Cascades Glade – 08:30 AM

  The sunlight filtering through the treetops felt cruelly bright. Elena sat on a log, her broken arm bound in filthy rags. Around her, the rest of the group was the definition of defeat: Beck was cleaning a gash on Vane, while Leo, Kol, and Kane kept a paranoid watch.

  "She didn’t stand a chance..." Elena’s voice cracked. "That monster in the white mask... he took Tara down like she was nothing."

  "Henry’s gone too," Kane muttered from atop a rock. "I saw two of them taking him. One with a wide-grinning mask and another in a black mask. They move like the ground doesn't even exist."

  The silence was shattered by the snapping of branches. The group jumped into combat stances, weapons raised with trembling hands.

  Emerging from the mist, Piro led the way, followed by Gun, who was limping heavily. Gun’s face was pale, his presence still a bitter reminder of the old regime. However, it was the third figure that made the air turn to ice.

  Mickey Trigger appeared right behind them, twirling an iron bar with a manic grin.

  "Mickey?" Kol roared, his axe ready to split the former executioner’s skull. "What is this rat doing here? Gun, did you bring this trash with you?"

  "I didn't bring anyone," Gun spat, sitting down with difficulty. "He showed up out of nowhere at the manor. If it weren't for him, Piro and I would be dead. He impaled one of those demons against the wall."

  "How are you even alive, Mickey?" Elena asked, her gaze icy. "Your entire squad was wiped out when Region 97 fell. You disappeared like a coward."

  "I’m the 'one percent,' doll," Mickey shrugged, ignoring the hostility. "I stayed in the shadows watching you guys try to play hero. But these new guys..." he pointed the iron bar toward the deep woods "...they aren't human. I saw the one in the skull mask, the one I skewered. He didn't scream. He just... stared at me through those two black holes in the mask."

  Gun looked at the group, seeing the fear in the Heretics' eyes. He was the only one who knew the truth behind those masks.

  "You have no idea what you went up against tonight," Gun’s voice came out hoarse. "Those 'demons' have names. Their leader is called Silas. And if you want Henry back, you’re going to have to accept that Mickey is the only one here with the stomach to do what needs to be done."

  "We don’t need a psychotic killer," Beck retorted.

  "Yes, you do," Gun smiled grimly. "Because Silas has Henry. And Silas doesn’t take prisoners... he makes examples."

  Reaper HQ – Former CIA Base – 10:15 AM

  Henry wasn’t dragged in by common soldiers. His captor was Silas himself. The Reaper leader kept a firm hand on Henry’s shoulder, a constant pressure reminding the Heretic that any escape attempt would be crushed in seconds. Henry was without his blue mask, feeling the cold blast of the base's air conditioning against his sweaty face.

  The walk was a plunge into a pristine nightmare. As they moved through the sterile white corridors, Henry saw the "family" Silas had built. They passed a lounge area where Diego and Zack sat in futuristic designer chairs; Zack toyed with a deck of cards, making them fly between his hands, while Diego watched Henry with a curious smirk, his skull earrings dangling.

  Further ahead, the silence was broken by the tinkling of bells. Jester appeared, gliding on his hoverboard, circling Silas and Henry like a manic satellite. In a high-pitched, bouncy voice, he chirped, "Look at that, Silas! The consolation prize! Does he bite? Can we see what’s inside him?" Silas didn’t answer, and Jester’s mood flipped instantly. He toggled his voice modulator, which boomed like mechanical thunder: "Or maybe I should just open Lil’s kennel and see who’s left in one piece."

  Silas kept walking, indifferent to the strategist’s taunts. They passed the monitoring wing, where Ian and Elijah reviewed digital maps with military gravity, and the infirmary, where "Beautiful Death," Silvia, was changing Fabrizio’s bandages. The white-fringed twin tried to stand when he saw Henry, but Silvia’s pale hand held him back as she shot a warning look at the prisoner. Before reaching the final block, a crash echoed from a side room followed by Lil’s psychotic scream: "YOU GAVE ME AN ORDER?!" Andrew stepped out shortly after, wiping his hands on a white cloth and giving Henry a sadistic wink.

  Silas finally stopped before a cell made of reinforced glass. He shoved Henry inside and followed, sealing the door. The Reaper leader removed his skull mask, revealing a face marked by white bands, maintaining his imposing six-foot-six stature.

  Silas: (Voice low and controlled) — You spent a long time looking for me, Henry. I saw it through the CIA systems; you and Freya scoured what’s left of this country for a name... an "asset" the military took before the Fall. While that idiot Gun was looking for military hardware. Too bad for him, we have all the remaining weapons of the American government.

  Henry felt a knot in his stomach. He stared into Silas’s dark-blond eyes, trying to find the boy from the photographs Freya kept like relics.

  Henry: — Silas... so it’s you. Her brother. She never gave up. Even when Gun held her prisoner, she prayed you were alive. If she knew you were the leader of these freaks...

  Silas: — She’ll never know. The Silas she knew died so the Reaper could be born. But I’ve watched her, Henry. I saw when you took her from Gun’s hands and brought her to Oregon. I let you live because, until now, you were the safest place for her.

  Henry: — And now? You’re going to attack the base? Kill Solomon and the others?

