Newfear

In the Infinite Expanse of Space

In the boundless expanse of space, the meteor followed its fixed trajectory, returning every year as if adhering to a mysterious cosmic cycle. For 17 years, its repeated descent had created a series of unforgettable luminous explosions on Earth's surface.

Each year, on a specific day, the meteor approached Earth, illuminating the sky with a bright light... like a fiery arrow slicing through the horizon. Every time, it left behind an undeniable mark, as its emitted light engulfed a vast area, varying in size from year to year.

In one particular year, the meteor crashed into a remote region of the Ryujin desert, transforming the sands into a shimmering wave of astonishing colors. The children born at that exact moment carried unique abilities, attracting the attention of scientists and observers who sought to unravel the mystery of this recurring phenomenon.

The following year, in a crowded industrial city, meteor fragments descended upon a newly developed district. Once again, the atmosphere was imbued with a mesmerizing glow, and the light triggered extraordinary abilities in the children born at that precise instant. Year after year, the same story repeated itself, leading to the emergence of a new generation of children imbued with enigmatic powers.

Throughout the years, from the polar snows to the dense forests of Adria, the meteor's effects were meticulously recorded and studied. Yet, the cascading light and the emergence of superhuman abilities remained beyond full comprehension. No single explanation could clarify why the meteor appeared annually on the same day, or why it affected only newborn children.

As time passed, the meteor became part of legend... a story passed down through generations, narrating an extraordinary event that had left a profound impact on humanity, raising questions about fate, time, and the hidden secrets of the universe.

The Dark Side of the Phenomenon

However, there was a darker side to these events. The government, operating in complete secrecy, detained some of these children for harsh scientific experiments, attempting to uncover the source of their abilities. But soon, their families found out. Outraged, they took to the streets in massive protests, their cries tearing through the night, demanding the return of their children.

At first, the authorities ignored these demands, even going as far as arresting and imprisoning the parents. But as public anger swelled, nationwide demonstrations erupted.

Amidst the chaos, a cunning politician emerged... 'Jack Connor'. A man who knew precisely how to manipulate the situation to his advantage. He commanded immense financial and military support, boasting ground forces, aerial divisions, and valuable resources, all thanks to his alliances with hostile nations. These relationships were built upon mutual interests and secret agreements that bolstered his influence within the political arena.

Speaking in the voice of the people, Jack promised to restore their rights, rescue the children from their suffering, and bring peace and stability to a nation teetering on the brink of collapse. Riding the wave of overwhelming public support, he won the elections and became president.

His first decree was the dissolution of the monarchy and the declaration of a republic, transforming the government into a presidential system. He renamed the country from Arcadia to Waves, symbolizing the revolutionary surge driven by the people. Additionally, he established a special academy to train the Dot children, shaping them into "superheroes" dedicated to serving and protecting the nation.

Jack named the capital Arcadia as a permanent reminder of his era. Under his leadership, the nation grew stronger and more prosperous. He worked tirelessly to safeguard the Dot children from foreign nations that viewed them as a direct threat. Yet, despite his continuous efforts to secure a better future for them, tension always lingered... between their role as national heroes and their longing for a more ordinary life.

The academy became a hub for honing their extraordinary skills, but some of them began to feel the heavy burden placed upon their shoulders, while others embraced their newfound purpose with pride and conviction.

Over time, Waves became a global powerhouse, relying on these heroes to shield the nation from both internal and external threats. Jack Connor was neither the villain some feared nor the perfect savior he claimed to be. The heroes were seen as symbols of strength and hope, yet questions lingered... was this power truly what the world needed? And would Waves remain a beacon of hope, or was the future destined to bring conflicts greater than any hero could withstand?

A Debate at the Heart of Power

In the grand hall of the presidential council, President Jack Connor sat at the head of an enormous table made of exquisite ebony wood, surrounded by familiar faces... ministers, advisors, and military leaders. The atmosphere carried an eerie calm, the kind that precedes a storm.

As discussions unfolded, nearly everyone in the room was in agreement with the president. Voices of support echoed for every step he had taken to elevate the nation into a global force.

One minister spoke, "You have brought safety and stability, Mr. President. The superheroes you have gathered in our ranks are the key to our strength. We no longer need to fear external or internal threats."

Another laughed and added, "If only other nations could learn from you, the world would be a much more stable place! Ahahaha!"

Yet, amid this flood of praise, one man stood apart. His name and title were displayed on the identification badge he wore...'Jonathan Cross', Legal Advisor. A man renowned for his wisdom and philosophical outlook. Leaning back in his chair, his expression carried deep concern.

