Chapter 36

Andreas tightened the strap of his sword belt, the leather creaking softly in the quiet of the lair. The rain outside beat a steady rhythm against the windows, adding to the tension that hung in the air. He moved methodically, making sure every piece of his gear was perfectly in place. His gloved hands brushed over the hilt of his sword, a familiar comfort before a mission. The dim lighting of the lair cast long shadows, but it didn’t bother him—he worked best in the dark. As he pulled on his hat, his gaze shifted to the far side of the room, where Izumi stood, her arms crossed, eyes fixed on him with that familiar look of impatience. He could practically feel the frustration radiating off her.

Izumi shifted her weight, the light sound of her foot tapping against the floor barely audible over the rain outside. She stood with her arms crossed, her posture stiff, clearly holding back words she wanted to say. To her, this felt like yet another reminder that, no matter how much she believed in her abilities, Andreas still saw her as a child. She was a shinobi—at least, that’s how she saw herself—but every time Andreas left without her, it was like he was underestimating her. The tightness in her jaw and the slight twitch of her brow gave away her frustration. He didn’t get it. Why couldn’t he see that she was ready? She had trained, she had skills. ‘I can handle myself,’ she thought bitterly, her eyes narrowing as Andreas continued to prepare without a word.

Andreas could feel her eyes on him, the weight of her silence thick with unspoken frustration. Without turning around, he smirked, his hands busy adjusting the last strap on his gear. "Handle yourself?" he quipped, his tone light, almost teasing. He finally turned to look at her, one eyebrow raised. "You can barely keep your balance on a rooftop. This one doesn’t need to be castrated, thanks." The corners of his mouth twitched up in a knowing smile. He always liked pushing her buttons just enough to break the tension, but he knew she wouldn't appreciate it. Izumi’s scowl deepened, and he could see her jaw clench, her eyes narrowing in defiance. Typical, he thought, but there was no way she was going out there tonight. Not with him.

Izumi’s eyes flared with indignation, her scowl deepening as Andreas’ words sunk in. "I’m a shinobi, Andreas," she shot back, her voice sharp with pride. "You don’t get to decide what I’m ready for." She uncrossed her arms and stepped forward, fists clenched at her sides. She didn’t care if he thought she was still a novice—she knew she could handle herself. The fact that he kept leaving her behind, treating her like some kid, made her blood boil. But before she could push the argument any further, Andreas cut her off with a smirk. "Yeah, yeah, shinobi or not, did you finish your schoolwork?" he asked, leaning casually against the wall. "Maria’s gonna kill me if you spend the night here and didn’t even get your shit done." His grin widened as he watched her face twist with disbelief, clearly caught off guard by the reminder of something so mundane.

Izumi’s mouth fell open for a split second before she snapped it shut, glaring at him like he had just insulted her honor. "Seriously? Homework?" she growled, her voice filled with disbelief. Of all things, he had to bring up schoolwork, as if that’s what mattered right now. Here she was, trying to prove she was ready for something bigger, and he was more concerned with keeping her on Maria’s good side. It felt like a slap in the face, a reminder that no matter how much she saw herself as a shinobi, to Andreas, she was still just a sixteen-year-old kid with assignments to finish. Her frustration boiled over, but she couldn’t find the words to fire back, so she just stood there, fists clenched and eyes burning with defiance.

Andreas reached for his mask, the worn black fabric fitting easily into his routine. As he tied it on, his posture shifted, the easygoing air he’d carried before now sharpened with the edge of his Zorro persona. He cleared his throat and gave her a quick glance, his voice adopting a familiar, roughened tone. "Don’t worry, I’ll handle it," he said, adjusting his sword with an exaggerated sense of authority. Without a word, Izumi’s hand shot up to her face, a quiet but deliberate facepalm that told him everything. He smirked under the mask, knowing he was getting to her in the way only he could. "You stay put, niña. I’ll take care of the bad guys," he added, his tone playful, before he turned and walked out into the rain-soaked night, leaving Izumi shaking her head behind him.

