Part 1 : 5 years ago
Five years ago.
The sound of footsteps echoed in the dark.
He stood in center of the warehouse, blood dripping down his side, breath shaking. Surrounded—five figures closing in, guns raised.
He was already bleeding, staggering, barely holding himself up.
Then—
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
Five shots.
Five bullets.
Five different shooters.
Each one found its mark.
He collapsed to his knees, blood pooling beneath him, warm against the cold concrete.
No words were spoken.
No one looked back.
They left him there—broken, bleeding, forgotten.
The rain started to fall through the broken skylight above, mixing with the blood, washing away everything but the pain.
He wasn't thinking of revenge.
He wasn't thinking of escape.
He was just thinking:
"So this is how it ends?"
But it didn't.
His body refused to die.
Hours passed. Maybe a day. Maybe more.
Then—
Footsteps. Soft. Careful.
A pair of hands rolled him over. He saw nothing but a silhouette against the stormlight—then darkness swallowed him whole.
When he opened his eyes, the ceiling was made of wood.
The light was soft, filtered through paper windows. Wind chimes danced in the breeze, and somewhere nearby, the faint smell of green tea drifted like memory.
Null blinked slowly, body stiff, ribs screaming. He tried to sit up, but a sharp pain snapped through his side.
"You're lucky you didn't die," a voice said. Calm. Low. Almost amused.
"But you should have."
The voice belonged to an old man sitting in the shadows, a tea cup in hand, eyes unreadable.
Null said nothing.
His throat burned. His limbs shook. He looked down—his body was wrapped in rough bandages, stitched up by a hand that wasn't trying to be gentle.
Then it all came crashing back.
—The look on her face when she told him, "I'm sorry."
—The encrypted files in her bag that he helped steal.
—The silent meeting in the warehouse.
—The raised guns.
—The disbelief in their eyes.
"You brought her into our house…"
"You chose her over us…"
"Traitor."
Null covered his face with both hands. The dam broke.
Silent tears ran down his cheeks. Not loud sobs—just broken breathing and wet shame.
He didn't cry when the bullets hit.
He didn't cry when they left him to die.
But now, in a stranger's house, smelling of tea and wind, he cried.
Not because of the pain.
But because they never believed him.
Because he still loved her.
Because part of him still hoped she did, too.
Null wiped his face and forced himself to look at the man in the shadows.
"Why?" he croaked. His voice was rough, barely human. "Why did you help me?"
The old man sipped his tea. Then placed the cup down, slow and deliberate.
"I saw a dying dog," he said flatly. "So I dragged it off the road."
Null blinked.
"That's it?"
"Would you prefer I say I saw potential? A warrior with fire in his eyes? A tragic soul with a destiny?"
He leaned forward, and for the first time, Null saw the face clearly—aged, sharp,carved by discipline not kindness. His long silver hair was tied back in a topknot, and the robe he wore was simple, stained with old ash and tea.
Japanese, maybe Chinese—it didn't matter. What mattered was the stillness around him. The way the wind and silence obeyed him.
"I saw trash that wasn't quite dead yet. That's all."
The words didn't sting. Not anymore. He'd been called worse.
Null lowered his head. "Then… what do you want from me?"
"Everything," the old man said. "You owe me your life. So now you work. You bleed. You carry wood, scrub floors, clean shit, and shut your mouth."
"Until?"
"Until I say you're not useless anymore."
Null nodded. No resistance. No fire.
"Good," the old man grunted, rising to his feet. "Then let's begin. Stand up."
Null tried. Pain tore through his torso. He grunted, fell back.
The old man watched him for a moment.
"Then crawl," he said. "You can start by cleaning your own blood off my floor."