"...Yeah... I know Yonas Hammershmark. It was a horrifying case. Huge news. Almost as big as 9/11... So what about it?"
Sera crossed her arms, preparing to listen.
"...So you already know the details of the story, right?"
"Yesss~" she sang with a high-pitched voice.
"..."
Roxxy turned to look at Mickey again, and that started to make Sera uneasy. Why were they giving each other those looks?
"...Sera... I need you to promise me something... alright?"
"Promise what?"
"Promise you'll... stay calm... composed... be the same Sera you were back at school..."
"Please. There's no one else in the world who loses their temper and goes ballistic as much as you do."
"Still... Just promise me."
"...Fine."
And with that, Roxxy began to tell the story.
Mickey Mannix was believed to have been born sometime around 1999 or 2000.
His birthplace was a tiny alleyway deep in the slums of Jerusalem, Israel. So it's no surprise that over half of his heritage clearly traced back to Jewish roots.
His mother, Alaya, gave birth to him—but never once took responsibility for raising him. Instead, she dumped the newborn into the care of her own aging mother, who was already well into her eighties.
In other words, the entire "family" consisted of just three people: Mickey, Alaya, and Mickey's grandmother.
He never had a father. Never saw his face. Never met him. Not even a photo. The only clue he had was the name—"Mannix"—a name his mother used when referring to the man.
And the reason he never saw that father? Alaya worked as a prostitute. It didn't take much to conclude that Mickey had been born as nothing more than an unplanned consequence of one of her many transactions.
Alaya had once tried to terminate the pregnancy—but failed. As it turned out, baby Mickey had a will to survive far stronger than she expected.
She even went so far as to pour toilet cleaner into herself in an attempt to induce a miscarriage. But he survived that, too.
With no other option left, she handed him over to her elderly mother to raise instead.
Alaya was a strikingly beautiful woman, and Mickey had clearly inherited her delicate, feminine features. From a young age, he was often mistaken for a girl. His face was so soft and pretty that he once wandered into a women's restroom by mistake—and no one questioned it.
His bond with his grandmother was strong, perhaps the only warmth he ever knew. But that, too, came to an end when she passed away—right when Mickey turned six.
And that was when he had to go live with Alaya, his biological mother.
From that point onward, life became a living hell.
Alaya didn't just neglect him—she beat him, screamed at him, cursed him out whenever she was upset, angry, or frustrated with someone else.
Some days, she'd slam his head against a wall. Other days, she'd slap him unconscious, only to wake him up and force him to clean the house. And worst of all, there were nights she'd come home drunk—or high—and take it all out on him.
And worse than everything else… Mickey was often forced to hide in the filth beneath the house whenever Alaya brought home a new man. He was strictly forbidden from making any noise or revealing himself in any way. If he did, there would be hell to pay.
During the day, he would slip out and wander the streets, leaving Alaya alone with her guests until he could sneak back inside under the cover of night.
Eventually, he learned something else about his mother—that she wasn't just a sex worker. She was a gold digger.
Alaya used her beauty like a weapon, charming wealthy men, bleeding them dry, and hoarding everything for herself.
It was a vile, rotten life.
Mickey endured it for four long years, until he turned ten.
One day, while wandering through the neighborhood—Alaya was busy with another man—he happened to stumble into a small DVD shop.
He remembered it clearly. The shop owner was playing a movie on the TV behind the counter. That film was Gladiator—the story of a warrior who fought for his freedom.
Mickey stood there all day, completely spellbound. He watched it all the way through, then came back the next day to ask if the shop owner would play it again.
He memorized every scene, every line, even the names of the cast and crew.
He didn't realize it at the time, but from the moment he watched that movie—Mickey's entire worldview changed.
That film lit a fire in him. Inspired him.
It made him think.
Made him ask himself: "Am I really going to let her keep doing this to me forever?"