Zorro stepped out of the warehouse, the rain coming down in cold, steady sheets, soaking through his coat almost immediately. His lair sat on an old, unused frontage road, hidden away from the city. The dark stretch of road was flanked by a vast horse ranch and thick woods that wrapped around the edges of the property like a natural fortress. The sound of horses shifting in their stalls echoed faintly in the distance, drowned out by the steady rhythm of the rain. Zorro’s eyes flicked to his motorcycle, standing ready under the dim glow of the overhead light. He swung a leg over the seat, settling into the familiar position with ease, but a thought crossed his mind as he adjusted his gloves. ‘An old ’82 Firebird,’ he mused briefly, ‘now that would be more my style.’ He smirked to himself under the mask—maybe one day. For now, the bike would do.

Zorro revved the engine, the low growl of the bike cutting through the rainfall. The ranch behind him was silent, the horses long since bedded down for the night, their stalls dark and quiet. As he pulled away from the warehouse, the road ahead disappeared into a thick curtain of rain. The wooded stretch around the ranch wasn’t deep—maybe a hundred yards—but it was enough to separate him from the sprawl of the city. He sped through the narrow path lined with trees, their dark, dripping branches barely visible in the downpour. The bike’s tires kicked up water as he sliced through the wet ground, the roar of the engine swallowed by the rain. In the distance, just beyond the tree line, the faint glow of the city lights began to bleed through the storm, beckoning him back to a different kind of jungle.

As Zorro broke free from the wooded stretch, the city came into full view, a sprawling landscape of flickering neon signs and towering buildings drenched in rain. He accelerated, the engine of his bike roaring louder as he hit the wet pavement of the city’s outer roads. The streetlights blurred into long streaks of white and yellow as he weaved through the nearly deserted streets, his tires kicking up streams of water behind him. The occasional car passed by, headlights reflecting off the slick asphalt, but the city itself felt strangely alive in the storm—quiet, but watching. Zorro kept his eyes sharp, the rain beating relentlessly against him as he moved deeper into the heart of the city. Every shadow seemed to stretch longer in the downpour, and with every block he passed, the tension built. His target was close.

Zorro’s focus narrowed as the upscale neighborhood came into view—pristine streets lined with towering buildings and neatly trimmed trees, a stark contrast to the darker, grittier parts of the city he was used to. His target, Brandon Tyler, lived here, nestled in comfort among the city’s elite. Tyler wasn’t just any corrupt official; he was an ICE agent who had quietly funneled information and resources to the Quechua gang, ensuring that they cleared out key areas for developers in exchange for fat paychecks. What made this more complicated was that Tyler lived just a few blocks from Sylvia Gomez, Zorro’s girlfriend. The proximity made things personal—too personal. He’d have to be extra careful tonight, not just to avoid alerting the authorities, but to make sure Sylvia stayed far from the danger that Tyler’s downfall would bring. Zorro’s grip tightened on the throttle as he sped toward the district, his mind racing with the stakes of this mission.

Zorro slowed his pace as he neared the neighborhood, the clean, well-lit streets a far cry from the usual dark corners of the city he patrolled. The rain softened, but it still cast a hazy sheen over the manicured sidewalks and the gleaming facades of the high-rise apartments. This wasn’t his typical hunting ground, and it made his presence here feel all the more dangerous. The upscale district was quiet, with only the distant hum of luxury cars passing and the occasional glow from windows high above. He parked his bike a few blocks away from Tyler’s building, careful not to draw attention. Sylvia’s apartment wasn’t far from here, just another reminder of how delicate this job had become. Every instinct told him to stay hidden, to blend with the shadows as he always did, but in a neighborhood like this, shadows were hard to come by. He’d have to rely on his skill to get close without being seen.

