Jonathan sat at his desk in his office, surrounded by a lush array of slowly shifting plants that whispered secrets in the quiet. In the corner, seven grim corpses dangled from the ceiling by twisting vines. He sat at his immaculate white lawn table, sipping tea as if the disquieting sight were nothing unusual.

  Markus entered, his steps soft against the grass that lined the room. He paused, visibly nervous, before settling into a pristine white lawn chair opposite Jonathan.

  “Sorry for the mess,” Jonathan said lightly, “just doing some cleaning and clearing out the spies. Please, take a seat.”

  After a tense moment, Jonathan continued in a calm tone, “I’m authorizing you to have the next two weeks off.”

  Markus’s eyes widened in disbelief. “W-what, sir? I appreciate it, but don’t we have the joint training event in coming up?”

  Jonathan offered a gentle chuckle. “You always take the week off anyway—you weren’t going to be here regardless. I’m simply approving two weeks, though I’m keeping Wallace on duty.”

  Markus’s tense features softened as relief mingled with sorrow. “Thank you—I was worried I wouldn’t get a chance this year,” he said, a tear slipping down his cheek.

  Jonathan’s smile turned sympathetic. “I know this time of year is always hard for you. I’m sure your brother would be proud of your dedication.”

  A moment of silence passed before Markus, voice low and pained, murmured, “Even after all this time, I can’t let go of Xander.”

  Jonathan’s tone shifted to one of matter-of-fact calm. “On another note—the reason I'm giving you two weeks instead of one is because the man who killed him in that drunk driving accident has recently died.”

  Markus blinked in shock. “W-what? How did you find out? How did you learn who he was?”

  Jonathan sipped his tea before replying, “I had the Bookkeeper keep tabs on him. He refused to tell you, knowing you might kill him in a blind rage. But I see no harm in you visiting his grave—say whatever you need to.”

  “Thank you, really,” Markus said, a fragile smile forming.

  “Don’t worry about the facility during the joint training,” Jonathan assured him. “Between Ivan, Baal, Wallace, and me, everything will be fine.”

  Markus stood slowly. “Thank you, truly,” he said before departing. As he left, Jonathan allowed himself a small smile. “That should be another piece secured on my side,” he mused quietly. “The rest of the council will be too tricky, but I should manage with the pieces I’ve acquired.”

  Seconds later, the door opened and Sabrina stepped in, her purple dress contrasting vividly with her flushed, blushing face. “Um…I’m ready for our date,” she announced softly.

  Jonathan rose from his desk, his smile broadening as he replied, “So am I.”

  Later that day, Markus wandered through a forgotten graveyard, where the slow decay of nature intertwined with the fiery hues of early autumn. Crumbling tombstones and overgrown paths bore witness to time’s relentless march. At last, he found the grave he had been seeking—a weathered stone engraved “Oscar Dawn.” Standing there, memories flooded him, and tears streamed down his face.

  In that quiet moment, Markus was transported back to when he was only seven—before A.E.G.I.S, before meeting his future stepbrother Wallace. He recalled the bright promise of his birthday, when he had walked home hand in hand with his older brother, Xander, their day filled with laughter and dreams. That warmth and hope stood in stark contrast to the darkness that would soon shatter his world.

  Without warning, headlights tore through the dusk. In an instant, Xander had pushed little Markus out of harm’s way, absorbing the full force of a speeding car. The engine roared as the vehicle sped away, leaving behind a hit-and-run that would haunt Markus for years. Xander had died instantly, and Markus, overwhelmed by shock and grief, had crumpled beside him, desperately calling for help. The man responsible was never brought to justice.

  Markus stood before Oscar Dawn’s grave, his heart a tumult of raw, searing pain. Overwhelmed by memories of lost childhood and a brother stolen too soon, he began kicking at the weathered stone. Each furious blow echoed with a desperate, broken cry.

  “Damn you, you bastard!” he roared, his voice raw with hatred. “Why, why, why did it have to be my brother—damn you!” His kicks pounded the grave with the full force of his grief and rage.