The hero of Gladiator fought through pain, through blood, through everything—for one thing: freedom.
And Mickey? What had he ever done to fight for his own?
The answer was: nothing.
He had spent his life being tormented by someone he didn't even consider a mother. Did he still love her?
No.
She was just someone he shared DNA with. Nothing more.
It was time to rise up.
Time to fight for his own freedom—just like Maximus did.
It made him realize something.
Realize that—was he really going to let his mother treat him like this forever?
The hero in Gladiator fought through blood and agony, through everything, just for one thing: freedom.
But what about Mickey? Had he ever fought for anything in his life? He asked himself that question every single day.
And the answer was always the same—No.
He had been nothing but a victim, his whole life, at the hands of someone he didn't even consider a mother. Did he still love her?
No.
She was just a woman who happened to share his DNA. Nothing more.
He had to fight.
Fight for his freedom—just like Maximus did.
From that day on, Mickey began to plan.
He kept playing the role—the helpless punching bag of Alaya's household—but something inside him had awakened.
His power had awakened.
It was the spark of someone who had chosen to be free.
By instinct alone, Mickey knew what his ability was and how to use it. That led him to discover a hidden safe—wired into the electrical system—under his mother's vanity table.
Inside the safe was money, jewelry, drugs, and everything Alaya had ever stolen or conned out of the men who fell for her.
Then, the day finally came when Mickey earned his freedom.
Alaya woke up around 2 p.m., coming down from a high after a wild night with another sugar daddy. She went about her usual routine, dressing up and putting on her makeup once the man had left by evening.
But something felt off.
Mickey… where was he?
He'd been gone longer than usual—way longer.
She didn't think much of it at first… not until she woke up the next morning, and he still hadn't come home.
That's when it hit her. If something hadn't happened to him (not that she cared), then he'd probably run away.
"…Where the hell did that little shit go? Pfft. Ran away? Hah—he won't get far."
She scoffed and carried on like nothing had happened.
She got dressed to see another client and walked over to the vanity. She did her makeup, then reached underneath to access the hidden latch that opened her personal safe.
Beep… Beep-beep… Beep. Click.
And then—
Her knees gave out.
Her heart stopped when she saw what was inside.
Nothing.
Every last bit of cash, every piece of jewelry, every secret stash, every savings book—gone. Completely cleaned out.
She stared at the empty compartment, sweat pouring down her face, breath hitching and growing faster with every second.
Her mind cracked.
There was only one thing left inside:
A single sheet of paper with a crude, almost cartoonish sketch—Mickey, sticking his tongue out and holding stacks of green bills, eyes bugged out in a smug little grin.
He didn't know how to write. He'd never been educated.
But he could draw.
And that drawing said everything.
"...…"
Her panting grew louder, turned ragged, turned into furious huffing through gritted teeth. Her eyes twitched. Her jaw locked.
"MAAAAAAANNIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIX!!!!"
Mickey fled his home, carrying every last cent Alaya had hoarded. He knew exactly what to do once he reached the airport—and soon enough, all of Alaya's stolen money had been exchanged for euros.
He didn't care where he went, as long as it wasn't Israel. Anywhere far away would do. Somewhere he could disappear for good and never look back.
Eventually, fate brought him to Berlin, Germany.
Naturally, Mickey didn't enter the country legally. But he didn't cross the border by land or sneak in through a shipping truck either. Instead, he used his ability to manipulate electricity—transforming his body into pure current and riding through the ceiling's light fixtures, bypassing immigration with ease. He embedded himself in the electrical systems of a commercial airplane and rode it all the way into Germany.
When he arrived, he couldn't speak a word of German. But survival instinct kicked in. Mickey used a portion of the money he'd stolen from Alaya to enroll himself in language courses—German and English both.
Thanks to his exceptional memory, he picked up both languages to a functional level—able to speak and write with fluency.
He had no permanent address, drifting through Berlin day and night until every euro was gone.