After a prolonged silence, his voice rose above the murmurs of the room:

Jonathan: "Do we truly need superheroes, Mr. President? Or is it in humanity's nature to always seek greater power to protect itself from fears of its own making?"

The room fell silent. All eyes turned toward Jonathan, stunned by his audacity in questioning the president.

Jack Connor, who had been listening quietly, frowned slightly but did not interrupt.

Jonathan، continued: "These heroes upon whom our nation relies… Are they really the solution? Or are we merely replacing one fear with another? Is superhuman power a tool of liberation... or a new chain dragging humanity towards blind dependence on forces it neither understands nor controls?"

Tension thickened in the air. No one dared to speak after him, but they sensed the president's growing irritation. Jack's gaze locked onto Jonathan, filled with disdain and suppressed anger.

Jack: "You are asking the wrong questions, Mr. Cross. We do not need philosophy here... we need action. Strength is the only path to survival in this world. If you cannot grasp that, then you have no place here."

At his signal, security guards stepped forward, grabbing Jonathan by the arms to escort him out.

As he was dragged away, Jonathan's voice grew sharper with each step:

Jonathan: "If humanity depends on heroes to ward off danger, what happens when the very need for heroes becomes the greatest threat of all? Will we then realize that we have created a weapon beyond our control?"

His words echoed through the chamber like a deep reverberation in the hearts of those present. Some felt uneasy, while others dismissed it. But everyone knew that his questions touched upon a hidden fear they all tried to ignore.

The doors slammed shut behind Jonathan, and silence once again consumed the room.

Jack Connor, now regaining his composure, spoke with unwavering confidence,

Jack: "We will not allow weakness or fear to control us. If you are not with us… then you are against us."

The meeting resumed as if nothing had happened. Support for the president continued, but an unsettling feeling lingered in the background. Despite Jonathan's expulsion, his words remained etched in their minds.

September 15, 1988 – In a hospital room in the capital city of Arcadia.

The bright white light filled the delivery room, the soft beeping of medical equipment adding a quiet tension to the air. Heavy, labored breaths came from the woman lying on the bed, her face pale with exhaustion. Doctors and nurses moved swiftly, tending to her with calm professionalism.

The doctor offered a reassuring smile. "Well done, Emma. Everything is going perfectly."

A moment of silence followed... then, suddenly, the newborn's first cry filled the room. A soft, delicate sound, yet brimming with an energy that electrified the atmosphere.

A nurse gently lifted the baby, cleaning him before wrapping him in a soft white cloth, then handing him to the doctor.

With a broad smile, the doctor said, "Here he is, Emma. Your son."

Emma reached out weakly yet eagerly, her hands trembling as she held her child.

Gently, she touched his tiny face with her fingertip, her tear-filled eyes radiating endless love.

In a hushed, emotion-filled voice, she whispered, "Welcome… my little one."

Then, after a pause, her voice carried a name destined to shape the future.

"Your name shall be… Ethan."

The baby's crying gradually subsides, as if his voice has recognized the safety of her embrace. Her smile continues to widen, reflecting on the faces of the nurses and the doctor.

At the same time, outside the hospital, the sky was heavy with clouds, as if sensing what was about to come. A young man, with tense features and fear-filled eyes, sped through the dimly lit streets. His fingers gripped the steering wheel tightly, as if his entire life depended on reaching his destination in time.

The man, his voice trembling with panic: "Come on, come on… Please, be okay!... No, not now… not now!!"

The street was almost empty, except for the faint glow of the streetlights casting shadows on the wet asphalt from a light drizzle. The man pressed harder on the accelerator. The closer he got to the hospital, the faster his heart pounded, and fear crept into every corner of his mind.

The man, whispering desperately: Please… just hold on a little longer…

Suddenly, out of nowhere, another car emerged from the right turn. Time seemed to pause for a fleeting moment, as if even time itself pitied the moment that was about to unfold.

A violent crash erupted through the air.

Glass shattered in all directions. The car flipped into the air, spinning like a small toy at the mercy of unstoppable forces. The screeching of crushed metal filled the atmosphere with every movement, distorting time itself. There was no sound but the relentless destruction and the silence that followed.

The car finally came to a halt after several violent rolls, now completely wrecked. Smoke slowly rose from the engine, and the once-quiet street was drowned in an eerie, suffocating stillness.