Zorro slipped from the shadows and moved swiftly toward the side of a nearby building. The polished brick facade offered few handholds, but he’d scaled worse before. In one smooth motion, he launched his whip, hooking it onto a metal ledge several stories up. The whip caught with a faint clink, and in seconds, Zorro was climbing, his boots silent against the wall as he ascended. Once he reached the top, he paused for a moment, scanning the skyline. The rain had left the rooftops slick, the city lights reflecting in shallow puddles along the edges. But up here, he was invisible—just another shadow against the skyline. He sprinted across the first rooftop, his movements quick and fluid, leaping effortlessly to the next building. Each jump was precise, the soft thud of his landing barely audible in the quiet night. Tyler’s building was coming into view, and Zorro’s focus narrowed. He’d be there soon.

As Zorro prepared to make the final leap to Tyler’s building, something below caught his eye. He paused at the edge of the rooftop, glancing down just in time to see a sleek car pulling up in front of an apartment building. His heart sank slightly as the headlights illuminated a familiar figure—Sylvia—stepping out of the passenger side, with Grayson behind the wheel. Even from this distance, he could spot Jason Meowmoa, her ever-watchful cat, nestled in the back seat, his eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. Zorro frowned beneath the mask, watching as Grayson helped Sylvia with something from the car before they both headed inside. He held his breath for a moment, making sure they were out of sight before he turned his focus back to the job. Tyler was waiting. Zorro shifted his weight, eyes narrowing as he prepared to leap to the next rooftop, every muscle in his body coiled like a spring.

Zorro’s leap was smooth, the rooftop ahead nearly within reach when the sharp, suppressed crack of a gunshot echoed through the rain. The impact was instant—a fiery pain ripped through his chest, knocking him off balance in mid-air. His body twisted violently, and before he could even react, the world dropped out from under him. He plummeted, falling fast from the rooftop, the wind and rain whipping around him as the ground rushed up to meet him. The crash came hard and unforgiving, his body slamming into the wet asphalt below. He lay there, gasping for air, the searing pain in his chest spreading as he struggled to breathe. A hundred feet down from where he’d leapt, he had landed just a few yards from Grayson’s car, where Sylvia had only just gone inside. The streetlights above flickered in the rain, and his vision blurred as darkness began to creep in around the edges.

Zorro’s vision blurred, the world around him fading as the cold seeped deeper into his bones. A large grey fox with the silver eyes watched silently, unmoving, as if waiting for something. Zorro tried to fight it, to hang on, but his body refused to respond. The pain in his chest throbbed, each shallow breath weaker than the last. A voice echoed in his mind, deep and gravely —“You’re not done yet, niño.” But Zorro’s strength was gone, the weight of the night finally dragging him under. His chest rose and fell one last time before everything went black, and he slipped into the void.

...

Grayson’s head snapped up at the sound of the gunshot—a barely audible, suppressed crack, muffled by the rain but unmistakable to someone trained like him. His instincts kicked in immediately. He had just parked the car and was watching Sylvia head toward her building, but now his senses sharpened, his body tensing as he scanned the rain-soaked street. Something was wrong. His eyes darted to the side, catching the faintest movement in the distance before a dark shape—a body—hit the ground with a heavy thud just yards away from the car. Every muscle in his body went on high alert. He stepped out of the car, careful not to make any sudden noise, his mind already racing with questions: who, what, and how close was the threat? His hand hovered near his concealed weapon, and his eyes darted to where Sylvia had just disappeared inside.

Sylvia had barely made it through the door when she heard the commotion behind her—the heavy thud of something hitting the ground, followed by the tense, deliberate movements of Grayson. She turned, her heart skipping a beat as she caught a glimpse of a dark shape sprawled on the street outside, illuminated by the rain-soaked glow of the streetlights. Her breath hitched, a wave of panic rising in her chest. Without a second thought, she bolted back toward the entrance, leaving Jason Meowmoa in the hallway, his soft meow of confusion echoing faintly as the door swung shut behind her. She burst outside, the cold rain hitting her face as she rushed to Grayson’s side, her eyes darting between him and the body on the ground. “What happened?!” she gasped, her voice tight with fear, but she already knew from the look on Grayson’s face that this was something serious—deadly serious.