  Silas: — My brothers want blood, and the world needs to be cleansed of sin. But Freya... and the child... they are untouchable. Children have no sin, Henry. They are the only purity left. I don’t like that Gun’s blood stains what she is, but I will protect them. Even if I have to destroy every last Heretic to ensure she is under my watch, where no one else can touch her.

  Henry took a step forward, defying Silas’s height.

  Henry: — You think you’re protecting her? If you kill her friends, you’ll destroy her from the inside. She’ll hate you without even knowing who you are. You don’t want a nephew, Silas; you want a trophy of purity in a white lab.

  Silas tilted his head, a shadow of doubt crossing his gaze before being replaced by his usual coldness.

  Silas: — She will have security. She will have food and order. Things your parkour group and hollow ideals can’t guarantee for long. Now, tell me what I want to know about Solomon’s defenses. If you cooperate, I guarantee the transition will be painless for your friends. If you resist... I’ll let Jester and Lil handle the interrogation. And they don’t share my sense of... family mercy.

  Henry closed his eyes for a second, absorbing the weight of the choices. He realized Silas wasn't just a soldier; he was a man trapped between a doctrine of purity and the remains of his heart.

  Henry: — "You talk about mercy, but you left bodies hanging on stakes in the Cascades. You say you protect Freya, but she nearly died escaping the clutches of an empire you allowed to exist."

  Silas stepped forward, his skull mask dangling from his free hand, his bandaged face looking like a marble sculpture under the white light.

  Silas: — "Suffering purifies, Henry. But if you want to talk about loss..." Silas let out a sigh that sounded almost like a sarcastic laugh "...I must say your friend, the one with the shield... Tara, right? She was an excellent player in our game of 'tag' in the forest. But, unfortunately for her, I am very fast. Her death was... artistic. As brutal and final as what Elijah did to your other friend’s neck—Mika."

  Henry’s blood boiled. The image of Mika being killed by Elijah already haunted him, but knowing Silas had personally slaughtered Tara, and spoke of it with such disdain, broke something inside him.

  Henry: — "You’re a monster. I don’t care what you say about children or purity. You’re the same as Elijah, the same as that lunatic I heard screaming outside."

  Silas: — "What I am doesn't matter. What matters is what I can do for her. Give me the frequencies. Let me into the base without having to blow the place up. I’ll bring Freya and the baby here, where they’ll be safe, and I’ll let you and the others vanish from Oregon. It’s the best deal you’re going to get."

  Henry lifted his face, staring Silas directly in the eyes.

  Henry: — "You want the frequency? You want into the base? Then do this: show yourself to her. Now. Go there, look your sister in the eye and tell her you killed Tara and Mika. Tell her you’re the leader of the assassins who hunted her in the dark. If you have the guts to do that and she chooses to follow you, I’ll give you whatever you want."

  Silas froze. The hand holding the skull mask tightened its grip.

  Henry: — "But you won’t, will you? Because you know she’d never forgive the monster you’ve become. You’d rather send that clown on wheels or the scythe-wielding psychopath because you’re a coward who can’t face his own family."

  The room fell into absolute silence. Silas’s calm tone vanished, replaced by an aura of contained violence that seemed to make the white walls vibrate.

  Silas: — "I tried to be civilized because of her blood in you. But if you prefer the path of pain... so be it. I don’t need you to love me, Henry. I only need you to break."

  Silas turned to the glass door and keyed his comms.

  Silas: — "Jester. Bring Lil. The little blue bird thinks silence is an option. Let’s show him that in here, even thoughts belong to us."

  Henry felt the weight of Silas’s words, but one doubt still gnawed at his mind as the cell door prepared to open. He needed to understand this man’s twisted logic before being handed over to the executioner.

  Henry: — "Why now, Silas? You watched her for years. You saw Gun treat her like a trophy, saw her used by a psychopath... Why didn’t you take her when she was with the Enforcers? Why wait until she found refuge with us to decide now is the time?"

  Silas stopped with his hand on the glass door handle. He didn’t turn around, but his silhouette seemed to loom larger against the glow of the white walls. There was a heavy silence, where only the hum of the ventilation system could be heard.

  Silas: — "I considered it. Many times. But Gun’s world was a pigsty of greed and oil. It was no place for what is to come. Now, however..." he paused, his voice taking on an almost mystical tone "...now is the perfect time. The birth of this child means our species is not extinct. It is the sign I was waiting for."

  Henry frowned, cold sweat trickling down his temple. Henry: — "Our species? What are you talking about? She’s human, Silas. The baby is human. What the hell are you—"

  Before Henry could finish, the door hissed open. The air in the cell was invaded by the smell of sweat and cold metal.

  Lil entered the room. His light eyes were wide, bloodshot with unstable energy. He wasn’t wearing his mask now, revealing a messy, blonde face with an expression that shifted between a laugh and pure hatred. He held a pair of short transport shackles that would force Henry to walk hunched over.

  Lil: (Whispering, his voice trembling with anticipation) — "Silas... is he ready? Will he play with me? Can I show him my tools downstairs?"

  Silas put the skull mask back on, hiding any trace of humanity the previous dialogue might have suggested.

  Silas: — "Take him, Lil. He’s all yours until he decides to speak. But remember: he needs to be conscious for Jester to record the frequencies."