Eventually, Mickey became homeless.
He slept wherever the streets let him. Sometimes he scavenged from trash bins. Sometimes he went without. Still—it was ten times better than the life he had left behind.
But hunger doesn't care about past trauma. When it sank its teeth into him, Mickey had no choice but to start stealing—small things at first. Food, cash, whatever he could get his hands on.
He got used to this life. It was dirty, sure—but it was his.
Until one day…
CRASH!
He remembered it clearly. It was midday. A large man in a suit slammed him face-first into a metal outdoor dining table in the middle of a busy square. People gasped. All eyes were on them.
Mickey's heart raced with fear. He didn't care about the spilled soup on his clothes—he needed to run. He had to escape.
But how could a teenager outrun grown men in suits?
He barely got to his feet before he was tackled again—two bodyguards pinning him to the ground.
"You little rat! What the hell do you think you're doing?" one of them barked, pressing Mickey's head against the pavement.
And then—heels.
He heard the clack of high heels approaching. A woman stopped just behind his head.
Mickey rolled his eyes upward.
She was stunning—late twenties, dressed like money, towering in stilettos. Her posture was haughty, and the pink glasses she wore screamed arrogance.
She looked down at him like inspecting dirt on a shoe.
"My, my… still just a kid, aren't you?"
She crouched gracefully, her eyes meeting his as a guard yanked Mickey's head up by the hair.
He said nothing.
"Take him to the police."
"Yes, ma'am."
.
.
Inside the Interrogation Room
An empty folder slammed down in front of Mickey, whose hands were cuffed to the table.
"Criminal record… nothing. Name… nothing. No ID, no registration..."
The lead inspector struck the table again with a loud thud, making Mickey flinch slightly.
"Illegal entry, too, huh?! Damn foreign rats!"
Mickey's face gave away little. His fear was buried too deep to be read so easily.
"Still not flinching, huh? You don't even know whose money you stole, do you?"
Mickey shook his head silently.
Before the inspector could continue, a subordinate burst in and whispered something in his ear.
"Ms. Jonas wants to speak to the suspect… personally."
"Hmph. Is that so?"
The inspector's face changed noticeably. Mickey picked up on it. Whoever "Jonas" was, she held enough power to make even this hardened officer fall in line.
"Fine. Let her in… I owe her father, anyway. If not for him, I wouldn't even be a captain."
He shot one last glare at Mickey before exiting, brushing past the woman who had just entered—the same woman Mickey had seen earlier during the incident.
"Hello there, sweetheart," she said.
She walked in with a bodyguard, dragging the chair across from Mickey to sit beside him instead of across. Her guard remained by the door.
She removed her pink sunglasses and tucked them into her blouse.
"What's your name?"
Her tone was friendly, but there was an edge—something Mickey instinctively knew not to trust. Still, he had nothing left to lose.
"…Mickey."
"Oh? You speak German? But I hear the accent… Mickey, huh? Do you know my name?"
"…Jonas."
"Smart boy. Heard the cops talking, did you?"
She shifted closer, enough that her arm reached across his back and rested on his far shoulder, and her perfume drifted too close to his face.
"My full name's Jonas Hammersmark… daughter of Senator Hammersmark."
Mickey barely heard the rest. His mind was spinning, racing for a way to get out of here.
Snap!
Jonas snapped her fingers in front of his face, snapping him back to the present.
"Do you know something, Mickey? I really like you… you're quite… pretty."
Her tone shifted. The room felt smaller. Her proximity crossed a boundary that made Mickey's shoulders tense.
Then, in a whisper filled with dangerous charm, she continued.
"I thought you were just another homeless stray… but now I'm intrigued."
She leaned in so close there was hardly any space left between them.
"You have two options, Mickey. One… I let the police take you to prison. Two… you come with me, and I make this whole thing disappear. Choose."
"..."
If this were a film, the camera would've zoomed in on Mickey's eyes.