Grayson barely registered Sylvia’s voice as she rushed to his side. His eyes were locked on the body lying a few yards away, and everything else around him faded into the background. "Get back inside," he muttered, his voice low but firm. Sylvia didn’t move, her wide eyes fixed on the figure on the ground, soaked and motionless in the rain. Grayson cursed under his breath. Whoever had taken that shot might still be out there. They were exposed. He knelt down beside the body—Zorro. The familiar black mask was unmistakable. Blood mixed with the rain, pooling beneath him, and Grayson’s stomach dropped. He pressed two fingers to the side of Zorro’s neck, searching for a pulse. Nothing. “Damn it,” he whispered, his mind racing. He had to think fast—too many variables, too many unknowns. His eyes flicked up to the rooftops, scanning for any sign of movement. Whoever had fired that shot might come back to finish the job. "Help me get him inside," he said urgently to Sylvia, his voice tight as he lifted Zorro’s limp body with practiced efficiency.

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Grayson moved quickly, slipping his arms under Zorro’s shoulders while motioning for Sylvia to take his legs. "Now," he urged, his voice cutting through her momentary hesitation. Sylvia snapped into action, grabbing Zorro’s legs with trembling hands. Together, they lifted him, the dead weight of his body heavy and awkward as the rain continued to pour around them. Grayson’s eyes darted up and down the street, scanning for any sign of the shooter, his mind running through possible escape routes. They were too exposed here. "Inside, hurry," he said through gritted teeth, his eyes never lingering on Zorro’s face for too long—he couldn’t think about the fact that this might already be a body they were carrying. As they shuffled toward the entrance, the dim glow from the apartment building’s lights barely illuminating their path, Grayson kept his focus on the surroundings, half-expecting another shot to ring out at any second. The sooner they got inside, the better. Every second out here felt like a lifetime.

They finally pushed through the door, the warm, dry air of the hallway a stark contrast to the cold rain still beating down outside. Grayson’s heart pounded in his chest as they laid Zorro’s limp body on the floor, his pulse racing with adrenaline. He knelt beside Zorro again, checking his pulse a second time—still nothing. Sylvia hovered nearby, her breath coming in shallow, panicked gasps as she wiped the rain from her face, her eyes locked on the unmoving figure of Zorro. "Is he—" she started, her voice trembling, but Grayson cut her off, his tone sharp. "I don’t know," he snapped, more out of urgency than frustration. He was already pulling off his jacket, pressing it against the bullet wound to slow the bleeding, though the blood had already mixed with the rain in dark, spreading pools. His mind was a blur of action and calculation. This wasn’t just any man—they had brought Zorro inside, and the situation was about to get a lot more complicated. "Help me get him up," he said again, his voice quieter now but no less urgent.

They struggled through the hallway, Zorro’s body growing heavier with every step as they finally reached the door to Sylvia’s apartment. Grayson shifted his grip, carefully maneuvering the limp figure inside while Sylvia fumbled with the door. As soon as they crossed the threshold, Grayson laid Zorro down on the floor, breathing heavily but keeping his movements controlled and precise. "We need to get these clothes off him," he muttered, his voice low and urgent. Sylvia stood frozen for a moment, her wide eyes darting between Grayson and Zorro, overwhelmed by the situation. Grayson didn’t waste time. "Scissors, Sylvia," he barked, snapping her out of it. "Go! I need to see how bad it is." She blinked, finally processing the command, and hurried off toward the kitchen, her footsteps quick but shaky. Grayson turned his attention back to Zorro, pressing his hand against the wound again, feeling the wetness of blood still flowing beneath the fabric. His mind raced as he waited for her to return. Time was running out.

