was scanned, revealing a hidden elevator.

He entered. The door closed with a metallic whisper. As he descended into the deepest sub-level, the roar of the outside world faded. Down there, there were no red lights or sirens. Only silence... and the echo of his own thoughts.

Thomas had died believing his sacrifice would be enough.

Above his head, the city burned. Towers fell one after another. Avenues collapsed. Everything turned to ashes.

George was now a phantom. A last witness.

And over the world, history was being rewritten with fire.

──•─•──•✦•──•─•──•

From the sky, the nation of Scott no longer looked like a land, but a surface devoured by a shadow. A black tide of steel and fire covered it completely, as if night had been forcibly cast upon its geography. The skies, torn by the roar of aircraft and swarms of drones, spewed incandescent streams onto defenseless cities. The heat of each impact rose to merge with the clouds, which turned red, as if the firmament itself was bleeding.

Every city fell in a devastating choreography. Explosions erupted with the precise rhythm of an inhuman intelligence. Control towers were silenced with surgical strikes; their systems shut down in an instant, like eyes closing in death. Electrical grids collapsed in seconds, plunging entire regions into absolute darkness, broken only by the incessant birth of flames.

Civilians, caught in the inertia of a life that had ended without warning, looked up without comprehending. Some fell to their knees, a grief that broke their souls. Others ran aimlessly, without refuge, without time. Understanding didn't erupt in a scream; it was a collective silence, an emptiness that spread like the certainty that everything known had come to an end.

In the coastal districts, where the ocean used to sing, statues of ancient heroes were pulled down with steel cables, dragged by machines until they were decapitated. Their heads rolled through the plazas, their stone eyes still gazing at the sky as if seeking an answer. In their place, dark monoliths arose, so polished they reflected distorted images. And in the center of each, the symbol of the new order: a broken crown pierced by a sword. The mark of Magnus.

In less than twenty-four hours, the nation of Scott disappeared. It was not occupied territory nor a disputed zone. It was, simply, erased. Its name no longer appeared in navigation systems or on official maps. Its flag disintegrated along with the walls that supported it.

Magnus's regime didn't arrive as an army; it injected itself like a poison, spread like a disease that left no room for a cure. Its presence was total: on the walls, on the antennas, in the metallic voices of the drones that floated in every alley. The world powers did not intervene. Not because they didn't want to, but because they couldn't. Every missile that once pointed towards Magnus now obeyed his codes. Every defense system of the great nations, at the slightest attempt at activation... simply failed.

And then it became clear: if Magnus could erase an entire nation for the sacrifice of a single man, what hope remained for anyone else?

──•─•──•✦•──•─•──•

The underground laboratory hummed like a heart on the verge of collapse. Tangled cables, flickering monitors, and the constant hum of generators filled the air with the scent of ozone and hot metal. There, amidst the bluish gloom, Scott Sawyer breathed with difficulty. Five years without rest had left him with bloodshot eyes and trembling hands. Each breath was an anchor, preventing him from succumbing to vertigo. This was the last second. The last breath before changing everything.

Five years had passed since Magnus, humiliated by Thomas's sacrifice, unleashed his fury upon the world. Without warning, without rules, his army of steel ravaged the nation of Scott, reducing cities to rubble and erecting war towers in every conquered corner. The powers, paralyzed by fear of his absolute might, surrendered in silence. The entire planet had become a chessboard, and Magnus advanced like a relentless player.

George, the last general, had disappeared underground. To Magnus, he was an unimportant ghost. He didn't deserve to be hunted. And while the skies filled with watchful drones and the streets were adorned with the symbols of the new regime, Scott vanished from the map. They believed him defeated, consumed by despair. But clandestinely, beneath his own house, he worked on a single purpose: Neo.

What began as a dream became an obsession, fueled by secret donations from billionaires who, from the shadows, transferred funds through shell companies. Scott assembled his creation with the delicacy of an artisan and the fury of a man who has nothing to lose.

Now, before him, on a metal table, rested the fruit of that struggle.

Neo stood just over six feet tall, with an athletic build and an unsettling symmetry. His synthetic skin, an almost spectral pale, reflected the blue light of the monitors. Dark hair fell over a face sculpted with mathematical precision. But what captivated the gaze were his eyes: two deep blue crystalline spheres, too perfect to be inert. Within his core, an experimental chip intertwined human neural memory and quantum computing, granting him the ability to learn, reason... and perhaps, to feel.

