The rain had stopped.
That always meant something in this city. Not mercy.
Just the eye of the storm.
Leon stood outside the abandoned mill with a .45 in one hand and regret in the other. The address came in a dead-drop text with no name, no reply.
But he knew who sent it.
And he knew why.
Inside this place, the floor still reeked of old blood and chemicals. The walls had stories carved in rust and bullet holes.
He kicked the door in.
And the smell hit him first—sweat, metal, something rotting beneath the surface.
Then the sounds.
Voices.
"…you win."
Leon moved fast. Quiet. Swept left to right.
And there they were.
Aaron—tied to a chair, blood on his shirt, alive.
Matt—on the floor, shaking, breathing like he was fighting something inside his skin.
And the scalpel, untouched.
Leon froze. Took it in. Didn't speak yet.
Aaron saw him first.
"Leon," he rasped. "He didn't do it."
Leon didn't lower the gun.
Matt didn't look up.
Leon stepped closer, weapon aimed low—but steady.
"I got a message," he said coldly. "Said you were his now."
Matt's head twitched toward the sound. "I was."
Leon's grip tightened. "And now?"
Matt stood slowly. Arms limp. Face hollow.
"I don't know."
Leon looked at Aaron.
"Tell me what the hell is going on."
Aaron shook his head, voice raw. "Bishop played him. Broke him. Put him back together wrong."
Matt's voice cut in, quiet and sharp.
"He made me feel. That's what you don't get. I didn't come back to save anyone. I came back to see if I still mattered."
Leon raised the gun just slightly.
"Then make it matter," he said. "Right now."
Silence.
A long, loaded second.
Then Matt turned, slowly.
Faced Leon.
And opened his hands.
Empty.
Leon hesitated.
That was the trap.
That was always the trap.
Because in that breath of mercy—the wall exploded.
Flash. Heat. Shockwave.
The building roared, and the world collapsed.