Sylvia rushed back into the room, scissors clutched tightly in her hand, her breathing still shaky as she handed them over to Grayson. He grabbed them without a word, his focus completely locked on Zorro’s lifeless form. The sound of the scissors cutting through the wet fabric filled the room as he worked quickly, slicing through the thick layers of the coat, shirt, and vest beneath. With each cut, more blood seeped out, staining the pale skin of Zorro’s chest. Grayson’s jaw tightened. The bullet hole was small but deep, the entry wound clean—center mass. His hands moved with practiced efficiency, but his mind raced. The shot had been perfect, and judging by the lack of pulse, they were running out of time. "Stay with me," he muttered under his breath, though the odds seemed stacked against them. Sylvia knelt beside him, her eyes wide, trying to steady her breathing. She bit her lip hard, her hands hovering uselessly as if she didn’t know what to do next. "What do we do?" she whispered, her voice cracking.

Grayson’s knife worked swiftly, pulling the bullet free from the wound. But as soon as the bullet came out, something wasn’t right. The bleeding, which should have continued, slowed almost to a stop. His heart sank as he pressed two fingers to Andreas’ neck—there was no pulse. He checked again, his jaw tightening. The wound was still open, raw and exposed, but the life had already drained from him. The rainwater mixing with blood on the floor only added to the eerie silence that followed. Grayson swallowed hard, knowing that the lack of bleeding meant one thing—there was nothing left to save. His hands trembled for just a second, then steadied again as he glanced at Sylvia, her face pale as she stared at the man who had saved them so many times before.

Sylvia knelt down beside them, her hands trembling as she stared at Zorro—at the lifeless figure lying so still before her. The mask seemed almost surreal now, as if it didn’t belong on someone so… human. Before she even realized what she was doing, her fingers reached for it, hesitating for just a second before gently peeling it away. The black cloth slipped off, revealing the face beneath. Her breath caught in her throat. Andreas. She gasped, her body jolting back in disbelief. "No…" she whispered, her voice barely audible, choked with shock. All the pieces fell into place at once, and the weight of it crushed her. Andreas had been Zorro all this time, and now he was… gone. She dropped the mask onto the floor and stared at his face, her mind struggling to process the truth she could no longer ignore.

Grayson watched Sylvia fall apart, her hands shaking as she dropped the mask. He couldn’t afford to break down, not now. The sight of Andreas’ face—Zorro’s face—hit him hard, but there was still work to do. Sylvia was no longer any use to him; the shock had taken over. She knelt frozen beside Andreas, her breath coming in ragged sobs. Grayson clenched his jaw and stood up. "I’ll handle this," he muttered, mostly to himself. He quickly grabbed a clean towel and some bandages from a nearby drawer, moving on autopilot as he pressed the towel against the wound, wiping away the blood and rainwater that had mixed across Andreas’ chest. The wound itself was open, still raw, but the bleeding had stopped. It didn’t matter now. Wrapping it was just a formality. Grayson’s hands moved with precision, but his mind was elsewhere—caught between grief and duty.

Grayson worked in silence, his hands moving with the precision of someone who had been in this situation far too many times. He hadn’t served alongside Andreas—their paths in the military had been different, with Grayson a former Green Beret and Andreas a Marine. But that didn’t matter now. What mattered was that Andreas had served, had bled for his country, and now he was gone. Grayson wiped away the blood and rainwater from his chest, working quickly to clean him up. He wrapped the wound with the care of someone performing a final ritual, a small way of showing respect. Once the bandages were secured, he covered Andreas with a blanket, the weight of the cloth settling over him like a final farewell. Grayson stood back, exhaling slowly, his gaze lingering on the body before him. He hadn’t known Andreas as a brother in arms, but in this moment, he treated him like one.

The room was thick with silence, broken only by Sylvia’s quiet sobs as she sat on the couch, her face buried in her hands. Grayson paced back and forth, his boots tapping against the hardwood floor with every step. He couldn’t stand still—his mind wouldn’t let him. It churned through every detail of the night, every failure, every moment of helplessness. He glanced at Andreas’ body, now draped with a blanket, and a knot tightened in his chest. Sylvia’s sobs grew softer, but the weight of grief in the room was suffocating. As Grayson passed by the couch again, Jason Meowmoa padded quietly up to the lifeless form on the couch. The cat stared at Andreas for a long moment, then let out a soft growl, nudging his head against Andreas’ arm, trying to wake him. He growled again, more insistent this time, as if he knew something they didn’t.