To him, prison meant losing his freedom again. And he'd fought too hard to earn it.
That evening, Jonas Hammersmark walked Mickey out of the station and took him back to her estate.
He didn't know it yet, but the choice he made that day… might've been worse than prison.
Standing in front of a massive door inside a sprawling mansion, Mickey hesitated. He had been cleaned up, dressed in loose clothes, and escorted by servants to the threshold of her room.
One of them opened the door for him.
Mickey stepped closer, glanced inside—and froze.
His eyes widened.
His hands trembled.
Mickey stood before the grand double doors of the Hammermark estate, his face blank, his breath shallow. This was her room. The heiress. The one who brought him out of the police station not out of mercy—but for a much darker reason.
He had been given clothes to wear, bathed by servants who didn't meet his eyes. And now he was here, waiting.
A maid opened the door.
What he saw inside drained the color from his face.
The room wasn't a bedroom. It was a gilded cage, a stage of control. Lavish and overwhelming, yet beneath the gold and crystal veneer was something deeply twisted. Shelves lined with odd contraptions and locked drawers whispered of things unspoken. In the center, seated on a sprawling bed, was Jonas Hammermark in a robe, her legs crossed, a faint smile on her face.
She tossed something at his feet.
Thud.
A collar.
Thick. Steel. The kind you need a key to remove.
"Put it on."
"...What is this?"
"You're mine now, Mickey. Wear it."
He turned to run. But he never made it past the threshold—two guards, looming shadows, closed in and threw him down like a doll. The sound of leather against marble echoed like thunder.
He hit the floor hard.
And in that moment, everything came rushing back—his mother, the beatings, the powerlessness. All the years of being nothing more than someone else's object.
That night... he was silenced.
That night... his world ended.
He didn't speak of what happened in the days that followed. Not in full. Not even now. But what he told Sera was enough to turn her silent.
He had been a prisoner—of a home, of a name, of a power no one dared question. There were no bars, but the chains were real. Not of iron, but of fear and humiliation. Days blended into nights, and his own reflection became unrecognizable.
His body bore wounds. His mind even more.
He was used. Broken. Not just by her—but by others. Guests of power. Children of the elite. All drawn to her home by luxury and impunity. What happened to him was not a secret within those walls.
It was a spectacle.
And slowly, piece by piece, something inside him began to rot away.
Until only silence remained.
He stopped crying. Stopped reacting. Stopped dreaming. He was no longer a person.
He was a vessel.
A machine.
A ghost.
But one day, the tides turned.
The Hammermark family name, once untouchable, came crashing down in scandal. Corruption. Abuse. Drug trafficking. Whispers turned to headlines. Her father—once a respected senator—was caught in a web of scandals, his power unraveling before the eyes of the nation.
And in that chaos... Mickey saw his chance.
Jonas had begun to spiral. Her confidence cracked, her gatherings ceased. She sat alone in her room, mumbling, glassy-eyed, lost in a haze of chemical bliss and paranoia. She leaned on him more. Relied on him more. But this time, Mickey was no longer the same.
He was watching.
He was waiting.
"Did you escape?" Sera asked, her voice trembling.
"...Yes," Mickey said. Then paused.
Roxxy corrected her.
"No. He didn't just escape."
"...What do you mean?"
Roxxy didn't answer.
Mickey did.
"You want to know what day I left?"
Sera didn't reply. A bead of sweat rolled down her temple.
"...February 14th. 2010."
Her heart stopped.
That winter night, the Hammermark estate burned.
The fire swallowed everything—wood, marble, velvet, lies. Smoke curled into the night sky like ghosts being freed. Somewhere in that inferno, Jonas tried to crawl. Her legs were broken. Her voice was hoarse. The hallway twisted with heat and terror.
Mickey stood over her, a figure of silence, of resolve, of something that had once been a child—and now was something else entirely.