  Lil: (Suddenly screaming) — "CONSCIOUS! YES! YOU GAVE ME AN ORDER! A CLEAR ORDER!"

  Lil grabbed Henry by the collar with brute strength, yanking him from the chair. Henry took one last look at Silas as he was dragged into the hallway, but the Reaper leader had already turned back to the window, watching the horizon as if guarding a secret that went far beyond human biology.

  As he was led through the white corridors toward the "Punishment Wing," Henry thought about Silas’s phrase. Our species. He didn't know that for the boys of the project, the ability to create life had been stripped away along with their childhood by Colonel Turner’s orders, turning them into sterile war machines. To Silas, Freya’s baby wasn’t just a nephew; it was the only genetic bridge left for a lineage the government tried to turn into steel and scar tissue.

  The Interrogation

  In the distance, the tinkling of Jester’s bells drew closer, announcing that Lil’s interrogation would have a sadistic audience.

  The torture room was the only place in the HQ that wasn't entirely white; the walls were a matte metallic gray, designed to be hosed down with high-pressure lines. In the center, Henry was strapped to an iron chair bolted to the floor.

  Through the reinforced glass of the observation gallery above, the "audience" took their places. Ian and Elijah watched with clinical detachment. Zack and Diego made silent bets with their eyes. Aiden and the twins, Fabrizio and Silvia, stayed in the shadows, while Andrew finished his candy, looking eager. Jester floated on his hoverboard, his court jester mask tilted, capturing every beat of Henry’s heart on his sensors.

  Lil walked in circles around Henry, moving with nervous energy, his hands fumbling over the instruments laid out on a surgical tray.

  "You know, Henry... the world outside is so noisy, isn't it?" Lil began, his voice wavering between a sweet whisper and a snarl. "People scream, they cry, they beg... but in here, the sound is different. Here, the only sound that matters is the truth coming out of the flesh. Colonel Turner used to say the human body is like an out-of-tune musical instrument. Me? I’m the conductor. I pull out the notes hidden deep down, under the nerves. Silas says you’re a hero, that you have faith... but faith is just a layer of skin, Henry. And I love peeling skin."

  Lil stopped behind Henry, breathing heavily into his ear. He picked up a pair of carbon steel pliers, glinting under the fluorescent lights.

  "Let’s start with the extremities. Where the soul tries to escape first."

  Without warning and with mechanical speed, Lil clamped Henry’s left hand. Crack. The sound of the pinky bone being crushed and torn away echoed through the acoustic room. Henry let out a scream that shredded his throat, his body arching against the leather straps. Lil didn't wait. He spun to the other side, clamping the right hand. Crack. The second pinky was ripped off with a sharp yank.

  The silence that followed was filled only by Lil’s ragged breathing and the sound of Henry’s vomit hitting the metal floor. The Heretic was pale, his vision blurring, cold sweat washing over his face.

  "Stop... please..." Henry stammered, his voice broken, head lolling forward. "I’ll do... I’ll do whatever you want. Just stop..."

  Upstairs, the Reapers' silence was broken by shock. The nine members' eyes widened simultaneously. He gave Lil an order; they knew what was coming.

  Zack let out a short, sadistic laugh, adjusting his mask: "Oh, look at that... now the show really starts."

  Lil froze. His eyes, already unstable, dilated until they were almost entirely black. His face began to twitch, his teeth grinding. He dropped the tool, which hit the floor with a metallic clang.

  "You... you gave me an order?" Lil’s voice rose in pitch, becoming a hysterical scream that vibrated the gallery glass. "YOU GAVE ME AN ORDER, HERETIC?! NOBODY GIVES ME ORDERS!"

  Lil exploded in a frenzy. He lunged at Henry, delivering brutal, chaotic punches to the prisoner’s face. Each strike snapped like a whip. Henry, restrained and defenseless, took blows that could easily fracture a skull. The Heretic’s face turned into a mass of blood and bruises in seconds. Lil was in a trance, ready to beat Henry’s head into a pulp.

  "DIE! DIE FOR GIVING ME AN ORDER!" Lil raised his fist for the death blow, aiming for Henry’s temple.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Suddenly, Jester’s voice boomed over the speakers, using the voice modulator to sound like heavy, authoritative, and inhuman thunder:

  "ENOUGH, LIL!"

  Lil stopped the punch millimeters from Henry’s bloodied face, his entire body shaking, sweat dripping onto the prisoner’s chest.

  "He might be useful," Jester continued, his metallic voice now calmer but still ice-cold. "He is skilled, like us. Silas has plans that require him to keep breathing. Get out of there. Now."

  Lil backed away, huffing like a wounded animal, looking at Henry with sickening contempt. Upstairs, the Reapers kept watching. Henry was nearly unconscious, the pain of his missing fingers throbbing in sync with his heartbeat, as he realized that in this nest of monsters, even his attempt at surrender had been turned into a weapon of torture.

  The metallic atmosphere of the room seemed to hum after Lil’s violent exit. Henry’s blood was still fresh on the floor when the sound of electric wheels announced Jester’s entry. He glided on his hoverboard with a childish elegance, circling Henry’s chair while letting out little giggles that echoed off the cold walls.