Scott swallowed. Sweat ran down his forehead. His hands wavered over the control panel as a flash of memories crossed his mind: Rose's smile, Thomas's sacrifice. The weight of guilt almost bent him, but the fire of the Phoenix, the image of his son burning, kept him standing.

"Five years waiting for this moment..." he whispered, his voice broken.

He closed his eyes. He inhaled deeply, like someone jumping into an abyss. Then, with a trembling finger, he pressed the switch.

The laboratory lit up with an electric blue flash that blinded him for a second. A metallic click ran through Neo's body, whose synthetic muscles twitched in violent spasms, as if lightning were coursing through him. Then, a silence so dense that even the generators seemed to hold their breath.

And then, the android's eyes opened.

It wasn't a simple power-on. A deep, almost celestial light emanated from his crystalline pupils as his cognitive system devoured data at an impossible speed. He blinked. A human blink. Too human.

His gaze slowly swept the room, stopping on an old wristwatch on a shelf: Thomas's watch. An object of no strategic value, but which Neo observed with a curiosity that defied any line of code. Finally, his eyes rested on Scott.

When he spoke, his voice resonated with a deep, harmonious tone. There was something metallic, but underneath vibrated a barely perceptible note, a hint of emotion.

"Operating system activated. Who are you?"

Scott felt a knot tighten in his throat. A silent tear rolled down his cheek.

"I... I am Scott Sawyer. Your creator."

He hesitated for an instant, swallowing the fear of saying it, before adding in a whisper:

"Your father."

Neo tilted his head. His systems processed every word, every inflection in Scott's voice. An unexpected noise generated in his neural network; an echo difficult to interpret. There was a pause, too long to be purely technical.

And then, something unexpected happened.

Neo raised his arms. His movements were slow, almost clumsy, as if every synthetic fiber were learning its purpose. He wrapped Scott in a firm, warm embrace. A gesture that transcended any "affective interaction" protocol Scott had designed.

"Father..." Neo murmured, with a barely vibrating softness, almost human.

Tears flowed without resistance. Scott clung to that embrace like someone clinging to a second chance.

It wasn't Thomas. Not entirely.

But, in that instant, it was the closest he came to getting him back.

And for the first time in five years, he felt that his struggle had not been in vain.

──•─•──•✦•──•─•──•

The afternoon settled over the city, painting the sky in a soft orange that felt like a last attempt at beauty in a broken world. In the square, life continued with an almost choreographed routine: street vendors called out to passersby with tired voices, children ran between the stone benches, and a street musician drew melancholic notes from his violin, his music floating like a whisper of hope.

But the scars of Magnus' invasion were still there, as visible as open wounds: cracks left unrepaired in the asphalt, graffiti ripped away to leave only the cold emblem of the new regime. At the corners, soldiers blended into the crowd—living shadows of lives sacrificed. And above all, the constant hum of watchful drones, like metallic mosquitoes ready to strike.

Amid the people, Scott and Neo stopped. From that spot, they could take in the entire scene.

To one side, an old woman, her face etched with deep wrinkles, broke a piece of bread with trembling hands and offered it to a barefoot boy. The child, eyes glowing with gratitude, bit into the bread with a smile far too pure for such an environment. In another corner, a hooded man tore a purse from a woman and vanished into the crowd like just another shadow.

Scott let out a slow, heavy sigh. Then he looked at Neo with solemnity.

"Did you see both acts at the same time?"

Neo blinked. His eyes, blue and deep as calm oceans, locked on his father's. His systems processed both situations in less than a second.

"Yes, Father. One person helps. Another harms. They are completely opposite." Scott held his son's gaze with a mix of tenderness and concern.

"Son, even in the deepest darkness, there is hope. Sometimes, those who harm are lost—trapped in their own suffering. True justice isn't just about punishment; it's about giving the chance to change."

Neo frowned, processing the response. There was a long pause, his blue eyes fixed on the horizon as though his systems were caught in a paradox.

"But if someone causes harm," Neo said in a low voice, almost a murmur of pure logic, "the equation is simple: they must receive harm in return. If someone steals, they deserve to lose. If someone kills, they must die. Justice is balance."

