Noir climbed the spiral staircase, boots heavy with blood. The tower was silent now—the previous floor had been "cleared."
He stepped onto the open rooftop, where the cold wind howled softly through the broken railings. Overhead, the full moon hung high, casting silver light across the cement.
A man stood near the edge, back turned, looking up at the sky.
"The moon's quite beautiful, isn't it?" the man said.
Noir raised his gun, eyes narrowed.
"Hands up."
The man chuckled. Slowly, he turned—not in fear, but familiarity.
"Noir… You've forgotten your precious uncle?"
Noir's aim wavered for half a second.
"H-How do you know my name?"
The man's smile deepened. His voice was laced with pity and something worse—knowing.
"You call that your name?"
"Your real name was so much better…"
Noir flinched.
"Your father… was a dear friend of mine."
"That coward who sent you into that cursed place."
"No. No—he didn't," Noir muttered, almost breathless.
"I feel bad for you, boy."
"Such a terrible father. So easy to throw his own son into the pit… just to see if he'd survive."
COMMS:
"NOIR—HE'S MESSING WITH YOU—DON'T LISTEN TO—"
Noir ripped the radio out of his ear. Silence.
"Why…" Noir whispered.
"Why would he send me there…?"
The man's eyes gleamed under the moonlight.
"To make you perfect."
"A man with no weakness. No emotions. No fear."
"After all… you're supposed to run the gang one day, aren't you?"
The words cut deeper than any blade.
Noir's weapon lowered slightly.
He stepped back.
"No. No, no, no, no, NO—"
"He's not like this! He's not—he's NOT!"
His knees buckled.
"I can't… I can't believe you—!"
SNAP.
Noir lunged forward in rage, but every punch missed—the man dodged with ease, graceful and quiet.
"You can't run from the truth, Noir…"
BANG.
The shot echoed across the rooftop.
A pause.
The man froze.
Blood dripped from his mouth.
He staggered, smiling faintly—as if relieved.
"I… I am s-sorry…"
He fell.
Face-first.
Dead.
---
Noir stood there.
Shaking.
Alone under the full moon.
And slowly, silently…
He dropped to his knees.
A man came running to him and hit him with the back of his rifle.
---
The world returned slowly.
Throbbing pain in his head. Cold metal digging into his wrists. A bitter taste in his mouth—blood.
Noir blinked, barely able to focus.
White walls had been replaced with gray concrete. The buzzing of cheap lights overhead replaced the silence he was used to. There was a chair beneath him. Steel cuffs biting into his skin. A drain in the floor.
A man stepped into the room.
He was tall, rough-bearded, and wore a uniform unfamiliar to Noir. His eyes weren't curious—they were sizing him up like an animal behind a cage.
"So you're the White Room's Number One?" The man said, his voice thick with accent. "Thirteen years old. Barely even a teenager. That's what they send?"
Noir didn't answer.
The man smiled like he already owned the room.
"You see, we don't want random little experiments killing people in our country. You've heard of the Taliban, haven't you?"
Without waiting for a reply, he drew back and slammed a fist into Noir's face.
White exploded behind his eyes. He tasted metal.
"Welcome to Afghanistan," the man sneered.
He said something in Pashto as he left, laughing, and the guard stationed near the wall gave a nod before closing his eyes. Resting. As if Noir were no threat at all.
Fools.
Noir took a breath.
His hands were smaller than most kids. Fragile-looking. Useful.
He exhaled and twisted his wrist inward. The metal cuff scraped bone but slipped off with a harsh clank. His other hand followed.
He moved silently, barefoot, shadowlike.
The guard never saw him coming.
With one hand, Noir grabbed his wrist and twisted—a sharp crack echoed. The guard gasped, but the other hand was already swinging. Noir brought the butt of the rifle down across the man's temple. He crumpled.
Noir stood still, listening.
No movement.
He stepped into the hallway. It smelled of rust, sweat, and something old—like dried blood and burned wires. It wasn't a prison. It was a makeshift outpost. Somewhere forgotten.
He needed his gear.
He searched room by room. Doors creaked. Cabinets opened. His breathing was shallow and controlled.
Then—a drawer full of gear. Radios. Vests. Dog tags. Seized equipment from others like him who didn't survive.
At the bottom, he found it.
His earpiece.
He pressed it into his ear with shaking hands.
"Hello? Can anyone hear me?" he whispered.
A second of static.
Then: "This is Central Command. Identify."
"Subject... Noir. Captured. Afghanistan. I don't know the exact coordinates."
"Affirmative. Stay on channel. Do not engage. We are triangulating your position."
He heard footsteps down the hall.
Noir's eyes darted.
He turned off the earpiece. Closed the drawer. Stepped into a storage locker just as two soldiers entered the room.
They were laughing. Speaking in a foreign language.
One opened the very drawer Noir had just searched.
"Where's the comm unit?"
Noir's heart pounded in his throat. The smell of dust and old metal inside the locker choked him.
The other soldier stepped closer to the lockers. His hand reached out—
The door flew open.
Noir lunged.
He slammed the rifle's barrel into the first man's chin. Blood and teeth exploded in the dim light. The second soldier barely turned before Noir was behind him—blade drawn from the man's own belt—and with one fluid motion, he dragged it across his throat.
A cough. A whimper. Then silence.
Noir exhaled.
"Central," he whispered, switching the earpiece back on. "How long?"
"Eight minutes. Reinforcements inbound. Hold position. Avoid detection."
Too late.
The alarms began to wail.
---
The courtyard was swarming with men.
Spotlights swept across the sand like the judgment of God.
Noir didn't care.
He moved like a phantom through the base—taking shortcuts through tunnels, climbing vents, and disarming soldiers without mercy or words.
His shoulder was grazed by a bullet—but he didn't scream.
He didn't even flinch.
He kept moving.
---
Then he heard it.
The chopper.
It roared in from the night sky, slicing the darkness with its blades.
Ropes dropped.
Noir sprinted.
Bullets flew past him, slicing the air. One clipped his arm. Another grazed his cheek.
Still, he ran.
Special forces dropped down beside him, rifles barking in every direction. Someone grabbed his vest and pulled him up as the rope lifted.
Below him, the base burned.
Men screamed.
Smoke choked the stars.
---
In the chopper, silence.
One of the soldiers looked at him.
"You're just a kid…"
Noir didn't respond.
He stared out the window, blood drying on his skin.