  "Oh, Henry! What a mess you’ve made!" Jester exclaimed in his high, bouncy voice, without the modulator. He leaned in, observing the bloody stumps where the pinkies used to be. "But don't be sad. Fingers are overrated. You know what isn’t overrated? Talent. And you’ve got plenty! I’ve seen how you move. You’re fast, you’re smart... almost like us, just with less chemical 'help'."

  Jester reached out and grabbed Henry’s jacket, which was tossed in a corner, and the blue wooden mask Elijah had confiscated. He held them like treasures.

  "You know what I was thinking? This blue is so... 1990s. I’m taking this to my studio. Just imagine: matte black leather, a black mask with silver accents... you’d look beautiful, Henry! If you cooperate, if you help us with Solomon, you can trade this dirty floor for one of our white rooms. Think about it, okay? The family loves new faces!"

  With a twirl on his wheels, Jester left the room, leaving Henry plunged in silence and agony.

  A few minutes later, the door opened again. But this time, there was no sound of bells or screaming. Silvia entered silently, carrying a white medical kit. She removed her black-tears mask, revealing a face with fine features and pale skin. Her eyes met Henry’s, and for a brief second, there was no coldness of an assassin, only the precision of someone who knew pain intimately.

  She knelt beside Henry and began cleaning the wounds with a potent antiseptic that made the Heretic’s entire body convulse in a spasm.

  "Stay still," she ordered in a low whisper, almost inaudible to Jester’s cameras. "If you move, the sealant won't close the artery."

  Henry let out a muffled groan, his vision blurring as she applied a substance to his mutilated fingers. Her touch was light, contrasting brutally with Lil’s violence. Henry looked at her, feeling the warmth of the medicine begin to numb the raw flesh, and let a weak, pained smile escape his bloodied lips.

  "At... at least..." Henry coughed up a bit of blood, forcing the words out. "An angel... among ten demons..."

  Silvia’s hand stopped for a millisecond. She didn't smile. Her eyes only narrowed slightly, a shadow of bitterness crossing her face.

  "Don't fool yourself, Henry," she said, going back to wrapping his hands in pristine white gauze. "Angels don't exist in this place. I’m only ensuring you don't die before Silas decides what to do with you. The 'angel' here also carries a rifle and also obeys orders."

  "But you... you feel so much more than they do," Henry insisted, his voice failing. "I see it in your eyes. You’re not a machine. You’re just... a prisoner in a white cage."

  Silvia tightened the final bandage a bit harder than necessary, making Henry groan, but her eyes avoided his. She closed the kit and stood up, putting her mask back on.

  "Rest, Heretic. The next person to walk through that door won't have medicine in their hands."

  She left the room, leaving Henry alone with the pain and the certainty that Silas’s "family" was far more fractured than their leader imagined.

  Henry was drifting in semi-consciousness when he felt the restraints on the iron chair release. Silas was there, imposing and silent. With a gentleness Henry didn't expect, the leader helped him up. Henry’s face was now wrapped in white gauze due to Lil’s punches, leaving only his eyes and mouth visible—a mirror image of Silas, though the Heretic bore the mark of torture, while the other bore the mark of a past that refused to die.

  They walked through the labyrinth of white corridors until they reached a heavy door that opened into a room that looked like it came from a dream before the Fall.

  "I could have let Lil finish the job," Silas said, watching Henry stumble into the center of the room. "But there are only eleven people in the whole world who actually matter. A little reinforcement now and then would be good... even if you aren't 'immortal' like us."

  Silas stepped back and closed the door, the sound of the electronic lock echoing like a final sentence.

  Henry collapsed onto the bed. The sheets were Egyptian cotton so soft his battered skin almost burned at the touch. He looked around, incredulous. There was a flat-screen TV on with a static screensaver, a small fridge full of mineral water, and electricity pulsing in every outlet. Henry felt a lump in his throat; in the ten years since the world ended, he had never seen such abundance. But the comfort was poison.

  "Don't worry, Heretics..." Henry thought, closing the only fingers he had left into a trembling fist. "I’m going to kill every one of these bastards, one by one. I’m coming back for you, my brothers."

  At the same time, questions began to gnaw at his mind. Immortal? What was Silas talking about? What were the Reapers? Why was Silas’s face bandaged? Were the bandages to hide scars, or something much worse?

  Black and Silver

  The silence of the room was broken by the door swinging open. Aiden and Silvia stepped in.

  Aiden walked with his usual vanity, not wearing his mask, checking his perfectly styled pompadour with a small pocket comb before turning to Henry. He held out a silver-framed hand mirror.

  "Here," Aiden said with a sadistic, vain smirk. "So you can check on your 'beauty' every day. You look like a horror show right now, but the bandages add an air of mystery. Try not to get them dirty—white is sacred here."

  Silvia approached next, carrying a set of clothes folded with military precision. She placed Henry’s jacket and mask on the bed—but the original blue and brown were gone. Everything had been dyed by Jester into a deep, icy matte black, with silver accents that shimmered under the harsh light.

  "Get dressed," Silvia said, her voice maintaining that melancholic neutrality. "To the others out there, you aren’t Henry of the Heretics anymore. Now, you’re family. And family wears black."

  Henry looked at the black mask. He looked like one of them now. An extension of the shadow Silas cast over Oregon.

