“Don’t move!” someone shouted. “Stay down!”

The sound of heavy boots shuffled in the hallway behind him, crushing splinters of wood and the deformed remnants of the outdated lock mechanism. He did not react to these sounds or this obvious danger. He did not react to anything.

Kneeling next to Jennifer, he simply could not take his eyes off of her face. Desperately, deep in his heart, he wished for her to open her eyes once more.

It was not fear or shock that froze Arnel.

Somewhere between realizing his folly and the moment Jennifer’s body hit the ground, Arnel desperately wished to disappear. He should have known that this would happen. He blamed himself for not taking Jennifer and escaping while he still had a chance. Out of his own selfishness and self-righteousness, he wished to confront Thomas, ended up deceived again, and then Jennifer paid the price. To say that Arnel hated himself would be like saying that the surface of the sun was warm.

It wasn't fear or shock; it was rage that stopped Arnel in his tracks — it froze him in time figuratively and literally. He could hear the infinite echoing of those boots behind him, rising and falling as he perceived their frequencies stretching out through time. He was aware of his heart beating, pounding not in beats per minute but what seemed like beats per hour. He felt like threads unraveling from a rope, and then being wound around a cold, steel wire — ripped out, and then stretched, fraying on the edges.

His skin tingled. He could almost feel the interaction of the air currents against the hairs on his arms and head. He was hyper-aware of his surroundings and yet completely focused on the warm body in front of him.

[ Critical injury. MEDEVAC dispatched. ETA: 3 minutes. ]

He had not noticed it before, but now he was painfully aware of the status that described Jennifer’s state. She was not dead. She was still alive. Only when he realized this did he notice Jennifer’s faint breathing. Only then could he see the minute pulse of Jennifer’s arteries, carrying vital supplies of oxygen to her brain.

“Primary objective spotted,” someone in the hallway said. “Target is awake and mobile. How proceed, over?”

And like those arteries, at that moment, the floodgates also opened in Arnel's heart, which grew colder and colder. His rage, hatred, and fear all disappeared beneath a thick sheet of ice. On the surface of the ice, crystals of grim determination formed, blooming like malevolent flowers.

He would not forgive them for what they did to Jennifer — he would not forgive those who not only ruined his life but also threatened the lives of his friends.

Slowly, Arnel stood up.

“I said stay down!” someone shouted. “I will shoot you!”

He finally understood the meaning of those words that Nineteen and the others cherished.

If it must be this way, he thought, then may it all crumble to dust and burn to ashes. If, for the sake of prosperity, his place in this Utopia was to be oppressed and robbed of all he loved, then this Commonwealth, with its principle of tyranny, must also one day fall.

“For the glory of Humankind.”

[ Index threshold reached. Final stage. Ascension phase initiated: CODE OF SIGMA. ]

< I will help you. >

Leviathan’s words poured into Arnel’s consciousness as time seemed to resume its flow, and the icy blood in his veins cooled his heart further.

Arnel closed his eyes. The only thing that stood between Jennifer’s life and death were these four operatives, and Thomas and Isobell.

It was simple, really. No thinking required.

As Arnel turned about, he was not even surprised to find Camille standing there, between the four operatives and himself. Her perfect likeness was unmistakable, even from behind. Her golden hair shimmered in the light like a profane halo, as she stood there, her hand stretched out towards the four operatives in tactical gear.

Of course, they could not see her. Arnel knew that only he could see her; she was not real, but she also was real.

“Don’t be afraid, Code,” she spoke softly, ethereal voice concealing far more terrifying qualities. “I will protect you.”

Arnel stepped forward.

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“Motherfu—!” the leading operative cursed, aimed the rifle at Arnel’s leg and pulled the trigger. The blast of sound and light drowned out the rest of the words. As the bullet left the rifle’s chamber, Arnel could not only see it, moving as if in slow motion, but he could also feel its electronic heart singing its digital hymn of guided mayhem. The bullet passed through Camille’s immaterial hand and swerved away from her.

The bullet hit the floor next to Arnel’s leg.

Arnel took another step forward.

“Stop!” the team leader shouted once more. This time, he took more time aiming and fired another bullet. This one ricocheted off the floor and bounced off the wall at the other end of the hallway.

Arnel could read the team leader’s mind as easily as if they were his own thoughts. There was confusion at first, but then also realization, followed by panic. It was one thing to understand that smart bullets could be interfered with — that their guidance could be hacked and controlled — but it was entirely another thing for a human to do it in realtime.

The soldier aimed at Arnel’s chest and fired a three-round burst, and all the bullets went around Arnel, curving unnaturally away from him.

“Engage! Engage!”

