The screen blinked.
Again.
That same flicker in the surveillance feed — every twelve seconds, precisely. Jack leaned in, narrowing his eyes at the interference. The glitch wasn't random. It was a pattern.
Six's voice crackled in through the secure line. "That feed's clean on my end. You seeing something I'm not?"
Jack didn't answer. His finger hovered over the timeline, scrubbing back. Freeze-frame. Blink. Gone. Thermal scan — dropout. Satellite feed — distorted.
Then a blind spot in traffic control. Then a complete loss of signal from Drone 3's coverage angle.
Only someone with deep-rooted access could orchestrate this much coordinated disappearance.
Jack pulled up the mapped satellite grid. Heat signatures were everywhere across the summit — motorcades, tactical positions, even decoy convoys. But the interference… it always centered on one location.
A dead zone.
Seven kilometers out.
Buried on the edge of the coastal buffer where Lake Geneva met the mountains. Officially, the region had been marked inactive since 2003 — a former Swiss military installation. Fort de Pré-Geneva.
Unlisted. Untouched. Unseen. Côte 7.
It was the only place on the map with zero live feeds, no thermal readings, no drone access — nothing.
And that was the giveaway.
Jack muttered, "Not inside the summit… watching it."
Six tapped the comm. "You think he's there?"
Jack zoomed the map out. The vantage point was too perfect. High ground. Line of sight to every summit exit. A perfect field for sniper positioning or signal jamming. Close enough to strike. Far enough to vanish before any response.
"I don't think," Jack said, his voice cold, focused. "I know."
He marked it. Burned it into memory.
Côte 7 wasn't just a hideout.
It was the eye of the storm.
The road turned to gravel. Then to dirt. Then to silence.
Jack stood beside the abandoned military jeep he'd stolen half an hour earlier — its engine dead, wheels half-sunken in the mud, cloaked beneath branches he'd torn from the surrounding pines. From here on, it was boots on the ground.
He moved through the tree line like a shadow—quiet, bleeding into the fog. The cold bit through the fabric of his jacket, stitched with dried blood, torn in half a dozen places. The machete on his back clinked softly against his makeshift pack.
Each step brought him closer to the anomaly.
No sound. No birds. No drones. Just the wind and the crunch of dead leaves beneath his feet.
He moved uphill, the terrain angling sharper with every step. Somewhere below, Lake Geneva stretched out like a sheet of glass—serene, clueless. The summit still pulsed in the distance, its compound lit like a fortress of diplomacy. But up here? It was just ghosts.
A blackened fence rose ahead. Rusted. Overgrown. Wrapped in barbed wire, but barely holding. No surveillance. No perimeter sensors.
That was the giveaway.
Jack climbed it.
Barbs tore his coat, scratched his skin. Didn't stop.
Beyond it: nothing but dense forest for a few more meters… and then—
Concrete.
A low silhouette emerged from the mist like a sleeping giant. Camouflaged in decay. The old Swiss military outpost. Partially buried beneath the hill, with only the weather-beaten face of reinforced concrete showing. Two rusted garage doors. One satellite tower — broken in half.
And a symbol painted over the doors. Long faded. Scratched out. But the outline was still visible — a winged dagger through a circle.
He stopped ten meters from the entrance. Heart steady.
There were no cameras. No visible power.
But Jack could feel it.
Behind that door — the storm waited.
He exhaled once, slow.
Then stepped forward.
And stood right in front of Côte 7.
There was no one left to call.
No one waiting for him.
Only vengeance.
He moved like a ghost—fast, silent, furious.
Then—click.
A blade shot past his ear.
One.
A black-clad assassin lunged from the darkness, daggers flashing. Jack caught the arm mid-air, slammed his knee into the attacker's ribs, twisted, and shoved the knife into the jugular. Blood sprayed his face. No time to breathe.
Two more came—one with twin pistols, the other a spiked chain. Jack dove low, rolled through, grabbing the dead man's blade mid-roll. He stabbed one in the thigh, disarmed the other with a slice across the wrist, then shot them both in the head with a dropped sidearm.
Three down.
"Keep coming," Jack whispered through clenched teeth.
A heavy-footed figure roared into view—riot gear, a hammer the size of Jack's torso. The impact shattered concrete where Jack had stood. Jack charged. Hammer struck again—Jack took it on the ribs. Bones cracked. He didn't stop.
He didn't scream.
He drove a shard of steel into the man's neck, then used the hammer itself to crush his skull.
Four.
Gunfire erupted. Two assassins at the far end. Jack ducked into cover. He was slowing now. Breathing hard. Vision blurry. A shot grazed his leg. Another clipped his ear.
He ran anyway.
Tackled the first, snapped the neck. Disarmed the other, shoved the pistol into their mouth, and pulled the trigger.
Six.
The seventh came quietly. A woman. Clean. Efficient. A blade across Jack's back. He screamed. Fell.