  A "Family" Dinner

  Henry’s biological clock was shattered by the trauma, but the magnetic click of the door brought him back to reality. The room was bathed in a bluish dimness, and the digital clock on the wall—something Henry hadn't seen functioning in years—read 7:45 PM.

  Elijah stood in the doorway, his silhouette relaxed against the frame.

  "Move it, Bluebird. Time for dinner."

  Henry blinked, his mind clouded by the pain medication.

  "Dinner? What?" The question came out hoarse, barely a whisper. The idea of a formal meal felt like a hallucination in a world where people ate charred game or expired rations.

  He followed Elijah through the silent corridors to the kitchen. The environment was a shock to the senses: a clinical, immaculate white covered everything from the walls to the minimalist designer furniture. It was too clean, too beautiful to be real.

  At the table, the scene was choreographed. All eleven of them were there. Everyone wore civilian versions of their uniforms—impeccably tailored black fabrics, without the weight of ballistic vests, the metal of weapons, or the masks that hid their humanity (or lack thereof). Only Jester stood out, keeping some chaotic detail in his outfit as if order were a personal insult.

  Henry sat in the only empty chair, next to Lil. He didn't look up; his head felt heavy, his eyes fixed on the perfectly stretched tablecloth. Before him lay an abundance that bordered on obscene: fresh bread, prepared meats, vegetables that glistened under the LED lights.

  The silence at the table was broken by Silas’s movement. The leader approached from behind Henry, his step so light he seemed to float. He rested his hands on the Heretic’s shoulders. Henry felt the cold leather of the gloves and the jagged texture of the glass shards glued over the knuckles—a torture tool transformed into an ornament of authority.

  "I’m sorry about earlier today, Henry," Silas’s voice echoed low, thick with a hypnotic calm. "But that is how we grow... through violence. Sad violence."

  Immortals and Memories

  Silas’s hands tightened slightly on Henry’s shoulders—a gesture that was simultaneously a comfort and a threat. Silas seemed to drift for a moment, his gaze lost in the white kitchen walls.

  "At least those scientists from hell aren't here to enslave us anymore," he murmured, as if chewing on a bitter, ancient memory.

  The leader then leaned in, his presence blocking out the light for Henry.

  "Now, Henry, you are family. You can eat. You’ve had a hard day." Silas let out a dry, nearly imperceptible laugh. "Don't worry, the drink isn't poisoned... although we are immune to poison anyway."

  Henry looked at the crystal glass in front of him. He felt the weight of ten other "immortals" staring at him.

  Henry lowered his head and began to eat. The flavor of the meat was almost disturbingly real, but he chewed mechanically, keeping his eyes down, acting like a shadow moving among bright lights. He didn't ask a single question. He wasn't crazy. He just listened to the clinking of silverware and the flow of conversation between the monsters.

  "I told you," Diego’s voice broke the silence, accompanied by the jingle of his skull earrings as he poured more wine. "I said 'Bluebird' would last at least two fingers before asking to stop. You bet on the first."

  "Beginner’s luck for Henry," Zack replied with a shrug, manipulating a playing card between his fingers. "Fate wanted him to be resilient. But the deck never lies in the long run."

  "'Fate,' what nonsense," Fabrizio cut in, playing the role of the pragmatist, his voice cold. "His metabolism is just slower to process pain due to the thermal shock from the forest. There’s no magic in it, Zack. Just mediocre biology."

  Aiden let out a small chuckle, dabbing his lips with excessive elegance. "Biology or not, the bandages on his face look charming. I’m almost tempted to wear them myself, if it weren't such a waste to hide my bone structure. Silvia, darling, don't you think the black brought out his skin tone?"

  Silvia didn't answer immediately. She just swirled the liquid in her glass, watching the reflection. "He looks like a corpse in formal wear, Aiden. Which, in this place, is the highest compliment you could give."

  At the corner of the table, Andrew continued to pile sweets next to his plate of meat, ignoring all etiquette. "Silas, Ian is in a bad mood again," Andrew said with his mouth full. "He spent the whole afternoon cleaning his rifle and staring at the map of the glade."

  Ian looked up. "I simply do what I am told, and I execute it to the best of my ability. No tactical failures."

  "‘Tactical failure’... you sound like an instruction manual, Ian!" Jester interveio, his bells ringing as he rocked in his chair. He used his voice modulator for just a second, making his voice sound like a distorted cartoon. "I think we should leave Gun alive. He’s funny! He has a zipper on his mouth! He’s almost one of us, just poor!"

  "Silence." Silas’s voice wasn't loud, but the effect was immediate. The entire table went still.

  Silas looked at Henry, who continued to eat in absolute silence. The Reaper leader seemed satisfied with the prisoner’s momentary submission.

  "Tomorrow will be a long day," Silas said, turning back to the group. "Elijah and Ian, you take Henry for recon. I want to see how he moves in his new gear. Silvia and Fabrizio, stay on the rear guard. If Mickey Trigger shows up, don't kill him right away. I want to understand how an 'ordinary' human managed to impale one of ours against a wall. That is... statistically interesting."

  "And the child, Silas?" Diego asked, with a note of genuine curiosity and almost religious respect.