Scott smiled sadly. He knelt before Neo, holding the android's cold metallic hands in his own.

"No, son. Justice is not only balance. True justice is born from love. It's not about logic—it's about humanity. To forgive and love even those who hurt us… that is what makes us human."

Neo lowered his gaze. On his temple, a blue light flickered softly, like a circuit struggling to process something beyond binary.

"I don't understand," he admitted, his voice quieter. "How can someone who does evil deserve love and forgiveness?"

Scott glanced toward the square. People came and went, each carrying invisible stories, scars unseen to the naked eye.

"Because every person carries a weight in their heart. Some bear the pain of a broken childhood; others, the despair of a world that failed them. Many who harm weren't born evil—they were shaped by pain and desperation. But if we all reject them, if we all condemn them… who will give them the chance to be better?"

Neo remained silent. His logic protested, but something in his father's voice stirred an unknown corner within him. A slight tilt of his head, as if trying to register an emotion he could not yet comprehend.

Scott went on, his eyes firm like tempered steel:

"But you must also understand this. Not everyone will accept the chance to change. Some, blinded by their own malice, will reject any possibility of redemption. And when someone chooses to be an agent of destruction, when they become a threat to the innocent… then you, Neo, will have the duty to act."

Neo looked up, his eyes shining with a faint but different hue.

"To act… even if that means destroying them?"

Scott nodded solemnly.

"Yes. You cannot save someone who does not wish to be saved. You must be the line between salvation and destruction—but never make death your first option. That is what will set you apart from them."

A gentle wind blew, ruffling Scott's hair.

"And remember this: offering a chance to someone who doesn't deserve it is like giving new hope to someone who needs it."

Neo studied him in silence. And for the first time, a faint smile crossed his face. It was an awkward gesture, almost shy… but real.

As if he finally understood… the value of life.

Scott felt an unexpected warmth in his chest. He returned the smile, certain that this moment, though small, marked the beginning of something immense.

──•─•──•✦•──•─•──•

Deep within the bunker, the blue glow of the monitors carved Magnus' face into something almost sculptural. He toyed with a cigarette between his fingers, spinning it with the calm of a predator not yet sure whether to strike or wait. Holographic maps of the conquered zones flickered before him like trophies of war.

Charlie, standing a few meters away, watched in silence. His eyes were two blades fixed on Magnus' back. At last, he spoke—his voice low but edged with ice:

"Magnus, do you remember what Thomas did?"

The name fell like lead into the room. Magnus didn't react at first; he exhaled a thick cloud of smoke that drifted toward the ceiling lights.

"His nation belongs to me now," he finally replied coldly, never taking his eyes off the maps.

Charlie wasn't intimidated. He stepped forward, his shadow stretching over the metallic surface.

"And yet you don't see the danger? If Thomas—just a boy—managed to humiliate you on the battlefield…, have you considered what his father might be doing?"

Magnus turned his head slightly, just enough to reveal a steely gray eye.

"His father?"

"Scott Sawyer." Charlie met Magnus' gaze without flinching. "He was my best friend for years. Together, we founded Zoft, the company that changed technology worldwide for decades. But when he discovered what I was secretly building—tactical AI, weapons—he called me a traitor and walked away. We lost our friendship because he never understood that morality is an obstacle when it comes to real power."

Charlie gritted his teeth, his voice trembling faintly with a mixture of contempt and recognition.

"To me, Scott is trapped in his sick morality. But that doesn't make him any less dangerous. If his son could take down part of your army with a single prototype, imagine what his father could do with more time and resources. He is not a man who sits idly by—especially not when it comes to avenging his son."

At last, Magnus turned away from the monitor. He leaned back in his chair, letting the cigarette dangle from his lips as one eyebrow arched.

"And how is it possible that my satellites, my informants… not even you with all your networks, know where he is?" Magnus asked mockingly. "And yet you say a failed general like George does?"

Charlie kept his composure, though his eyes flashed darkly.

"Because Scott is as good as I am with technology. Before vanishing, he erased every trace of his existence: disabled tracking systems, neutralized biometric codes, and redirected satellite signals so not even his shadow remained in our records. He's like a digital ghost."

He took another step, approaching Magnus' desk.

