The exit from the cinema left a bitter taste.
Dante moved slowly, his face drenched in sweat.
Helena supported him as best she could, but he seemed drained.
Milo brought up the rear, arms crossed, eyes dark, quieter than ever.
Lexie had kept her head down the entire way. It looked like she was murmuring something, but no one paid it any mind.
Then they saw the smoke.
It rose from the parking, barely ten meters away—right where they had left their van.
They froze.
First one. Then two. Then dozens.
Rowen. Leading the pack, dressed in a violet suit, hands raised in mock surrender.
Behind him, a swarm of men in black suits, wielding machetes, spiked bats, katanas, even rusted tools.
But it wasn't their gear that made the group's blood run cold—it was their faces.
They were pale, their eyes bore the milky hue of the dead who had never found rest.
They looked like animated mannequins—or worse, souls kept conscious within prisons of flesh.
Rowen raised a hand theatrically. A grin split his face.
— "You really thought I was helping you? Oh, the naivety... such a cute little weakness. You were remarkable, but I've grown bored of this game."
Dante tried to step forward but stumbled. Helena caught him.
— "She... she's draining my energy," he muttered. "The more Ginny bonds with the artifact by siphoning my life force… the more I fade…"
Lexie stepped back. She was trembling. Her fingers clawed at the air, as if searching for something to hold on to.
Milo took a step forward.
— "What the hell is this, Rowen?"
Rowen let out a mocking laugh.
— "What is this ? My entertainment, dear boy. From the very beginning. I watched you, used you, patted you on the head—and now I'll close my hand around your little throats."
He made a subtle gesture.
A pinkish glow wrapped itself around Lexie's neck—an energy chain, delicate as a flower, yet as merciless as a steel collar.
Lexie whimpered. Her body moved against her will. Her legs dragged, her arms hung limply, but her head slowly lifted.
She approached Rowen—and before she could turn away, he forced a kiss onto her lips.
A cold kiss.
Her eyes widened, flooded with tears. Then she struck him. A violent slap, fueled by fury.
"You bastard!" she screamed. "You're using me… like an toy…"
Rowen wiped his cheek with the back of his hand, then snapped his fingers.
One of his henchmen approached and threw something to the ground.
A leg. Cleanly severed, wrapped in white fabric, now soaked in blood.
— "Nash sends his regards," Rowen sneered. "Apparently, he tried to run. Ah, the weak ones... always begging, always whining. Pathetic."
Helena screamed and buried her face in Dante's chest.
He clenched his teeth, fighting down his rage, knowing if he let go, the corruption would consume him.
Lexie collapsed to her knees, nails digging into the floor.
Milo stepped forward again, he hadn't moved until now.
But now, he was only a few steps away from Rowen. His gaze locked on him.
— "Get out of here, Dante. Take Helena. I'm staying."
Dante straightened.
— "Don't be stupid. You'll die. I'm stronger, I can—"
— "Shut up." Milo's voice was ice. "Puck Land is Sophia's grave. Lexie is my friend. And Nash was more than a brother."
He stepped closer, face to face with Dante.
— "You ? You're just the rookie we picked up off the road. If you want to help me, then leave. Otherwise, I swear I'll put you down myself. Your concern ? You can shove it."
Dante froze. Helena wept silently in his arms.
Milo turned away, walking toward Rowen.
And as he crossed the invisible line between the living and the tainted,
he drew a small object from his pocket: a worn blue ribbon.
He tied it firmly around his wrist.
Then he whispered :
— "Sleep, my child, sleep... the monsters are out tonight..."
And suddenly—he ran.
But it wasn't a desperate sprint. It was a funeral sprint.
His feet struck the ground with purpose.
Rowen didn't even have time to give an order.
The first suited man raised his blade—Milo caught his wrist, twisted, and snapped the bone.
He tore the weapon from the man's hand and drove it through his eye—without breaking stride.
Blood erupted, then an arm, then a throat—sliced clean.
Behind him, Rowen screamed :
— "KILL HIM! FOR GOD'S SAKE, KILL HIM!"
But nothing could stop this father turned butcher.
A chilling, eerie laugh rose above the chaos.