"...Tell her what you did," Roxxy said.
Mickey's smile was faint, almost too faint.
"I burned her house to the ground."
Sera froze.
"But that's not all..."
No one heard her screams.
No one cared.
Justice hadn't come from a courtroom.
It came from flame.
It came from the silence of a boy who had been denied dignity his entire life.
It came from Mickey Mannix.
"Please! Mickey! Kid! I give up, okay?! I surrender! I'm sorry! Please! Please, I'm begging you—just let me live!"
Amid the roaring inferno that devoured the Hammerchmark estate, her voice cracked through the smoke—shrill, frantic, desperate. But no one heard her.
Not because she wasn't loud enough.
But because there was no one left to hear it.
No one… except Mickey.
Her tooths were picked out one by one. Blood splashed everywhere... some leaking out between the teeth's socket.
Every joints in her body had been crushed to pieces by the pounding hammer in his hand, every "holes" in her body has been clogged with sharp materials..
The fire lit the room in violent orange, dancing across his face, casting shadows over the boy who no longer looked like a boy. His eyes were still. Cold. Quiet.
"Shhh..."
He knelt down beside her broken body.
Her voice was hoarse. Raw. Her breath trembled with terror. She reached out weakly, but Mickey didn't flinch.
He simply leaned in… and gently placed a finger over her lips.
"Can you hear that, Jonas?"
She whimpered. Tears streaked her ash-stained cheeks.
"No one's coming."
Then he reached toward her trembling face, removing the only thing that still held any semblance of her old self: her signature pink glasses.
"I'll take this… I always liked this pair," Mickey said softly.
That was the last thing she saw—his expression neither angry nor satisfied, just… still.
And then, silence.
The screaming stopped. The struggle ended.
Her last breath was lost to the flames.
Sera couldn't speak after hearing the entire story. Her eyes trembled with fear—her whole body trembled—and so did her heart. She was in shock.
"...Believe it or not, that's up to you."
Mickey still managed a faint smirk. But to Sera... none of this was funny. Not even a little.
The infamous fire at Yonaz Hammershmark's estate had been officially declared an electrical accident. Authorities never determined the cause of death, nor identified the killer. The case became as infamous as the American Zodiac killings—one of Germany's most confounding unsolved mysteries.
But if what Mickey had just said was true—and Sera had no doubt that it was—
Then the true perpetrator... the one behind the mass murder, the arsonist the German government had hunted for years... the person who slaughtered over fifty people inside that burning estate... the monster who tortured and executed Yonaz Hammershmark in cold blood…
Was sitting right here.
On her private jet.
Just a meter and a half away.
And if that was true... then the pink glasses Mickey always wore—the ones he strolled around in like they meant nothing—were in fact a trophy. They belonged to the victim. They were Yonaz Hammershmark's glasses, the very pair that mysteriously disappeared from the crime scene five years ago.
Those glasses weren't just eyewear. They were evidence. Proof. That Mickey was the one behind the entire horrifying event.
Fwhip… fwip… fwhip…
Sera's hands shook. Her breaths quickened. Her eyes locked onto Mickey, and her mind began to unravel. At 165 cm tall, she looked like a frightened little girl now—on the verge of a breakdown.
"...Sera… Sera!"
Roxxy shook her by the shoulders, then slapped her across the face—SMACK!
"..."
"Sera. Hey. Breathe. You're okay. In… out… in… out…"
Her awareness flickered back. Sera swallowed hard and slowly raised her trembling hands in front of her chest.
"Fuuuh…Tsss... Okay..."
She clasped her hands together, closed her eyes, and focused on breathing as calmly as she could.
"...I'm gonna… grab some tea…"
She stood and wobbled past them, heading to the small cabinet next to the door that led outside. Both Mickey and Roxxy watched her as she reached for the cabinet, opened it, and took out a packet of tea.
"..."