…

Andreas floated in a vast, empty expanse, the world around him washed in shades of gray and shadow. There was no ground beneath his feet, no sky above him—just an endless nothingness stretching out in all directions. He moved, but it wasn’t walking—it felt more like drifting, his body weightless, as though he was unmoored from reality. The pain in his chest had vanished, replaced by a cold stillness, and for a fleeting moment, he wondered if he had ever been in pain at all. Everything was silent, oppressive, as though the world itself was holding its breath. He could sense something nearby, lurking just at the edge of his awareness, but no matter how hard he tried to focus, it remained hidden in the shadows.

In the distance, a faint light appeared, flickering like a beacon through the void. It was small, uncertain, but it called to him, pulling him forward. Andreas found himself reaching for it, his body instinctively moving toward the glow as though it promised some kind of escape. He kicked his legs, trying to swim through the airless space, desperate to get closer. But just as he neared it, a figure emerged from the shadows—the maned wolf, its silver eyes gleaming. Without a word, it stepped in front of the light, its massive form filling the space. With a slow, deliberate motion, it reached out and closed a door Andreas hadn’t even realized was there. The light vanished, and the world around him collapsed into complete, suffocating darkness.

For what felt like an eternity, Andreas floated in the darkness. Time lost its meaning—minutes, hours, days—it all blurred together. The shadows around him shifted in a strange, whimsical dance, curling and twisting like smoke. They weren’t menacing, but they weren’t comforting either. It was as if they were waiting, biding their time, mocking him with their graceful, silent movements. He drifted aimlessly, weightless, as though he had become part of the shadows themselves. Faces flickered in the blackness—familiar, forgotten—but none of them lingered long enough for him to understand. The silence was deafening, stretching on and on, pressing down on him with an almost playful indifference.

The weightlessness began to fade, and a dull pressure slowly crept into his awareness. At first, it was distant, barely noticeable, but soon it became heavier, more real—a sensation pressing down on his chest, like an anchor pulling him back from the shadows. Andreas frowned, his body tensing as the weight grew stronger, more insistent. The whimsical darkness around him flickered, and the faces dissolved into nothing. The shadows, once playful, now retreated, leaving him alone in the void. The pressure on his chest intensified, becoming sharp, suffocating. It was the first real sensation he’d felt in what seemed like ages, and with it came the unsettling realization that something—someone—was pulling him back. The dream unraveled, the darkness breaking apart, and then, just as suddenly as it began, the dream ended.

Andreas jolted awake with a sharp gasp, air rushing into his lungs like fire. His body convulsed, the sudden return to consciousness sending waves of pain through him. He blinked, his vision swimming as he tried to make sense of his surroundings. He was wrapped in bandages, his chest tight and aching from the wound, and a heavy blanket weighed him down. His weapon belt wasn’t strapped to him anymore—he could see it lying beside the couch, next to a haphazard pile of his hat, cape, and mask, all stripped away. His breaths came in shallow, uneven bursts, the sensation of being alive again feeling both foreign and disorienting. The room felt distant, as if it had shifted while he was gone, and for a brief moment, he didn’t know where he was. His fingers twitched against the blanket, brushing something warm and familiar. Jason Meowmoa stared back at him, his dark eyes reflecting a strange intensity, nudging Andreas with his head like he’d been waiting for this moment all along.

Jason Meowmoa let out a sudden, happy meow, the sound cutting through the thick silence of the room. The change in tone was so stark that it immediately drew Sylvia’s attention. Her sobbing stilled as she lifted her head, her tear-streaked face full of confusion, her breath catching in her throat. She blinked, unable to process what she was seeing at first—Andreas, stirring under the blanket, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. “No…” she whispered, her voice cracking, as if she didn’t trust her own eyes. Slowly, she rose from the couch, her heart pounding as she edged closer. Her hands trembled, her mind still reeling from what she had just witnessed moments ago—he had been dead. She had seen it. And now… “Andreas?” she breathed, barely able to get the words out.