  Silas’s gaze softened—something Henry only noticed by the subtle movement of the eyelids above the bandages. "The child is the future. She will have the best this place can offer. Music, food, safety. No one will touch her. She will grow up without knowing the smell of blood or the sound of a bullet. She will be what we could never be."

  Henry gripped his fork. He didn't say a word, but the irony was bitter: the world’s greatest assassins were planning to raise a child in a palace built on corpses.

  The Salt and the Ghost

  The dinner continued in a strange flow—a mix of aristocratic etiquette and contained barbarism. Henry kept his chin down, focusing only on the motion of bringing food to his mouth, trying to ignore Lil’s presence beside him, who was breathing like a cornered animal.

  The calm was shattered when Andrew, distracted while stacking his candy, nudged Lil’s arm without looking.

  "Lil, pass the salt? Please don't drop it like last time."

  The clinking of silverware stopped instantly. Henry felt the temperature at the table drop. Lil froze, his fork suspended in mid-air. His light eyes began to vibrate in their sockets, and a vein throbbed in his temple.

  "You..." Lil whispered, his voice rising from a hiss to a sharp snarl. "...you gave me an order? YOU GAVE ME AN ORDER, ANDREW?!"

  Lil slammed the table with his fist, making the crystal glasses jump. He stood up, his chair flying backward.

  "‘PLEASE DON’T DROP IT’?! IS THAT IT?! AN ORDER?! YOU THINK YOU’RE SILAS?!"

  Andrew didn't even blink; he just kept chewing a marshmallow, used to the outbursts. Silas simply raised two fingers in the air, and Lil, in the height of his trance, froze. He sat back down, trembling.

  Jester, who was watching everything from his hoverboard while eating an apple cut into perfect cubes, glided behind Henry. He tilted his jester mask until the bells touched the Heretic’s shoulder.

  "He’s so quiet, isn't he?" Jester whispered to the table, his voice high and mocking. "Like a little wooden puppet Geppetto forgot to wind up. Say something, Henry! Tell a joke! Or would you rather I tell you what happens to those who stay silent too long in the Punishment Wing?"

  Henry didn't answer. He just chewed a piece of meat, feeling Jester’s gaze burn the back of his neck.

  "Tsk, tsk. No sense of humor," Jester huffed, pulling away.

  On the other side of the table, Elijah wiped his lips with a napkin and looked at Silas with a deadly serenity.

  "Silas, changing the subject... we received scout reports from the south. They’re burning villages. Racists or supremacists playing slave master. When do we pay them a visit?"

  Silas took a sip of wine. "Soon, Elijah. They think the color of their skin is a shield. Little do they know that, for our species, they are all just old meat waiting for disposal. Ian is already mapping their nests. Not a single white hood will be left to tell the tale."

  The atmosphere at the table shifted to something more intimate as Fabrizio, watching his twin sister across from him, tilted his head. He seemed to ignore the rest of the world, focused only on her.

  "Silvia..." he said, his voice soft. "Have you noticed? With your hair messy like that... you have Dad’s exact nose."

  Silvia stopped her wine glass halfway to her mouth. She closed her eyes for a second, and Henry noticed a nearly imperceptible tremor in her pale hand. She downed the wine and set the glass on the table with forced calm.

  "Please, Fabrizio..." her voice came out thick with a cutting melancholy. "Don't make me remember him. That’s why I wear the mask. So I don't have to see his reflection in the mirror every day."

  Fabrizio didn't back down. He reached across the table, lightly touching his sister’s fingers.

  "I know. But you also have Mom’s beautiful hair and eyes. The same eyes she had before... before everything ended."

  Silvia lowered her head. The silence that followed wasn't out of fear, but a shared pain that Henry didn't expect to find there. These monsters had parents. They had memories of a time when they weren't weapons.

  "Yeah..." Silvia whispered, her voice almost fading away. "It’s true."

  In that moment, she looked up and met Henry’s eyes. The "Beautiful Death" wasn't there, nor was the assassin. There was only a pale woman whose black tears painted on the mask seemed, for the first time, to be real. The gaze lasted seconds—a silent recognition that both, in different ways, were prisoners of ghosts.

  Silas cleared his throat, ending the moment of vulnerability.

  "Enough nostalgia. Henry, finish your meal. Tomorrow you stop being a guest and start being a tool. And tools can't have sad eyes."

  The Closing: Reflection of the Abyss

  After dinner, Henry was led back to his room by Ian. No words were exchanged, only the metallic click of boots echoing through the sterile hallway. Upon entering, he found the black mask lying on the bed with a precision that bordered on the ritualistic.

  Henry walked to the mirror. His mutilated fingers, now wrapped in the clean bandages Silvia had applied, trembled as he reached for the new mask. Jester had done an impeccable, cruel job. The rustic, blue wood of the Heretics had been replaced by a matte black, cold to the touch. In the center, between the eyes, the cross of dry branches—his symbol of faith—had been plated in pure silver. It shimmered under the white light like a profaned relic.

  The world through the mask’s lenses was no longer the same. Henry looked at his own reflection. He no longer saw "Blue" of the Heretics, Solomon’s heir. In the mirror, a Reaper stared back at him. A monster in black and silver, ready to hunt his own kind.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and killed the lights, thinking of Silas’s words: "Tools can’t have sad eyes."