She took a deep breath… then another…
Then she said: Screw it—I'm not making tea.
She bolted.
Sera launched herself toward the exit and reached for the handle, desperate to escape the room. She didn't care if it meant breathing the same air as Syd—she just needed to get away from that guy. That killer of fifty people.
Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud!
The door wouldn't slide open.
Why?
Oh right—the lock! But why was it locked?! She didn't know, and she didn't care. She just had to get out.
Click—unlocked.
Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud!
Still stuck.
Sera was speechless.
After hearing the whole story, her eyes trembled in fear—her body, her mind, her soul were shaking. She was in complete shock.
"...Believe it or not, that's up to you."
Mickey still had his sense of humor. But for Sera, there was nothing funny about this—not even a little.
The fire that consumed the Hammerchmark mansion had been ruled an accident by investigators—an electrical failure, they claimed. As for the body of Yonaz... her murder was still unsolved. It had become one of the most infamous mystery cases in Germany, comparable to America's Zodiac. The killer was never found.
But if everything Mickey had just said was true—and Sera had no reason to doubt him—
Then the killer... the arsonist... the one who burned down the estate and slaughtered over fifty people inSyde...
The one who brutally took revenge on Yonaz Hammerchmark in the most inhuman way...
Was sitting right here.
On Sera's private plane.
Barely a meter and a half away.
And that pair of pink glasses he always wore? The very same ones Yonaz was last seen wearing before her death. They had vanished from the crime scene years ago.
Those glasses... they were proof. Proof of everything.
Sera's hands trembled. Her breath came out in short bursts. Her eyes locked onto Mickey—frozen, shaking.
She was falling apart.
"...Sera! Sera!"
Roxxy grabbed her and gave her a firm slap.
Smack!
"Hey! Breathe, okay? Deep breaths. In... out... in..."
Sera gulped, raised a shaky hand in the air, trying to stabilize herself.
"Fuuu... okay..."
She pressed her hands together, closed her eyes, and tried to breathe as calmly as she could.
"I'm... just gonna get some tea..."
She got up and waddled toward the cabinet to grab a tea bag, moving slowly past Mickey and Roxxy toward the cupboard near the exit. She opened the cabinet with a shaky hand and reached for the tea.
...
She inhaled.
Exhaled.
And then—
"Screw the tea! I'm outta here!"
She bolted toward the door, grabbed the handle, and tried to slide it open.
Clunk! Clunk! Clunk!
It wouldn't budge. Why?!
Right—the lock! But why was it locked?!
She fiddled with it frantically.
Still wouldn't open.
OutSyde the door:
["OPEN IT! LET ME OUT! I DON'T WANT TO BE HERE! AHHHHHHH!!!"]
The reason?
Toshi was bracing the door shut with his foot.
Sally: "What's wrong with her?"
Toshi: "Saw a cockroach. Keep playing."
"…Okay."
Syd pointed silently at the door.
"See?" he whispered to Jody.
Back inSyde:
Sera looked up—and saw Mickey standing right in front of her.
"AAAHHHHH!!!"
She shrieked and scrambled back against the wall, her voice hitting hysterical highs.
"Don't! Don't come near me! STAY BACK!"
Mickey slowly walked toward her.
She grabbed her sneaker, ready to throw it at him.
But then—
Mickey turned and spoke to Roxxy.
"...This is what I meant."
Roxxy didn't reply. She just looked down, eyes filled with sadness.
"If I were a girl... this wouldn't have happened."
Sera froze.
His words cut through the hysteria like a blade.
It hit her—hard.
She had felt sympathy at the beginning of his story. But the moment the second half came in—all that sympathy vanished. Replaced by fear.
She had forgotten.
Mickey wasn't a monster. He was a victim. A survivor of unspeakable abuse. A boy born into pain. Betrayed by his own mother. Tortured. Dehumanized.
And everything he did after that—everything he became—wasn't evil.
It was survival.