But not today.
He rolled, grabbed a wire, looped it around her throat. Blood poured from his wounds. His arms trembled. But he held on until she stopped moving.
Seven.
Jack slumped against the wall. Bleeding. Bad.
But not done.
Not yet.
He kicked the door open. The impact echoed through the steel corridors like a war cry.
And there he was.
Cyrus Black. Suit spotless. Tie perfectly. His hands folded behind his back like a king at war. His cold eyes locked onto the missile interface; the glow casting shadows on his sharp face.
"You're late," Cyrus said, without turning. "The world's already burning."
Jack stepped forward, gun drawn. His face bloodied, broken—but not beaten. "This ends now."
Cyrus finally turned, smirking. "No, Jack. This is where you end."
He slammed his hand on the panel.
"MISSILE LAUNCHED. ETA: 5 MINUTES."
Red lights flashed. Sirens screamed.
Then Cyrus pulled out two blades from under his coat. "Let's finish what we started."
And lunged.
[00:08:55]
Steel clashed. Sparks flew. Jack blocked a strike, dodged another, but Cyrus caught him in the ribs with a swift kick—then drove his elbow into Jack's jaw.
Jack stumbled back.
Cyrus didn't let up.
He slashed Jack's arm, then landed a clean punch to the throat. Jack fell to his knees, coughing blood. Cyrus kicked him in the gut—once, twice—Jack collapsed into shattered glass.
"Still playing the hero?" Cyrus mocked, circling like a predator. "Serah died for nothing."
That was the spark.
Jack roared—pure rage—swung his fist and smashed it into Cyrus's knife hand.
The blade flew up into the air—spinning—
Jack caught it mid-air.
And with a snarl, slammed Cyrus's hand onto a wooden table nearby and pinned it down with the knife.The blade punched through flesh and wood. Cyrus screamed.
But Jack wasn't done.
He mounted him—and began to punch. One. Two. Three. Four. Five—
Fist after fist—blood splattered across the wall. Cyrus's face caved under each blow.
Six. Seven. Eight—
Jack's mind was a furnace.
"You killed her...""Serah's laugh... her eyes... the way she held my hand like I wasn't a monster...""You took that from me."
Nine. Ten. Eleven—
Cyrus choked on his own blood, barely conscious, teeth shattered.
Jack screamed, "SHE DIED BECAUSE OF YOU!"
And punched again.
Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen—
Knuckles torn. Blood everywhere.
Cyrus spat out blood, tried to speak—Jack grabbed a shard of glass from the floor and sliced it across Cyrus's cheek.
Cyrus flailed—caught Jack's side with a knife—Jack recoiled, and Cyrus yanked his hand free from the pinned blade, the wooden table cracking.
Both stood. Barely.
Jack, leaking blood. Cyrus, face unrecognizable.
And they charged.
Again.
Cyrus slashed Jack across the chest—deep. Jack screamed and tackled him into the missile console.
Not until you're dead.
They crashed into wires and circuits—electricity sparked, lighting up the room like a thunderstorm.
Jack drove the shard into Cyrus's ribs.
Cyrus screamed and stabbed Jack in the side again.
Blood for blood.
Jack tackled him again and drove the shard deep into Cyrus's heart.
Cyrus gasped. Eyes wide. The lights above flickered.
"Why… won't you die…"
Jack leaned in, whispering through broken teeth—took the gun lying on the floor.
"Because they did."
And pulled the trigger.
Bang.
Cyrus dropped.
Dead.
His hand trembled.The blood loss was now screaming louder than the alarms.Each step forward felt like dragging the weight of every ghost he'd ever carried—Serah, Tyler, Suzanne, Maria. All gone. All still walking with him.
He stumbled toward the console. The countdown blinked:00:00:48
He could barely lift his hand.His fingers hovered above the abort switch.Cyrus' blood still stained them.
One click. That's all it would take.
But it was never about just one click.
It was about surviving everything until this moment.
The system whirred."Missile path override initiated…"
A pause.A breath.
"Mission Aborted."
Silence.
Then…A beeping sound.Faint. Faint but wrong.
Jack turned his head, vision fogging. On the screen:"Abort Failed. System breach detected. Missile still active."
The world was still ending.
Jack dropped to his knees.
No more bullets. No more strength. No more time.
A breath he took. Knowing all he knew, all he loved… was reaching its end. The world he ran so far to protect now stood on the edge of fire.
Hopeless. Tired. He watched the missile cut through the broken glass of the roof, trailing smoke like a cursed comet. A sigh escaped him—soft, defeated. Millions of lives… all at stake… with no idea what fate was bearing down on them.
With only seconds left…Jack closed his eyes—Not from the pain, not just the blood—but from the unbearable weight of what if.