  Henry closed his eyes behind the lenses. He didn't pray to the God of the Heretics. He didn't think of justice. He only felt the rhythmic throb of pain in his severed fingers and the absolute silence of the CIA base. For the first time in ten years, Henry Henrikson wasn’t afraid. Fear requires hope, and that night, he had left it somewhere between the glade and the torture room.

  Outside, the wind howled through the Cascades, but inside the room, the only sound was the heavy breathing of the twelfth Reaper.

  End of Chapter

  Faction Data (Lore)

  The Reapers: Considered urban myths or gods of death, this elite group of only 11 members is the absolute apex of the food chain among assassins, operating since the beginning of "The Fall" 10 years ago. Their operating method and negotiation are non-existent, as they are killing machines—children raised in laboratories with biological modifications that grant them immunity to poisons, extreme pain tolerance, and a total absence of fear; they operate exclusively at night, utilizing high-speed parkour and support drones equipped with machine guns that saturate the battlefield. Their territory markings are the absolute silence of the Cascade forest, where they hide their HQ in a captured CIA base, and the bodies of entire armies left behind, hanging and crucified, which has earned them nicknames such as "The Night Folk," "The Thing in the Woods," "The Original Assassins," "Immortal Assassins," "The World's Most Wanted Killers," and "Death Itself." Their weaponry is the most advanced and lethal in the world, possessing an arsenal of pistols (Silver Ghost, Red9, and Five-Seven), M4 rifles and carbines, grenades, and even RPGs; they have also mastered martial arts such as Krav Maga, Karate, and Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, capable of snapping necks with superhuman ease; they further rely on black armored vehicles and even an original main battle tank as their trump card. The standard base uniform consists of all-black tactical gear with short jackets and hoods, protected by military-grade ballistic vests and metal masks with skull features or macabre smiles, equipped with voice modulators that distort their humanity, consolidating their image as legendary and technically pseudo-immortal assassins.

  Character Data

  THE REAPERS:

  Silas (34 years old, American): The supreme leader of the Reapers and the most successful prototype of Colonel Turner's project. Standing 6'6", he dominates the battlefield with a serene calm, always speaking in a low tone but showing unshakeable pride in fights to the death. His face is marked by burns that do not hide his handsomeness and short, dark-blond hair. His face is partially covered by white bandages, leaving only his eyes and mouth visible; over the bandages, he wears his Reaper mask, which resembles a skull with pointed teeth, small black eyes, and several realistic cracks. Acting as an older brother to the group, he is the strongest member alongside Jester and usually carries out missions in a duo with Silvia Turner. His arsenal combines history and technology: he uses a WWII Red9 pistol, an M4 rifle, black leather gloves with glass shards glued to them, and as a lethal trump card, two iron bidents attached to hidden gauntlets that spring from his black sleeves for visceral impalements.

  Elijah (32 years old, Argentine): Considered by Silas himself to be the deadliest Reaper in the entire group. Elijah is 5'10", fair-skinned, with short, messy black hair. He has a disturbing personality: he is extremely calm and always maintains a friendly tone of voice, even while massacring his opponents. He is a martial prodigy, being the only one capable of perfectly merging Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, Krav Maga, and Karate into a single, fluid, and devastating combat style. Almost always paired with Ian, Elijah views every fight as both a pleasure and a ritual. His mask is the most striking and terrifying of the Reapers, featuring the design of a skeleton with a wide, fixed grin that contrasts with his gentle voice. His arsenal focuses on precision and speed, consisting of throwing knives, tactical combat knives, black leather gloves with razors on the knuckles, and a high-penetration Five-Seven pistol; additionally, he utilizes the same hidden bident gauntlet under his sleeve as Silas, making him lethal at any range.

  Fabrizio Turner (29 years old, Italian-American): Son of Colonel Turner and twin brother to Silvia, Fabrizio is perhaps considered the most handsome Reaper in the group, with fair skin and blond hair dyed white with short bangs covering his forehead. He stands 5'11" and boasts a striking appearance that contrasts with his calm and taciturn nature. He is a man of few words and absolute efficiency; when Silas assigns him a mission, his only response is: "Consider it done." Extremely protective, he sees his twin sister as his greatest treasure in the world, though his official mission partner is Aiden. His Reaper mask follows Elijah's skeleton aesthetic but stands out with larger eyes and only the upper row of teeth showing, giving him a unique look. In combat, he uses an exotic and lethal style, wielding two small hand-scythes for quick slashes and hooks, along with a Silver Ghost pistol—a precision weapon he operates with military mastery.

  Silvia Turner (29 years old, Italian-American): Twin sister to Fabrizio and daughter of Colonel Turner, Silvia is the heart of the Reapers, being the most affectionate of the group and treating all members like blood siblings. Standing 5'7", she possesses a mesmerizing beauty described as "beautiful as death," with curves that make her a true goddess of war. Her skin is extremely fair, almost corpse-pale—which earned her her nickname—and she sports short blond hair in a wolf cut down to her collarbones, dyed intense white to match her brother. Despite carrying traumatic memories of the laboratory experiments, she remains deeply close to Fabrizio and serves as Silas's official partner on missions. Her mask is one of the most expressive: entirely white with two large black eyes from which permanent black tears flow. In combat, she is a lethal and precise force, using a military-grade M4 rifle as her primary weapon.