And vengeance.
He looked her dead in the eyes.
"Ask yourself this... if I were a girl, would people like you focus more on the first half of my story... or the second?"
Then he turned.
Walked toward the door.
And calmly slid it open.
He left Sera with her guilt, her questions, and the uncomfortable reflection of what she had just become.
The door closed gently behind him.
"Thanks," he said softly to Toshi, who had been holding watch.
Then he locked eyes with Syd and Jody.
Mickey tipped his pink glasses at Jody once—just a subtle sign.
He knew Syd must've told her the whole story by now.
But Jody's reaction was different from Sera's. Yes, she was stunned to learn Mickey was the one behind the famous case—but it was shock, not horror.
Half an hour left before landing in London.
In the cockpit lounge, Syd was napping beSyde Jody, who stared out the window. The sky below was turning grey, lightning flickering in the clouds.
A storm was coming.
She could feel the wind swirling chaotically beyond the fuselage.
On the opposite seat, Mickey sat with his eyes closed—but he wasn't asleep.
He could feel the electrons in the atmosphere crackling.
He opened his eyes.
Jody was still awake.
Their eyes met.
"You feel it?"
"Yeah... electric currents all over the clouds below."
"The wind's unstable too... there's a storm coming."
"Let's hope this plane doesn't crash."
"Wow, ominous much, Mickey."
"Hey... can you pull air out of someone's lungs?"
"...What?"
"Think about it. You control air, right? Can't you pull it out from someone's lungs? Wouldn't that be, like, the most broken power ever?"
Jody smirked.
"Nice idea... but almost right."
"Meaning?"
"You forget—when you inhale, your lungs lower pressure and air flows in naturally from the higher-pressure outSyde. So to pull air out, I'd have to fight against that pressure—manipulating air against natural flow. It takes a lot of effort."
"Ah... so you'd be working against nature, huh?"
"Exactly. Just like with my air bullets—the range is short because they dissipate too fast."
"Easier to just shoot someone."
"Yep."
"...So... how'd you join the org?"
"You mean, how did I become a Thrak?"
"Yeah."
"...Because of Syd."
Jody glanced at the boy asleep beSyde her, then back at Mickey.
"How?"
Flashback.
February 14th, 2010.
As the Hammerchmark estate burned behind him, sirens screamed through the hills. Fire trucks—five of them—raced through the forest.
Mickey stood on a ridge, bloodied, with Yonaz's pink glasses clutched in one hand. His fingers were caked in gore. Blood dripped from his elbows.
For the first time in his life... he could breathe freely.
He was the only person alive who saw Yonaz Hammerchmark die screaming, writhing in terror.
He had carved out her eyelids so she would have no choice but to see his face.
To remember him.
All the way into hell.
He knelt on the cold grass, ready to die.
Then—
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Footsteps behind him.
He turned—and saw a boy, maybe his age, in a red winter coat, brown hair, and eyes glowing crimson.
"...That fire..." the boy said, pointing at the blaze. "You did that?"
Mickey didn't answer.
The boy removed his coat and placed it over Mickey's shoulders.
"Cold as hell, huh?"
Underneath, he wore only a black shirt.
"These glasses... they hers?"
He held up the blood-smeared pink shades.
"...You must've been her plaything, huh? The dog collar gives it away."
The boy picked up a dry leaf from the ground. A red aura glowed from his fingertips.
Then—snap—he tore through the thick leather collar like it was paper.
"You're free now. Go wherever."
He turned to leave.
"Dammit... wasted trip..."
But then he stopped. Turned back.
He had sensed it—Mickey's aura. A power like his own.
"I've got nowhere else to go," Mickey whispered.
"...Oh?"
He came back, lifted Mickey to his feet.
"Name?"
"...Mickey."
"Mickey, like Mickey Mouse?"
Mickey nodded.
"I'm Syd."
Pat.
"...Wanna come with me?"