Grayson froze mid-step, his pacing abruptly halted by the shift in the room’s energy. He turned slowly, eyes locking onto Andreas, who was now moving—however faintly—beneath the blanket. His chest, which had been still moments ago, was rising and falling with labored breaths. Grayson’s hand instinctively went to his side, his mind racing to catch up with what his eyes were telling him. It wasn’t possible. Andreas had been dead. He had checked. He had known. But now… Grayson watched Sylvia inch forward, her wide eyes locked on Andreas as though any sudden movement might break whatever spell had brought him back. She knelt beside him, her hand hovering just above his arm, afraid to touch him in case he vanished again. "Andreas?" she whispered, her voice trembling with both hope and fear. The impossible was happening right in front of them.

Andreas gasped, his eyes flying open as his body jolted fully awake. He sat up abruptly, his chest heaving with each breath, his muscles tense as though he had been pulled from some deep, suffocating place. For a moment, he didn’t register where he was—everything felt off, foreign. His fingers instinctively moved to his chest, fumbling with the bandages that bound him. The tightness around his torso felt wrong, confining, and without thinking, he started to pull at the wrappings. His movements were frantic, disoriented, as if removing the bandages would free him from whatever nightmare he had just escaped. His breath came in shallow, rapid bursts as he tore at the cloth, his mind still struggling to catch up with his body. Everything hurt, and yet, he was alive.

As Andreas ripped the last of the bandages away, his hands froze over his chest. The wound—the gaping hole where the bullet had ripped through him—was gone. In its place was a thin, silvery scar, almost shimmering under the dim light. His breath caught as he ran his fingers over it, the skin smooth but cool to the touch, like it didn’t quite belong to him. The scar seemed unnatural, a reminder of something far beyond what he could explain. His mind raced, trying to reconcile what he knew—he had been shot, he had died—with what he was seeing now. The faint sheen of the scar caught the light again, a small but undeniable sign that whatever had happened to him wasn’t normal. Not by a long shot.

Grayson stood there, frozen in place, his mind struggling to process what he had just seen. For the past few minutes, he had been running on instinct, his soldier’s training keeping him grounded. But now, watching Andreas sit up and tear off the bandages to reveal the smooth, silvery scar where a fatal wound should have been, something inside him finally cracked. "What the hell..." he muttered under his breath, barely audible. His usual composed demeanor faltered, and he ran a hand through his wet hair, pacing again, this time with less purpose and more disbelief. He glanced between Andreas, the scar, and Sylvia, trying to make sense of the impossible. His voice was louder this time, incredulous. "You were dead. I checked. You were—" He stopped himself, shaking his head as if to clear the fog of confusion. Nothing about this made sense, and Grayson was never one to let things slip beyond his control. But now? He had no idea what to do next.

Andreas stared down at the scar on his chest, his fingers brushing over the cool, silvery line that had replaced the bullet wound. The silence in the room was thick, but all he could do was shrug. "I don’t know," he muttered, his voice rough, like he was coming back to reality for the first time. He glanced up at Grayson, who was still pacing, disbelief etched into his face. Andreas felt an odd sensation rising in his stomach—hunger, sharp and insistent. He blinked, confused, then looked at Sylvia. "Do you have anything to eat?" he asked. "I’m starving."

For a moment, the air was still, the weight of the impossible lingering. Then Grayson stopped pacing, looked at Andreas, and burst out laughing—a loud, almost disbelieving laugh that filled the room. He shook his head, still grinning, and muttered, "Fucking Marines."

Grayson turned to Sylvia, with a smirk still on his face, and in a tone that carried all the dry confidence of a soldier, he added, "Get this man a crayon."