Ten years in Ethan's birth, he lived with his loving and affectionate mother, Emma. She had beautiful brown hair and enchanting hazel eyes. At twenty-seven years old, she radiated warmth and kindness.

Ethan, on the other hand, was a ten-year-old boy with dark brown hair that subtly transitioned into black, creating a striking contrast. He wore white bands over his eyes, blending harmoniously with his youthful features, innocence, and lively spirit.

Ethan lived in a peaceful countryside home with his mother, Emma, who cared for him with an unparalleled love and devotion.

Their lives were filled with warmth and security. Though his father was absent, his mother's love and attention were enough to fill the void.

The early days had not been easy for Emma, but with time, she learned how to overcome hardships and move forward in life, doing everything in her power to ensure her only son's happiness and comfort.

Arcadia – September 15, 1998. – In a dark corner of an abandoned basement, where echoes of life had long faded and silence settled like a heavy cloud, a faint light flickered from a single burning candle on the table.

The flame swayed slowly, as if clinging to life, its gentle heat casting an air of stillness and anticipation, as though time itself had paused for a moment.

A figure sat on an old wooden chair. In front of him, a chessboard was meticulously arranged. He extended his hand slowly, as if contemplating every possible move, weighing the consequences and probabilities. Then, with deliberate care, he picked up a white pawn and moved it forward, placing it onto the familiar opening square... e4... the dazzling first move.

At that moment, the sound of his move echoed throughout the room, as if the very silence itself acknowledged the decisive action. His pawn was a symbol of the power of movement... a first step in a complex game, a game whose consequences only he could foresee.

Then, suddenly, he rose from his chair and began walking slowly toward the wall to his right. His steps were quiet and measured, each carrying the weight of a decision. He raised his pale hand, fingers slender and delicate, and pressed them against the rough surface of the wall, feeling its coarse texture as if searching for something lost. His movements were slow, steady, and precise, like a silent dance in rhythm with the surrounding stillness.

Under the candle's dim glow, faint lines began to take shape, as if the wall itself was revealing its secrets. His hand moved with meticulous intent, each stroke carefully calculated. The figure that emerged on the cold surface lay sprawled on the ground in a state of collapse. Its limbs appeared shrunken, as if burdened by an unseen weight... one that had crushed both body and soul.

The arms were twisted inward, as if in search of lost protection or in complete surrender. The legs sprawled unevenly, devoid of control, as if the body had lost its will to stand or resist. The head tilted to one side, as though life had slowly drained away.

Encircling the figure was an incomplete circle... an open line, as if refusing to fully entrap the person within, or perhaps hinting at a door left ajar, a narrow chance for escape or salvation yet to come. The engravings remained silent, yet they carried a weight of meaning, telling a story of a lost humanity that could never be reclaimed.

The fingers continued their work, adding more details to the wall, leaving behind traces that would not be erased... a silent testament to the moment when everything crumbled.

Around the fallen figure, the circle took form. Yet, it was never closed... the hand halted before completing the loop, leaving a small gap at the top, as if the circle itself refused to contain what lay within, or perhaps it awaited something to complete it.

Every touch of his fingers seemed to carry a weight far heavier than it appeared. The silence pressing against the wall was suffocating, and the faint droplets of sweat that had dried against the cold surface seemed to bear witness to something no one had yet understood.

There was a quiet resolve in his movements, as though he was summoning memories buried deep within time. In that moment, all the secrets that had been lurking in the shadows gathered... announcing the beginning of a fateful game that would change the course of events forever.

Arcadia – Inside a School, in the Principal's Office.

The bright colors on the school walls blended with the laughter and chatter of children, yet the atmosphere in the principal's office was heavy and silent, except for the ticking clock. Emma, Ethan's mother, sat on the edge of a wooden chair, fidgeting with the hem of her brown dress, her eyes reflecting a mix of worry and anger. Ethan, ten years old, stood beside her, staring cautiously at the floor, frowning in silence.

The principal, a woman in her mid-fifties, pressed her hands firmly on the desk, her gaze stern: "Mrs. Emma. What is going on with your son?"

Emma, startled by the words, widened her eyes nervously: "W–What? Why are you asking that?"

The principal sighed slowly: "Your son is no longer participating in class as he used to. When asked to answer, he sometimes just says, 'I don't know.' His academic performance has dropped significantly, and all the teachers have noticed. No one understands what's going on with him or what's going through his head."

Emma, trying to stay calm but clearly flustered: "Maybe... maybe he just needs some time. He's going through a difficult phase… Please, try to understand."