  Just then, a figure emerged from the shadowed fringes of the cemetery—a teenage boy with unruly white hair that caught the light like a ghostly halo. His dull purple eyes, rimmed by deep, sleepless bags, gave him an otherworldly look. Clad in a white school uniform marred by faint scuffs and an emblem, he approached with an unsettling calm.

  “Hey, are you done? I’d like to kick that grave next,” the boy said in a monotone voice.

  Markus paused, startled. “W-what, who are you?” he asked.

  The boy replied coldly, “My name is Arthur Dawn. I’m that scumbag’s son.”

  Markus’s anger softened briefly into sorrowful empathy. “I’m sorry for you,” he murmured.

  Arthur’s gaze hardened. “Yeah, so am I. But why are you here?” he pressed.

  “This man—he killed my brother in a drunk driving accident, he never went to jail, despite what the fucker did” Markus spat out bitterly.

  Arthur snorted. “His drinking has always been a problem. Shame, he drank with a really good lawyer. Just so you know, I’m the one who killed him,” Arthur said flatly, delivering another sharp kick to the grave.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Markus managed a dark chuckle. “You know, we seem to have a lot in common,” he said, his voice rough with shared pain.

  Arthur tilted his head. “How so?”

  Markus’s tone turned grim. “We both loathe that man—and we both killed our fathers.”

  Arthur’s eyes widened in genuine curiosity. “Really? Why did you kill yours?”

  Taking a slow breath, Markus replied, “Same reason I imagine you did. He got drunk and started hurting his family. He ended up killing my stepmother before I had to stab him—at least I managed to protect my brother, Wallace.”

  Arthur’s expression softened slightly. “You’re right. I guess I should be grateful my mother only ended up in a wheelchair.”

  Markus extended a business card. “If you ever need anything—anything at all—call me.”

  “Thanks,” Arthur said as he punched the number into his phone. After a moment, he grinned and teased, “What’s your name? Or should I just mark you down as ‘creepy graveyard guy’?”

  Markus managed a small smile. “Markus Valentine. I’m a government worker. I’ve got pretty good connections.”

  Arthur chuckled. “Valentine? Sounds like a fake name. And ‘government worker’ is too vague. Do you work at Area 51 or something?”

  “W-what? No, of course not. At least, not anymore,” Markus muttered.

  Arthur shrugged. “Whatever. I should get going. Goodbye.”

  Before leaving, Arthur added in a serious tone, “Just don’t do anything drastic,” his eyes narrowing as they met Markus’s.

  “Sure, Mr. Valentine,” Arthur replied, and then he walked off.

  Watching him go, Markus let out a bitter laugh. “I hope the best for that kid. What am I going to do with an extra week off? This has never happened before.”

  In that quiet graveyard, with old wounds still raw, Markus realized that every extra moment might just be another chance to settle scores—and perhaps, find a semblance of redemption.

  Later that night, as Iris lay in bed, the surrounding air suddenly grew hotter with an intense heat. Without warning, orange flames burst from the red book on her desk. From the blazing pages emerged a swarm of fiery butterflies, their delicate wings fluttering before dissolving into drifting embers.

  Her heart hammered in her chest—another letter from her future self. With trembling fingers, she sat up and retrieved the letter from the ashes, unfolding the paper as if it might burn her with its secrets.

  The following script seemed to dare her to read:

  “I’m assuming by now you’ve encountered the snake called Anya. You were right to be suspicious. She is the daughter of the man responsible for our parents’ deaths—Nikolai Dostoevsky, Pandora’s apostle. I never uncovered why she came here; she vanished during the incident that took place in June. In my timeline, her efforts amounted to little. She’s dangerous, yes, but she won’t be your downfall—keep her in your sights, but don’t lose sleep over her.

  As for your classmates, it’s time I tell you about the siblings. They survived longer than anyone else—right up to the final battle. Their loyalty is ironclad, but there’s a darkness between them and Charles—a bitterness that grew into something far more lethal. In my time, I believe they were responsible for his death.

