Calvin sat on a broken slab of marble in what had once been the civic plaza of Upper Barion. All around him lay jagged pillars of stone, cracked facades, and twisted steel—testimony to missiles, siege drones, and the desperate fury of Han Xin’s final assault. The morning sun pushed through lingering smoke, gilding every ruin in bruised gold.It was silent now. No gunfire, no alarms, no screams—only the hollow whistle of the wind and the occasional clatter of loose masonry settling into place. Calvin exhaled slowly, drawing his knees to his chest. For the first time in what felt like years, there was nothing left to fight. Only wreckage. Only fatigue.He wiped grit from his palms and leaned back, tilting his head to the pale sky. Images flickered behind his half‑closed eyes: Hugo’s unreadable glare, the boy in the photograph, and his own father’s tight smile frozen in a moment of forgotten history. Questions still snarled in his chest, coiled tight and hot. But the one man who might an

Calvin pushed open the clinic’s rear door just as the sun dipped past the rooftops, flooding the corridor with fading gold. The battle was over, the streets were secure, and yet the silence inside felt strangely heavy—like an unfinished sentence hanging in the air.He made his way down the hall toward the recovery room Hugo had occupied. A faint scent of antiseptic lingered. Calvin paused at the doorway, half‑expecting to find something broken—or stolen. But the room was neat. Bed made. Curtains were drawn open to let in the last streaks of daylight.Then he saw it.On the bedside table sat a single photograph, pristine and crisp, its sharp corners stark against the polished wood. Unlike the yellowed picture Calvin carried, this one looked as if it had been preserved in a sealed vault. He stepped closer, heart thumping.The image froze him in place.A thirteen‑year‑old boy—dark hair, lean frame—stood beside a stern, broad‑shouldered man. The resemblance to Calvin’s father was undeniab

Calvin didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t fight back. Even when the wealthy couple trailed after him through the park, yelling, jeering, and eventually shoving him hard in the back, he didn’t flinch. Their rage was loud, messy—like a fire desperate to find something dry to burn.The little girl beside him clutched his coat tightly, her clown makeup smudged by tears. Her oversized shoes dragged across the pavement with each step, making soft squeaking sounds that only added to her humiliation.“You think this is over?!” the woman screamed behind them, her voice shrill with entitlement. “We’re connected! We can make your life hell, you arrogant trash!”The man added a sharp jab to Calvin’s side, a knuckle digging into his ribs with enough force to bruise. “You think saving some street urchin makes you a saint? We’ll see how long that act lasts!”Their faces were twisted in

The hospital was in chaos.Flashing red lights lit up the night as ambulances poured into the emergency entrance one after another. Screams echoed down the corridors. Blood stained the once-sterile floors. The pile-up on the main highway had turned into one of the worst accidents the city had seen in years.Calvin arrived at the hospital just as a gurney slammed through the double doors, paramedics shouting vitals over the din.“Multiple fractures! No pulse on arrival, but we got a heartbeat back during transit!”“Collapsed lung—he’s not breathing on his own!”Calvin rushed forward, rolling up his sleeves. “Triage them in order of cardiac threat. Get me the worst first.”A nurse wheeled in a young man, barely conscious, blood pouring from his abdomen.“Chest cavity’s compromised,” she said. “He’s coding!”Calvin pressed his hand over the man&rsq

The police station buzzed with restless energy as officers returned to the boardroom. Three empty chairs sat before a whiteboard littered with names, notes, and printed photos.Chief Inspector Reyes cleared his throat, glancing toward the forensic pathologist and Calvin Hudson seated beside him.“Gentlemen,” Reyes began, voice steady but edged with frustration, “we traced the victims’ last known caregiver to three volunteers from the senior-care association. We’ve interviewed all three—no one raised red flags. No criminal record, no suspicious behavior.”One of the younger detectives sighed. “They all seemed genuinely concerned… polite, empathetic. It didn’t fit the pattern of calculated killers.”Calvin leaned forward, eyes thoughtful. “And yet the victims all showed the same symptoms, same timeline. We’re missing a key detail—something that ties those volunteers to the