The principal leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms as she stared at Emma: "[Difficult phase? Damn that!... I once saw him as a bright future for this school. He seemed talented and engaged at first. I even considered nominating him to represent the school in competitions. But he's nothing like I expected.]"

The principal turned to look at Ethan, who remained silent, his eyes covered with bandages.

The principal, her voice sharper, as if losing patience: "[Those strange bandages over his eyes… I was lenient at first, but now, they're pointless anyway.]

You say it's a difficult phase? Fine, then what about those bandages? His behavior is making other students curious. Do you know some of them have asked me if they could wear superhero masks in class? This is beyond acceptable!"

Emma, growing more anxious: "The bandages… I already told you. He has an eye condition, and the doctor recommended covering them during the day."

The principal raised an eyebrow in disbelief, eyeing Emma suspiciously: "The doctor recommended it? Fine, then show me the medical report."

Emma froze, her voice faltering: "W–What?"

The principal, more demanding now: "I need the medical report. How do you expect me to believe this without proof?"

Emma looked at Ethan, standing beside her, frowning. He didn't speak, but his expression was a mix of confusion and unease. At that moment, she felt the weight of the situation... caught between protecting her son and facing the accusations against him.

Emma, lowering her voice: "I'll talk to the doctor and get the recommendation, so please, give me some time. But I need you to understand that not everything Ethan does is a reflection of his behavior. He expresses himself in his own way, and he has been through a lot."

The principal placed her hands on the desk, her expression more serious: "I need something official. I can't ignore the concerns of other parents. His behavior could cause even bigger issues."

The tense discussion in the principal's office came to an end. Emma slowly stood up, gripping her handbag with a trembling hand. Her face showed a mix of exhaustion and concern. Behind her, Ethan remained silent, his shoulders slightly hunched, his bandaged eyes hiding whatever he was feeling.

As Emma walked out, her quick footsteps echoed against the cold tiles of the nearly empty hallways. The silence surrounded them, yet the sound of their steps felt like an unspoken weight. Ethan followed quietly, his head lowered, as if trying to disappear from the world.

Moments later, Ethan hesitated to speak. The words felt heavy on his tongue, but he finally gathered the courage and spoke in a faint yet firm voice, barely audible against the hallway's echoes.

Ethan, softly but decisively: "Mom… I'm tired."

Emma stopped abruptly in the middle of the hallway, turning to him slowly: "Tired? Of what?"

Ethan avoided her gaze, clenching his fists: "I'm tired of all this. Of being like this… ordinary. I want to study hard, to get good grades. I want to prove my skills!"

His words were quiet, but they carried a strong resolve. Emma stared at him for a moment, stunned, before her expression quickly shifted to anger.

Emma, her voice trembling between anger and fear, her eyes filled with a worry she couldn't hide: "Don't you dare do that, Ethan! Don't stand out! Don't let them notice you!"

Ethan took a step back hesitantly, confusion filling his face as he asked in a soft voice: "Why? What's wrong with being myself? I just want to..."

Emma interrupted him anxiously, her hands moving in the air as if trying to catch her escaping words: "You don't understand anything! The world isn't what you think! The more you stand out, the more you become a target! You don't know what that could mean, and I… I…"

Her voice suddenly broke, as if the words choked her. She stood frozen for a moment, lost in a mix of emotions. Ethan watched her, unable to respond, as he saw tears gathering in her tired eyes. Her tone wavered, as if she were battling ghosts from a past he couldn't comprehend.

Emma, her voice suddenly lowering, shifting from sharpness to a plea filled with desperation: "Ethan, please… In this world, anyone who shines becomes a target. Anyone who stands out pays the price. Staying ordinary isn't weakness... it's a shield. Let them forget you.

I know this world, my son… It is merciless, and it does not tolerate those who try to be different."

Silence enveloped the space, and her words echoed in Ethan's mind like a haunting refrain against the walls of his heart. He stood there, confused, unable to grasp the weight she carried in her voice. It felt as though an invisible burden pressed against his chest... a mix of her sorrow, her fear, and her desperate attempt to protect him from something unseen, something he could neither understand nor perceive.

Suddenly, she grabbed his arm tightly, pulling him along as if afraid he would vanish into the void.

The cold air hit them as they stepped outside, crisp and refreshing yet unable to ease the heaviness of the moment. Her steps were quick and unsteady, her grip on his hand resembling that of a drowning person clinging to their last lifeline. Her face bore traces of tears, and her expression spoke of a struggle to keep herself together.