Then—An aircraft. Blazing across the skyline like a final act of rebellion. A streak of steel and flame hurtling toward the missile. Time was disintegrating.
Through Jack's and Six's comms, a third voice crackled in—
"Mr. Jack Mayors... Sir... I just wanna tell you—thank you. Thank you for opening my eyes. This world... it's all we've got left. If this ends... everything we know ends too."
Jack's heart clenched.
He knew that voice.
"Kid... don't do this..." Jack whispered, his voice gravel.
It was Viktor Sokolov. The same boy Jack had once saved. The same kid who still had an entire life ahead of him.
"You yourself said it, sir..."'Look at the big picture, kid... always look at it.'"
And then—BOOM.
A flash. A deafening roar. The sky split into white. The earth trembled.
The missile never reached Geneva. It shattered mid-air in a fiery ball of sacrifice. The boy who once needed saving… saved the world.
The war was over.
Jack collapsed near a shattered pillar, blood seeping from every wound. His body was broken… but his mission—done.
A shadow raced into the frame. Six. Panting. Wide-eyed. Terrified.
"Jack!!"
Jack opened one eye. A faint, tired smile.
"Hey..."
"You're gonna be alright, buddy. Yeah? Just look at me—the ambulance is coming. You hear me? Just hold on, Jack. Just hold on."
But they both knew.
Jack wouldn't make it.
Even time had stopped waiting for him.
Jack's hand trembled as he touched Six's arm.
"Take care of Maria... yeah?"
"I will, buddy. I swear. Nothing's gonna happen to her."
A silence.
Then Jack's voice broke again—fragile, yet filled with memory.
"You know... the night before Serah died... the last proper evening we had—she said we should go away. Live a life. Have a family. Just the two of us."
"And I said... 'We will. I just need to finish this one last mission... then we'll go somewhere safe… someplace we can live properly, yeah?'"
"But she never made it. She died in my arms…Telling me— 'I'll always be with you no matter what happens"
His eyes blurred. But this time… it wasn't the blood.
"I'm seeing her, Six…She's smiling."
Six broke. Tears fell without sound. He gripped Jack's hand like an anchor refusing to drift.
Jack leaned his head back against the pillar.
Peace finally found him.
A whisper left his lips, barely carried by the wind.
"I'm coming, Serah…I'm coming."
And just like that—His breath faded into the silence.
His body slumped…But his face—calm. As if he had finally arrived.
With her.
His home. His peace. His world.
Location: Unknown Safehouse (A few days later)
The air inside was still. The television crackled faintly in the corner — muted news footage looping the same headline: Failed Summit Strike. Mastermind Dead. Motive Unknown.
Cyrus — dead.
Jack Mayors — erased.
No mention. No footage. No whisper.
Only two people in the world knew the truth.
Six sat in the armchair, elbows resting on his knees, fingers locked together. His eyes weren't on the screen. They were on the silence. The kind only grief could summon.
A black sedan rolled up the gravel path outside. Dust swirled in its wake.
Claire opened the door. A soft breeze followed her.
Miranda stepped out.
Her sunglasses masked the heaviness she carried. But her body betrayed it — shoulders stiff, hands clenched around the file she never let go of. Six met her at the door, Claire moving aside with a warm nod.
Miranda wrapped her arms around Claire — brief but sincere.
"I'll get you a glass of water," Claire said kindly, disappearing into the kitchen.
Miranda turned to Six and pulled him into a hug.
"You alright?" she asked gently.
Six exhaled through his nose. "Yeah... I'm happy, in a way. He went where he was supposed to be. With whom he should've been with... his whole life." He looked down, jaw tight. "But I have to live in a world without Jack Mayors. And this world... it still needs him."
"Come inside," Miranda said softly, leading him to the living room.
They sat on the old beige sofa. The fabric held the sun's warmth.
Claire returned with a tray — two glasses of water and a plate stacked with golden pancakes.
"You two eat. I'll try to get some coconuts from the back," she smiled, and left with a small knife in hand.
For a while, there was only silence between them — the kind that didn't need to be filled.
Miranda finally spoke.
"There's a global crisis now. People don't know what to believe anymore. The summit fallout… exposed more than just files. It exposed fear."
Six nodded, staring at his untouched glass.
She turned to him.
"You think someone else will rise? Someone like Jack?"
He looked up. Eyes tired. But certain.
"A replacement for Jack?" Six shook his head. "No. There will be chaos. There'll be heroes. But another Jack Mayors?" He looked out the window. "No. The world will never see another Jack Mayors."
Miranda's lips curved into a sad smile. "I need to go," she said, standing.
He rose beside her.
She leaned in and kissed him gently — not passion, but memory. A fleeting warmth, a moment to breathe.
Their foreheads touched.
"I need you," she whispered. "The world needs you."
Then she left.
And Six stood in the quiet once again.
Only this time, he wasn't alone with grief.
He was alone with purpose.