— "YOU ARE MY SUNSHINE."
Milo was singing.
Each word fueled him further. Blades grazed him but never struck.
His eyes were pitch black—lifeless. No fear, no pain—only an untamable, animalistic will.
Lexie rose. She was screaming inside her, fighting the pink chain around her neck.
She tried to pull away from Rowen, but her arms wouldn't obey. Her fingers had clutched one of her knives.
Her body moved—toward Milo.
No.
No!
NO!
She managed to redirect the blade—and stabbed herself in the gut.
A scream escaped her lips, followed by a torrent of warm blood.
— "Sorry…I won't kill you… Milo…"
Rowen roared :
— "BITCH! YOU KNEW TOO MUCH!"
But Milo hadn't even looked her way. He was tearing through throats, crushing knees.
A machete sliced—he caught it with his bare hand, pushed forward, and rammed a blade down an enemy's throat until it tore out the back of his neck.
The ground ran red, screams were drowned by blood.
Milo, wounded and blood-soaked, still advanced.
Rowen took a step back. Then another. He was sweating.
— "You're not human…"
Milo stopped. His face was a full of blood. He looked up and whispered :
— "MY ONLY SUNSHINE…"
A single tear rolled down his cheek.
Then he lunged at Rowen.
Rowen shrieked, leapt back—but at that moment, a new wave of soldiers emerged from the back of the amusement park.
Marksmen in formation.
Gunfire exploded.
The first bullet hit Milo square in the chest. Another struck his shoulder. One more to the hip.
He stumbled—but kept moving.
He refused to fall.
He growled, threw his last blade—it embedded itself in a shooter's throat. Then he screamed :
— "YOU MAKE ME HAPPY..!!"
A storm of bullets tore through him.
Milo finally collapsed, riddled with lead, his face turned skyward.
But on Rowen's trembling lips, a single word escaped :
— "Mommy…"
Milo was smiling, even in death—he was smiling.
In the silence, only the clatter of shell casings on the pavement.
Milo lay there, chest torn open, skin shredded, but he was still smiling.
That smile—froze Rowen.
He took a step back, eyes locked on the body. His face, twisted by corruption, lips quivering…
He was beginning to realize that he might have lost—even in victory.
— "This… this can't be," he stammered. "He should've begged. He should've cried. He should've been afraid…"
But no.
Milo had died standing.
His soul at peace.
Vengeance fulfilled.
Behind them, Dante still held Helena in his arms. She wept into his chest.
Suddenly, a breeze. And in that breeze, Dante felt a presence.
A child's voice.
— "Daddy... weren't you scared ?"
He spun around, startled. Nothing. Just the wind. The crackle of flames licking the charred van. And yet… he'd heard it.
And then he saw her.
A slender figure in a white dress.
Bare feet scarred by chains, stained with blood, Sophia.
She clutched a stuffed bear to her chest, her gaze resting on her father lying on the ground.
— "You sang me the lullaby... You weren't scared… not even at the end."
She smiled. A sad smile, yet full of light.
— "You kept your promise, Daddy... Now it's your turn to sleep. Sleep well. I'm here."
And slowly, the vision dissolved into a cloud of doves.
Rowen collapsed to his knees.
He stared at Milo's corpse as if it were the face of his worst nightmare.
— "Why... why the hell am I shaking...? He was just a rat... Just a bugs !"
He screamed, pounded the earth.
But nothing helped.
He was afraid of a toy for the first time in his life.
Dante stepped toward Milo.
He knelt, placed two fingers over Milo's eyelids, and gently closed them.
Then he stood, turned to face Rowen's men.
— "Proud of yourselves ?" he asked, his voice cold. "All these lives lost to bring down just one old man ?"
Silence.
— "Do any of you even remember why you fight under the Caledron banner ?"
Still nothing.
Without another word, Dante lifted Helena onto his back and walked.
He didn't wait to be let through.
He knew they would watch him go without a word.
Because they had seen Milo.
Because fear still gripped them.
And Rowen remained on his knees.
And in the nightmares that would follow, it wouldn't be Milo's blades or his eyes that haunted.
It would be his lullaby.