The operatives obliged, no doubt feeling the same kind of pressure and fear that their team leader did, and they opened fire. Light and debris filled the hallway; the neon light above Arnel’s head took a hit and exploded, throwing a mist of glass shards and white dust across the hallway, mingling with the smoke from spent powder and primer.

The heavy drum of gunfire conspired to orchestrate its movement of death and kinetic energy with the sounds of bullet impacts and ricochets for all of two-and-a-half seconds until their conductors — the rifles — clicked empty.

Another neon light flickered once more, before detaching from the ceiling and swinging around, illuminating Arnel's standing form in all the dusty mist and smoke. Unharmed. Unyielding. Unrelenting.

He took another step forward.

The team leader was the only one to correctly assess the predicament that his lack of understanding caused. Realizing he would have no time to reload, he threw his rifle away and reached for his side arm. His subordinates were not so aware of the situation, and they ejected their magazines.

Before the team leader’s rifle hit the floor, Arnel was already upon him.

Just as the team leader readied his sidearm — a semi-automatic pistol — and pointed it in Arnel’s direction, Arnel had already turned his body sideways and lowered his center of gravity.

The sidearm was not loaded with smart bullets, and the team leader knew he would only get one chance to fire it. He knew, only a bullet like this — untampered by the advance of technology — could put down this untouchable demon kid before him.

Arnel could see it in the team leader's eyes, too — that moment when Arnel went from being a kid to becoming something else.

The team leader’s sidearm went off, expelling a ten-millimeter slug centimeters away from Arnel’s head. Though the gunshot burst his eardrum and rendered him deaf in one ear, Arnel did not even flinch.

As the team leader brought his gun about, towards Arnel’s face, to fire once more, a quick palm-strike to the officer’s hand knocked the gun away. Another shot went off, this time into the ceiling.

It all happened in the span of a second. The other operatives did not even have time to reload their rifles yet, one fumbling to feed the magazines, while the other two had not even reached that stage yet.

There was no wastefulness in Arnel’s motion; no maneuver unnecessary or excessive. He was perfectly calm and calculated; as if he had done it more than a thousand times.

Arnel grabbed the handle of the team leader’s combat knife, and though it was awkward to draw, it was not impossible. As the team leader reached to grab Arnel’s arm and thwart him from using the team leader’s own knife against him, Arnel’s forehead struck the team leader in the nose.

That is all it took; one or two tenths of a second of confusion, and Arnel could draw the knife and then sheathe it once more in the team leader’s neck, severing his arteries.

Arnel took control of the sidearm, as the team leader fell to the ground and aimed it at the closest operative. They had just finished reloading their rifles and were preparing to once more fire at Arnel, and at that distance, even if the guidance systems of the bullets were somehow interfered with, they would hit something on his body.

But they would never get the chance.

Three shots echoed out into the slums and three bodies fell to the floor, one after another, and after the loud sound of their tactical gear and body armor impacting the floor, the only sound left was the waning choking and gurgling of the team leader’s evaporating lifespan.

Several seconds passed and Arnel stood still. The height and rush of adrenaline was coursing through his body, causing his hands to tremble. Once again, he neither felt guilt nor remorse for what he had just done. Not even satisfaction. He just felt empty and frozen to the core.

As Arnel turned around, he saw Camille still standing behind him, motionless, and her arms at her sides. As if to further give credence that her presence was real, she moved out of Arnel’s way as he headed back through the corridor.

There were only two things Arnel could feel through the thick ice enveloping his feelings. He felt joy and relief that Jennifer was still alive.

The other thing he felt he planned on severing immediately.

He walked to the open door that led to Thomas’ and Isobell’s chambers and he could not even bring himself to look at them. He wanted to look at them, he wanted to look into their eyes, but he simply could not will himself to do it.

“Arnel…” he heard Thomas whisper. His tone was that of disbelief. Perhaps surprise too. It seemed natural that they would be surprised by this outcome. Perhaps, Arnel thought to himself for a brief moment, he also was not entirely honest with them either. He never told them about Leviathan, or the things he went through. Perhaps, if he had, they would’ve come to his side.

Then again, did Arnel really want to be pitied? Perhaps he did.

Arnel took a deep breath, just as the team leader exhaled his last.

“I…” he tried to speak but his voice cracked. Even his frozen heart could still bleed and weep; it could still yearn for the connection that was now broken and lost. Within the cracks of his heart, now only malice festered. Malice and hate.

“Arnel… this is not…” Thomas pleaded, and Arnel could hear the tears in the man’s voice. “Please… Arnel… it isn’t what you think.”

[ Truth ]

“I trusted you,” Arnel said.

Two more gunshots broke the silence of the night.