[SFX: Police sirens wailed, bouncing off broken concrete and rusted beams.]
"This is your final warning! Surrender now or we will use lethal force!"
The shout echoed through the skeleton of the old steel factory—rotting metal, shattered glass, a graveyard of broken machines.
Inside, six gang members crouched with wild eyes and nervous hands, gripping pistols, machetes, and a rusted baseball bat wrapped in nails. In the middle of it all, tied to a steel chair, sat a bloodied teenage girl—her mouth gagged, cheeks streaked with tears.
"Shit," one of them hissed. "They got here way faster than I thought."
"What now, boss?!"
Their leader stood tall. A tower of muscle with a jagged scar down his face and a voice like gravel soaked in whiskey.
"We still got a hostage. We can negotiate."
Bang.
A single, silenced shot cracked through the silence.
"What the hell was that?" someone whispered, panic rising.
Another gang member took a step toward the girl.
Bang.
He dropped, screaming, blood spurting from his hand.
"Sniper! Inside! Shit!"
"Shield up! Grab the girl—"
Bang.
A clean headshot silenced him forever.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
More shots rang out—no flash, no sound trail—just bodies dropping and panic blooming like fire.
A figure emerged from the smoke and shadow, weaving through the chaos with the calm of a reaper. Black combat boots, long coat swaying, a rifle hanging loosely from one shoulder.
"Oh yeah, baby. That's more like it."
The gang leader's face went pale. "No… no way. That voice… that coat... You're—"
"Naomi Kintu." The figure smirked. "Justice Wing, code name: Silent Killer. But hey, if 'Killer Beats' is trending, I'll take it."
"You're supposed to be on the Eastern front!"
"Well," Naomi winked, "I heard you losers were hiding a kid. So here I am."
The gang leader roared, grabbing the girl's chair and hurling it toward the shattered window behind him.
"NO—!"
Bang.
Too late.
The chair flew. Naomi dropped two more with precise headshots and ran to the window.
Outside, the girl landed in a trash heap—bruised, crying, but alive.
She looked up through tears. "Onii…-chan?"
Flash Cut — Rooftop Team POV
On the rooftop, Officer Kenji aimed his rifle downward, giving the all-clear.
"Target neutralized. Girl is safe. Sending sweep team."
Below, Naomi walked toward the final gang member—the last one standing, trembling, hands raised.
Then—click.
A glint of metal. A thumb pressing down.
Naomi's eyes widened. "NO—!"
BOOM.
The floor exploded in a thunderous blast.
Concrete, steel, and flame swallowed the room. The force hurled officers backward. Fire roared like a beast awakening.
Final Moments
The fire had started to die down.
What was left of the warehouse groaned beneath the weight of its own collapse—steel beams twisted, concrete cracked, everything stained in smoke and blood.
Naomi couldn't feel anything anymore.
His body was broken beneath the rubble, and he knew—this was it. There'd be no backup, no miracle. He'd saved the girl. The gang was finished. His mission was complete.
"One hundred cases solved," he thought with a bitter smile. "Guess that's a nice number to end on."
He closed his eyes.
And suddenly, he was no longer lying in rubble.
He was back there—a small boy again, watching helplessly as his mother stood between him and the gang.
"Please," she begged. "Give me more time. I'll find the money, I swear."
They didn't even hesitate.
One of them raised a gun and pulled the trigger.
Naomi screamed.
They took him away. Locked him in chains. Made him a tool, a nobody.
But he didn't stay that way.
He fought. He trained. He survived. And when he finally became a police officer, he made them all pay. Every last one.
He took down hundreds of criminals, one after another, chasing the only thing he ever wanted—justice.
Now, in the ruins of the last battlefield, Naomi exhaled for the final time.
"Maybe now," he whispered, "I'll finally see you again, Mom…"
A soft voice answered him.
"You will, Naomi."
His eyes fluttered open.
There, in the middle of the darkness, stood his mother—her face calm, just like he remembered. She hadn't aged a day.
Tears welled in his eyes. "Mom… I missed you. I did everything I could. I found them. I stopped them all."
"I know," she said gently. "I saw every step you took. You were so brave."
He wanted to run to her, to hug her, to cry like he never let himself cry.
But before he could reach her, something began pulling him away—soft at first, then stronger, as if the world itself was calling him back.
"No," he whispered. "Not yet… I just got here."
His mother's smile trembled, but she held firm.
"You've done enough, Naomi. Now, you deserve peace."
He shook his head, panic rising. "Please… I don't want to leave you again."
Her eyes filled with tears as she stepped closer and wrapped her arms around him.
"It's okay. You're going to a better place now. A new life. You don't have to fight anymore."
He clung to her. "But I want to stay… I want to stay with you…"
She pulled back slowly, her image fading, her voice quieter now.
"Live peacefully, Naomi. That's my final gift to you."
"No! Mom—MOM!"
Her light faded into the dark.
And then, silence.
--------
"It's been two years… he hasn't opened his eyes once."
A voice drifted into the darkness. Calm. Detached.
"Should we end it? Quietly. If the young mistress knew…"
"Don't say that!" another voice snapped—softer, but firm. "She still believes he'll wake up. We can't give up on him."
Two years… coma?
Naomi could hear them.
But he couldn't move.
He couldn't breathe.
He couldn't even scream.
Where am I?
The last thing he remembered was the explosion—the warehouse—the girl—the flames.
And then…
A jolt.
Like lightning through his spine.
His lungs convulsed—
"—AARGH!!"
A raw gasp exploded from his throat. His chest rose like he was breathing for the first time in years.
Light stabbed at his eyes. Too bright. Too pure.
Everything blurred. He blinked, squinting.
He was lying in a massive bed with deep red curtains and golden embroidery. The sheets smelled of flowers and medicine.
He lifted his hand.
Thin. Pale. Fragile.
Not his hand.
He sat up slowly—pain flaring in every limb. Two maids were standing nearby. One held a tray of water.
The tray crashed to the floor.
"Y-Young Master!"
"He's awake! The Young Master is awake!"
They rushed from the room, their voices echoing through the halls.
Naomi sat in stunned silence, his breaths shallow. The room spun slightly.
Young Master?
He pushed the blanket aside and staggered to his feet. His legs felt like paper, barely able to carry his weight. He reached out, stumbling, and fell to his knees with a grunt.
A mirror caught his eye—tall, ornate, standing beside the dresser.
He crawled toward it, palms scraping against the polished marble floor. Slowly, he gripped the frame and pulled himself up.
What he saw made his blood run cold.
A stranger stared back.
A boy. Maybe seventeen. Long, tousled dark hair. Pale violet eyes. Thin as a reed. Sharp jawline, elegant features.
Not Naomi. Not the hardened police officer.
"…Who the hell is this?"
His voice cracked, low and dry.
He touched his face. The boy in the mirror did the same.
He felt sick. Dizzy.
Naomi backed away from the mirror and collapsed onto the floor again.
This isn't a hospital.
This isn't my world.
Something wasn't right—
Not the clothes. Not the room. Not his body.
And then, the door burst open.
Footsteps. Dozens of them.
Maids. Servants. An old man in noble robes.
And behind them all—
A girl in white.
Eyes wide. Hands trembling. Tears already falling.
"Nael…?" she whispered.
Naomi looked up at her, confused.
"…Who?"
To be continued..