Emma, her voice barely above a whisper, as she started the car with trembling hands: "We will never talk about this again. Understood?"

The car moved slowly down the road, the streetlights flashing past the window, illuminating the painful darkness within them. Emma focused on the road, her hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles turned white, as if trying to hold onto something slipping away.

Ethan sat beside her in silence, unable to stop himself from glancing at her from the corner of his eye.

Ethan, questioning: "I just want to understand… why... Why does everything feel so heavy? Why does it seem like you're fighting something no one else can see?"

They arrived home, the silence still thick between them. Emma unlocked the door hastily, stepping inside as if escaping from something unseen, while Ethan followed with slow, weighted steps. The atmosphere inside was cold... not from the weather, but from the lingering tension after what had transpired.

The next day.

The roar of an engine cut through the noise of the highway. A sleek black motorcycle sped forward recklessly, like an arrow shot without return. The rider, a teenager in a glossy black suit and a dark helmet that reflected the piercing sunlight, moved like a shadow slicing through the world...

He moves with agility and precision, weaving between the crowded cars. The wheels of the motorcycle barely touch the ground, as if on the verge of taking flight. The wind strikes him like crashing waves, but his grip on the handlebars tightens, and his eyes, hidden behind the helmet, remain locked forward without hesitation.

A few minutes away, at the police station, the main door bursts open, followed by a group of officers marching in unison. In the center of the formation is a tall man, in his mid-thirties, with short black hair and brown eyes that conceal a sharp determination. He wears a white shirt beneath a tactical vest fitted with multiple pockets for tools and devices. A badge, clearly displaying his name, swings slightly with each step. Detective 'Arthur Wellz.

Arthur speaks in a firm, steady tone, turning his head between his men, gesturing towards the police vehicles lined up in perfect order.

Arthur: "Make sure all units are in position. The Counselor James Howard will be delivering his speech at that museum, and there is no room for mistakes."

He pauses for a moment, his gaze serious as he scans the team.

Arthur: "With the plan we've set in motion, we won't allow any sabotage or attacks. I don't want any unexpected interventions, and we're not relying on superheroes. This is our city, and its protection is our responsibility. Understand that well!"

The officers affirm his words as they climb into their vehicles. The engines roar to life, the sound growing louder before the convoy sets off toward the site.

The motorcycle reappears, racing at breakneck speed, as if carrying its rider toward an unknown fate. The reflections of distant cars and buildings flicker on his helmet as he moves farther from civilization, heading toward his destination.

Arcadia – In one of the city's districts, a small apartment sits across from the museum.

The room is shrouded in darkness, save for a faint light filtering through tattered curtains. A man, seemingly in his mid-thirties, moves slowly toward the door, his eyes glinting through a small peephole. On the other side, a young man in his mid-twenties stands. He has short black hair, wears glasses over his gray eyes, and is dressed in a sleek black coat with red gloves. In his hand, he holds a paper with a single, clearly written word; 'Novix'.

The bald man behind the door hesitates, unease evident in his weary black eyes. His tattered clothes and sunken red jacket suggest a life of hardship. Slowly, he cracks the door open: "Are you… Seraph? From the Novix crew?"

Seraph: "Yes. Is the job done?"

The man nods in confirmation, gesturing inside. Seraph steps in with confident strides, followed closely by two towering men dressed in black suits, their expressions as rigid as stone, devoid of emotion or unnecessary movement. They advance into the dimly lit room, where an array of weapons is scattered across a table.

The bald man points toward a sniper rifle mounted by the window: Everything is ready, just as you asked.

Seraph: Good. You can leave now.

The man quickly exits, leaving Seraph alone with his men. He moves toward the sniper's vantage point with slow, deliberate steps, gripping the rifle as he peers through the scope. His gaze locks onto the White Museum, just a few blocks away. A crowd has gathered there, their voices rising in the air, laughter mingling with hopes for a better future.

A cold smile spreads across Seraph's lips as he whispers to himself.

Seraph: "They'll never realize that today will be written in their blood… This filthy city will suffer tonight."

The motorcycle's roar fills the narrow alleyways like an enraged beast cutting through the silence, its echoes bouncing between the old buildings. The wind tears through the stillness, and the bike's wheels glide smoothly along the congested streets, dodging cars and pedestrians in a blur.

Every movement he makes exudes precision and mastery; his right hand controls the speed, his left remains ready on the brakes, and his eyes never waver from the road. He speeds toward the White Museum, the grand building standing at the heart of the city as a towering symbol of national history. Its white façade gleams under the sun, while a large crowd gathers in the square before it, awaiting the ceremony's start.