  I know what you’re thinking, why? I have my theories, but I never discovered the truth. It happened during a raid—a clash with a certain cult in Japan. That event is years away for you, too distant to worry about now. But when the time comes, be ready. If you can, try to prevent the same tragedy from unfolding. Charles’s fate should not be set in stone.

  I wish I had known then what I know now, but you still have a chance to change things.”

  —Your future self, Iris Blackwell.

  Iris clutched the letter until her knuckles turned white, tears spilling as she whispered, “Why… why did so many terrible things happen to everyone around me? It’s… it’s too unfair.” The weight of her future, of inevitable loss and betrayal, pressed down on her chest as she stared into the dim light.

  Each day blurred into a haunting routine. To everyone else, Anya was just another friend—a familiar face woven into the fabric of their lives. But to Iris, Anya was a sinister presence, an intruder that deepened her sense of dread and sorrow with every smile and laugh she witnessed.

  In the gym, Iris sought to channel her inner turmoil into motion. She gripped a bow from her flames, each arrow she released a precise, mechanical burst of fire. Yet her eyes, once fierce with determination, now held only a vacant, hollow stare. The steady crackle of her flames filled the empty space, but no matter how many arrows flew, nothing could lift the crushing weight that had seeped into her soul.

  Unbeknownst to her, Charles slipped quietly into the gym. Leaning against the door frame, he watched the silent ritual with growing concern. He noted how her shoulders sagged, how her vibrant flames had dimmed to embers, and how she fired arrow after arrow at a wall long since emptied of its targets. His heart ached as he realized she was slowly slipping away into her own dark world.

  Finally, Charles stepped closer and spoke, his tone firm yet laced with care, “Iris, tell me what’s wrong—no more dodging. Please.”

  But Iris remained lost in her trance, her focus unbroken as she continued to release her fiery arrows with automated precision, oblivious to the now-obliterated targets. Each shot was a hollow echo of her inner despair—a silent cry for help that went unanswered.

  “Iris!” Charles shouted, his voice cracking with raw frustration as he stormed over and grabbed her by the shoulders, shaking her. “Please, just tell me what’s wrong.”

  Startled, Iris blinked, her expression as hollow as ever. “I’m fine. There’s no—”

  “Don’t you dare say it,” Charles interrupted, his tone seething with anger. “I hate that stupid lie. Stop pretending everything’s alright!”

  “I said I’m fine. Stop asking,” she repeated, her voice flat as she avoided his searching gaze.

  Charles’s patience snapped. “Telekinesis!” he bellowed, and suddenly objects around the gym—balls, bits of shattered targets, even stray gym equipment—levitated in a chaotic swirl as his aura flared to life.

  Warily, Iris backed away. “W-what are you doing?” she asked, her voice trembling.

  “Either knock me out or answer my questions!” Charles demanded, his eyes burning with determination as he hurled objects toward her. Iris instinctively ignited her flames, deflecting the debris with minimal effort; yet she refused to strike back.

  Amid the crackling energy and flying objects, Charles roared, “You told me not to hold onto your anger—so why are you clinging to your sadness?!” His words cut deeper than any projectile.

  For a heartbeat, Iris faltered. The fiery glow in her eyes dimmed as the crushing weight of her hidden sorrow threatened to extinguish her inner flame. Charles wasn’t angry for anger’s sake; his rage was born of genuine care, of seeing her locked away behind a mask of denial.

  “Stop pushing me away, Iris! You don’t have to face this alone!” Charles yelled, his telekinetic power intensifying as the swirling chaos momentarily stilled.

  Iris’s fists clenched as her heart hammered in her chest. She longed to scream, to break free of the isolation, but fear and the burden of her future weighed her down. Tears stung her eyes, and for a moment, the flames in her hands flickered, uncertain.

  “I can’t…” she whispered, barely audible. “I can’t tell you… It’s too much…”

  Her eyes hardened with a spark of fierce defiance as Charles’s words echoed around her. “Then fight back, Iris,” he challenged, his voice low and unyielding as his aura flared once more, reassembling the scattered objects with deliberate force. “This won’t end until either you tell me what’s wrong or one of us ends up in Wallace’s office.”