  Lil (33 years old, Spanish): The most unstable and traumatized member of the Reapers, whose exposure to the experiments resulted in severe psychopathic bipolarity. Lil is 6'3", with short, messy blond hair and fair skin. Known as the "man from down under," he serves as the group's official torturer, alternating between a friendly personality and a sickly state of pleasure in the pain of others. Lil has a violent psychological trigger related to authority: any attempt at an external command, even a simple request like "please, don't hurt him," sends him into a trance. In these moments, his eyes widen and he obsessively repeats "You gave me an order? You gave me an ORDER!" before massacring the victim; the only one he respects and obeys is Silas. On missions, he pairs with Andrew. His Reaper mask displays a skull with sharp teeth and a psychotic, open-mouthed grin. His fighting style combines the brute force of a large scythe—slow but devastating—with the quick lethality of the bident gauntlets hidden under his sleeves.

  Aiden (31 years old, English): The "esthete" of the Reapers, Aiden is a man of striking appearance, 5'11", with light brown skin and a perfectly aligned brown pompadour, showing obsessive vanity by constantly checking himself in mirrors. Despite his beauty, he possesses a sadistic nature during missions, though in a more controlled manner than Lil's. His great passion outside of combat is music; he is frequently seen playing his white guitar to focus before or during the commute to operations. In combat, this same guitar becomes a brutal weapon, featuring lethal spikes on its sides for impact attacks. Acting as Fabrizio's official partner, he also uses a bow with lethal poison arrows (harmless only to the Reapers). His mask is white, with large black eyes and a closed grin from ear to ear.

  Andrew (25 years old, French): The youngest of the Reapers, Andrew is the group's "rebellious brother." He has light brown skin, short curly hair, and stands 5'7". Although he loves and treats Silas like an older brother, he possesses an indomable spirit and doesn't always like following orders, often questioning authority with his petulant attitude. He has a contrasting personality: he keeps the childish habit of always eating candy while simultaneously feeling a genuine, sadistic pleasure in killing people. Acting as Lil's partner, Andrew brings a chaotic energy to missions. His Reaper mask is an earthy brown tone, featuring two deep black eyes and a slight, almost discreet smile. In combat, he prefers rapid aggression, utilizing a hunting machete for brutal finishers and a submachine gun to clear areas with speed.

  Diego (27 years old, South African): As the only Black member among the Reapers, he stands 5'5", with intentionally messy hair and a personal style marked by skull earrings. Despite carrying the psychological scars of the experiments, he channels his pain into charisma, taking on the role of the "entertainer" and always trying to pull a smile from his brothers-in-arms, making him one of the most beloved and protected members by everyone. On missions, he forms the squad’s most energetic duo alongside Zack. His Reaper mask is a black skull with teeth in a natural position, maintaining a neutral expression that contrasts with his vibrant personality. An expert in confusion tactics and agility, he uses two small knives for extremely fast hand-to-hand combat and carries a stock of smoke grenades far superior to the others, creating the perfect setting for the group's ambushes.

  Zack (28 years old, Uruguayan): The most eccentric member of the Reapers, Zack is 5'9", white, with a scar over his left eye and short black hair combed to the side. He has a vibrant personality and an almost mystical fixation on gambling. He is always manipulating playing cards in his hands, believing that the fate of battles is decided by luck; to him, every victory is simply the result of what the deck had already determined. On missions, he pairs with Diego, bringing levity and sarcasm to the group. His Reaper mask is entirely black, featuring thin eyes and a disproportionately large grin full of sharp teeth, giving him the look of a cheerful yet macabre predator. On the battlefield, he is fast and efficient, using an M4 rifle as his primary tool to ensure the cards play in his favor.

  Ian (34 years old, Russian): Ian stands 6'1" with fair skin and a lean, defined physique, prioritizing agility and explosiveness over raw bulk. He has striking features, a defined jawline, and a gaze that is usually very focused and serious during missions; he keeps his hair short, often in "fade" cuts, and occasionally sports a short, trimmed beard. Within the group, he stands out as the most serious and pragmatic member—someone who rarely smiles and prioritizes excellence, executing all of Silas's orders with absolute rigor. Always operating in a duo with Elijah, he cuts a terrifying figure in combat by wearing a black skull mask with upturned teeth and vibrant red eyes, projecting a Machiavellian smile that hides his habitual coldness while wielding his black military rifle, being the best marksman on the entire team.

  Jester (30 years old, Canadian): Jester is 5'11" and the only member of the Reapers whose face remains an absolute mystery. He distinguishes himself drastically from his brothers by swapping the black military gear and hoods for an exotic court jester outfit split between blue and red, complete with antennae and bells. His cloth mask displays a skull with a cheerful, closed-tooth grin, while his voice—originally soft and friendly—is distorted by a modulator that makes it heavy and cold, like that of a professional hitman. As the most intelligent of the group, he has no specific weapon or field partner, preferring to stay at the base coordinating support drones while observing everything around him with omniscient perception. Although a skilled fighter, Jester chooses to leave the "stage" of the missions to the others, acting as the silent strategist who seems to know every step taken by allies and enemies alike.