"The only person who knows his whereabouts is ex-General George. Scott entrusted him with his location when Thomas joined the army underage. It was vital information for the high command… and George kept it."

Magnus let out a dry laugh, drumming his fingers on the metallic surface.

"So… the father of a suicidal brat is hiding in some hole, has been gone for five years, and according to you… is now building a weapon to destroy us. And my solution is to call a failed general to give me his location?"

A low, harsh chuckle escaped Magnus' throat. He leaned toward Charlie with a crooked grin.

"What's the matter, Charlie? You talk like you're afraid. As if that old man could shake an entire empire."

Charlie didn't blink. His voice dropped to an icy whisper, each word a bullet aimed at Magnus' ego:

"Laugh if you want, Magnus. But if you do nothing, you and I will be history. And everything you've built… will have been for nothing."

The remark wiped the grin from Magnus' face. The cigarette froze between his fingers.

The tension in the room thickened into a solid wall.

Charlie stepped back toward the door; his eyes still locked on Magnus'.

"Even the greatest empires have fallen for ignoring a single man."

Magnus remained silent as the automatic door closed with a metallic hiss. The leader of the new world stared at the communicator on his desk. At last, he crushed the cigarette in the ashtray, picked up the device, and dialed an encrypted number.

One tone. Two.

Miles away, in a dark apartment, ex-General George felt his heart stop when he saw who was calling.

"George…" Magnus' voice was a lethal whisper, dripping with menace. "It's been too long."

On the other end, George shrank against the wall of his tiny hideout. Years of fear and isolation had reduced him to a shadow of his former self. His nation had fallen… what was the point of resisting?

"I don't know what you're talking about. You've got the wrong person." His voice trembled despite his effort to sound firm.

Magnus let out a dry, humorless laugh that echoed like a ghost in the bunker.

"Don't be naïve. I know you're there. I know where you're hiding. My own men—the ones who helped you 'disappear'—gave me your location… before they were executed for their weakness. Their information was precise."

George felt a knot tighten in his stomach. He swallowed hard.

"What do you want?"

"That's better—straight to the point." Magnus reclined in his chair, his voice a deadly melody, every word a knife in the air. "Tell me… where is Scott Sawyer?"

A deadly silence stretched. George trembled, the image of Scott—the man who entrusted him with his son's location to save their homeland—intertwined with the memory of Thomas falling on the battlefield.

"Scott has nothing to do with you, Magnus. Leave him alone."

Magnus narrowed his eyes, a spark of amusement flickering in his gaze.

"Leave him alone?" A dry laugh, barely a whisper. "His son destroyed my men, toppled part of my army with a single prototype. And you expect me to ignore the man who raised him?"

George remained silent. Magnus smelled hesitation like a wolf sniffing blood.

"Tell me, George… do you feel it?" Magnus' voice dropped to a venomous whisper. "That tingle at the back of your neck… that pressure in your chest… it's fear."

He let the silence seep between them like poison before continuing, his tone sharp as a blade.

"Because you remember, don't you? How my army marched against you… how the shadow of death loomed over your men… the certainty there was no escape."

George clenched his fists, his muscles taut.

"You won't intimidate me, Magnus."

Magnus clicked his tongue, the cruel patience of a predator toying with its prey.

"This isn't intimidation, George. It's a threat."

His voice dropped lower, sharper:

"Listen carefully… what you saw in that war was only a fraction of my power."

He caressed the bunker's control panel, his fingers brushing a button beneath a glass cover. A spark of pleasure lit his eyes as he murmured:

"I'm one step away from unleashing chaos. One order… and everything you've built in the shadows will burn."

George's stomach twisted. The image of Thomas on the battlefield flooded his mind: soldiers falling one after another, the sky blackened by fire, the echo of screams that still haunted him.

"Your pathetic hidden life… your last scraps of peace…" Magnus' voice sank to an icy whisper. "All reduced to ashes."

A deadly pause, then the final blow:

"Tell me… are you really willing to gamble that?"

George's breathing quickened. His mind desperately searched for a defense, a shred of control amid the humiliation.

"But if you kill me… you'll never get that information," he said in a faint voice, clinging to the only card he thought he had.

Magnus remained silent. The cigarette smoke curled in the air as his gray eyes dissected every word like a surgeon. Then a dry, humorless laugh escaped him, echoing in the bunker.