Noise fills the air. Cameras flash incessantly, honored guests exchange brief conversations and smiles, while children run in the background, holding tightly onto their parents' hands. A few steps away, Detective Arthur moves swiftly through the crowd, his sharp gaze scanning every corner.

Arthur, speaking quietly into his earpiece: "Ensure full coverage of all entry points. I want men at every exit and heightened surveillance on the rooftops you've overlooked. The Counselor will arrive in minutes. No mistakes."

Responses flood through the comms: "Understood, sir. Cameras are fully operational."

Arthur pauses, eyes fixed on the main stage. Bodyguards surround the area, one of them testing a handheld metal detector. Arthur notices a guard moving unusually slowly.

Arthur, sternly: "You there! Hurry up. I don't want to see any delays. This place should be locked down like a fortress."

The murmurs of the audience gradually subside as Counselor 'James Howard' steps onto the left side of the stage. He appears to be in his late forties, his strides confident, reflecting the assurance of a man who understands the weight of his words. Dressed in a sharply tailored dark gray suit and a red tie that complements his commanding aura, he exudes authority.

Ascending the stage, he raises his right hand in a composed wave, then approaches the microphone. His calm smile never fades.

James: "My dear friends, welcome to a day we shall never forget. Today, we gather to inaugurate the White Museum, a monument that represents more than just a building. It is our window into a glorious past, into the triumphs and sacrifices that built this nation."

He pauses, scanning the crowd as if reading the optimism and pride in their faces.

James, continuing: "The artifacts we display are not mere relics, but stories. Stories of wars and victories, of hope and resilience. This museum is our gift to future generations... to remind them of who we are and what makes us strong. Today, we celebrate our past, but we also reaffirm our commitment to a future worthy of this great history."

Cheers erupt from the crowd, applause rippling through the air. Journalists scramble to capture the best shots, while the Counselor glances toward his security detail, giving a subtle nod... a silent signal for preparations to conclude after his speech.

Security personnel move with calculated coordination. Arthur observes everything closely, his eyes missing nothing. One of his men approaches and whispers in his ear, Sir, we spotted someone moving fast on a motorcycle near the eastern perimeter, but he suddenly disappeared. Should we send a team to investigate?

Arthur, decisively: "Send two teams. I don't want any gaps, especially from that angle. It's the closest access point."

On a nearby rooftop, the motorcyclist stands, helmet still concealing his face. He opens a small device, revealing a live map of the area. His gaze sharpens as he examines the main stage, then flicks to a stopwatch on his wrist. He presses a tiny button.

Meanwhile, back at the ceremony, the Counselor returns to the microphone for his final words. Among the crowd, a few figures stand tensely, hands resting on concealed weapons, their eyes scanning for any sign of danger.

From an elevated position, Seraph remains still, steadying his breath behind the sniper's scope. Every movement is calculated, every second measured. Through the lens, the scene sharpens... Counselor James Howard, the guards, the densely packed audience. A chessboard of lives in a complex game.

Adjusting the scope for precision, Seraph murmurs barely above a whisper into his earpiece.

Seraph: "Five, the guards are forming a barrier. The angle isn't clear."

On the other end, 'Five' moves with the grace of a seasoned assassin. His footsteps are nearly silent as he ascends a rusted metal ladder leading to a high rooftop. His appearance is distinct... a young man with wild, silver-white hair that dances in the wind, his pink eyes gleaming with quiet confidence. A white bandage, wrapped tightly around his right eye. It extended from above his right eyebrow down just below the eye, where its lower edge lightly touched the skin under the eye. The bandage was evenly tightened, covering the wound and sticking to the skin, with its edges carefully surrounding the area, leaving no gaps. A black hat partially obscures his features, complementing his crisp white shirt and sleek black vest. A small bag dangles from his shoulder as he moves swiftly and precisely.

Five holds a small wireless device, pressing the button as his voice comes through, calm and reassuring.

Five: "Don't worry. Everything is going according to plan."

He finally stands at the edge, overlooking the crowded square from his elevated position. Reaching into his bag, he pulls out a small device, his eyes flicking briefly to the rider on the rooftop opposite him... the one who had been waiting for his signal.

Dressed in black with a reflective helmet, the rider lifts a thumb toward Five through his scope.

Five, over the radio, with a firm tone: "Get ready, Rodion. Only at my signal."