"Let me open your eyes… Did you really think you were the only piece on this board?"

George's jaw tightened. A cold chill ran down his spine.

"My men have already dismantled the networks you built in the shadows," Magnus' voice grew deeper, a contained growl. "They raided your old headquarters, seized the servers, extracted copies of every bit of data… Or did you really think I wouldn't anticipate that?"

George swallowed hard, sweat beading on his forehead.

Magnus smiled—a joyless grin—and delivered the phrase that shattered him completely:

"If you die here, George, you won't save anyone. You'll only make your life as useless as your resistance."

The terror in George's eyes blended with despair. Magnus' lie, woven with fragments of truth, was impossible to refute. His voice broke as he clung to his last thread of hope.

"No… you can't do this…"

Magnus smiled with the calm of a predator closing the trap. He leaned toward the screen and spoke in a cutting voice:

"Yes, I can. Five seconds…"

Nothing.

Four…"

A trembling exhale.

"Three…"

George's hands shook over the keyboard.

"Two…"

"I SENT IT!" George screamed, his voice cracking, desperation pouring from every word. "THERE! YOU HAVE THE LOCATION!"

A message flashed on Magnus' screen: "Location confirmed. Deploying units."

Magnus smiled with the certainty of a man who already knew the ending.

"It's been a pleasure doing business with you." His tone was icy, almost mocking. Without another word, he ended the call.

In the bunker, only the cigarette smoke remained, curling into the darkness.

Miles away, Scott Sawyer remained unaware that his fate had already been sealed.

──•─•──•✦•──•─•──•

With tears blurring his vision, George sprinted like a condemned man.

He could barely feel his legs; every step felt as if the ground were crumbling beneath his feet.

The cold night air burned his lungs, but he couldn't stop. Not after what he had just done.

Guilt devoured him like acid.

Every beat of his heart was a brutal reminder of the betrayal he had just committed.

Scott… My God… I've doomed him.

When he reached Scott's house, his body was on the verge of collapse.

He leaned against the doorframe, gasping like a wounded animal. His mind raced, searching for words that didn't exist.

How do I tell him? How do I explain that I sold him out… that I marked him for death?

The door opened. Scott appeared in the doorway; his face lit by the faint glow from inside.

"George…?" His voice sounded confused but carried a sharp edge of alertness. "What's going on?"

George froze.

The weight of his betrayal crushed him.

"Scott… I…" His voice cracked like glass. "I'm sorry… I'm so sorry…"

Scott frowned, confusion deepening in his eyes.

"What are you talking about?"

"Magnus… he…" George ran a trembling hand over his sweat-drenched face. "He knows where you live…"

The air grew heavy, as if the entire house was holding its breath.

"What…?" Scott's voice hardened, his eyes cutting through George like knives.

"I gave him your location…" The words came out in a whisper, but they hit the room like a gunshot. "They're coming for you… Do something, run!"

For a moment, Scott said nothing.

He just stared at him.

And in that silence, George felt his soul unravel.

Scott took a step back, as if he'd been punched in the chest.

His expression shifted—from confusion, to disbelief… and then to pain.

"You… you told him?" His voice was barely audible, heavy with a mix of anger and sorrow.

Shame crushed George like a boulder.

"I didn't want to…!" His voice trembled like a frayed string about to snap. "He gave me no choice… He threatened me, Scott. You know what he's capable of."

A thick silence filled the room, so dense it was almost suffocating.

Slowly, Scott turned his head.

Neo stood on the other side of the room, watching silently.

His blue eyes, cold and luminous, seemed to pierce straight through George's soul.

Neo—more than just a replica of Thomas—was the ultimate tool to dismantle Magnus' tyranny and his vast system of control.

Scott swallowed hard, feeling the crushing weight of his entire life—Rose, Thomas, the fallen nation—pressing against his chest.

Rage and sorrow fused into a single, burning emotion: determination.

Scott placed a hand on the metallic shoulder of his creation and exhaled deeply.

"You're not just a weapon… You're our last hope. Don't fail me, son."

Neo held his creator's gaze. A faint glimmer passed through his synthetic pupils, as though a dormant fire had been lit within him.

Without a word, he nodded.

He knew there would be no turning back.