Zawisza pressed his back firmly against the cold wall, eyes scanning the cracked plaster as the footsteps outside gradually faded into silence. His voice dropped to a hushed urgency, barely above a whisper, yet heavy with unspoken menace.

  “That shot... They’re trying to execute you, Janssen. This isn’t just about pinning a murder on a junior detective—they want you dead before you can clear your name.”

  Janssen's eyes widened, panic sharpening his features.

  “And you?”

  Zawisza’s gaze darkened, his tone heavy with the weight of his own burden.

  “Me too. And a Japanese man, a scientist. We’re all suspects in a string of murders they want to pin on us.”

  Janssen's breath caught. His voice trembled as he spoke, recalling the fragments of a memory.

  “Japanese? I remember—before I was framed—a detective from Poland came into the office. She was talking about an Asian man... that he killed someone.”

  Zawisza’s eyes narrowed, recognition flashing.

  “He's on Poland's radar....”

  "He is the man who is coming later?" Janssen asks, his voice trembling.

  Zawisza nodded grimly.

  "That man… is Dr. Kazou Kuroda. He’s wanted all over Poland. But it’s a lie. He was framed.”

  Janssen swallowed hard, the pieces settling uneasily in his mind as the deadly game closed tighter around them both.

  The room seemed to shrink around them, the silence growing heavy with the invisible threat closing in. Janssen swallowed hard, his mind racing to piece together the truth buried beneath the lies.

  “They’re hunting all of us,” Zawisza said quietly, voice steady despite the chaos outside. “And if we don’t act fast… we won’t be around to prove our innocence.”

  Janssen nodded, the terror mingling with resolve.

  “Then we fight. We don’t let them win.”

  BANG!

  Suddenly, a sharp crack echoed, and a bullet erupted from the floorboards beneath them. Janssen's cry of pain shattered the silence as the bullet tore into his leg. He collapsed, clutching the wound, face contorted with agony.

  “AHH—!” Janssen gasped, falling hard to the ground, eyes bewildered, fresh blood seeping between his fingers.

  Zawisza’s breath caught. Instinct kicking in, he yanked the heavy table nearby, flipping it with a grunt. The wooden surface slammed down between them and the door, acting as a desperate shield.

  “Behind me, Janssen!” Zawisza barked, his voice sharp and commanding despite the chaos.

  Janssen groaned, pain twisting his features.

  “It hurts… damn it…”

  Zawisza’s mind raced, panic clawing at his throat. He didn’t know what to do—no tourniquet, no medical kit within reach.

  “You’re going to be fine,” Zawisza muttered to himself, fighting the surge of helplessness.

  With a low growl, Zawisza raised his pistol, aiming it through the small crack beneath the door.

  “Come on…” he whispered, voice thick with anger and desperation.

  Every second felt like an eternity as the silence outside weighed heavily, broken only by Janssen's ragged breaths and the faint drip of blood pooling beneath him.

  Another sudden crack shattered the fragile silence, and a bullet tore into Janssen's back with brutal precision. He screamed—a raw, gut-wrenching cry—as he crumpled further to the floor, clutching both his back and his wounded leg.

  “I—I don’t want to die!” Janssen sobbed, tears streaming down his face, voice trembling with terror and pain.

  Zawisza’s jaw clenched tight, fury and desperation flooding through him. He leaned closer to Janssen, his voice low but fierce, cutting through the chaos.

  “Detective Janssen, listen to me—snap out of it!” Zawisza barked, grabbing his friend’s shaking shoulders. “You’re not going to die here. Not like this. Not today!” His eyes burned with a fierce determination, refusing to let despair take hold. “You’re going to live. You have to. Stay with me, damn it!”

  Another sharp crack echoed, and a bullet slammed into Janssen's shoulder with sickening force. The man’s body convulsed, then collapsed onto his back, his face contorted in agony. Tears streamed freely as he dug his nails into the rough floor, gripping it like a lifeline.

  "SHITTT!!!!" Zawisza yelled.

  Janssen's sobs filled the room—raw, helpless, desperate.

  Zawisza’s fists clenched so tightly his knuckles whitened. The fury inside him roared to the surface, the cold calm of the man he usually was slipping away. In its place, something darker stirred—his alter ego rising like a shadow from the depths.

  His voice dropped low, edged with icy menace.

  “No more!” he growled, eyes narrowing with deadly intent. “You think you can come in here and pick us off like prey? Not on my watch.”

  The calm, weary man was gone now, replaced by something fierce, unyielding—an avenging storm ready to strike back.

  The heavy wooden door splintered under the force of the police battering ram. It crashed open with a violent bang, sending shards of wood scattering across the floor.

  Zawisza’s eyes snapped open, sharp and icy. He spun on his heel, gun raised in a fluid, practiced motion. His voice thundered through the room, low and commanding:

  “Stop right there! Don’t move!”

  The sudden tension filled the air like a thick fog. Zawisza’s finger hovered on the trigger, muscles taut with fury and desperate resolve. Every ounce of him was a wall—unyielding, dangerous, ready to defend what little was left.

  Zawisza’s eyes flicked to a small, cylindrical object tucked deep in his coat pocket. Without hesitation, he yanked it free, a tear gas canister, compact but dangerous.

  With a quick, practiced motion, he hurled it toward the doorway just as the officers surged forward. The canister bounced on the floor, releasing a thick, white cloud that billowed instantly, filling the cramped room.

  Bam!

  Coughs erupted from all sides, Zawisza himself barely stifled a hacking fit, and Janssen's body convulsed as tears streamed down his face. The officers staggered back, hands over their mouths, eyes watering fiercely.

  The chaos gave Zawisza the precious seconds he needed, his grip tightening on the gun as he dragged Janssen behind an overturned table, shielding him as the oppressive cloud choked the room.

  The tear gas spread like a living fog, thick and acrid, curling around the doorframe and swallowing the room in a blinding white veil. The shrieks and coughs of the intruding officers rang out as they stumbled backward, some slipping, others wheezing as they clutched their faces and weapons, blindly retreating into the hallway. Chaos reigned.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Zawisza coughed hard, eyes tearing up, but he kept one hand tightly around Janssen's arm, the other locked on his pistol. The young detective was shaking violently beneath him, struggling for breath through the haze, blood smeared across his shirt and pooling under him.

  “Stay down, dammit,” Zawisza growled, dragging Janssen further behind the desk as bullets pinged off walls and floor tiles, wild and panicked. “You’re still breathing. That means we’re not done yet.”

  “I… I can’t… I can’t move my leg…” Janssen gasped, voice hoarse and full of pain. He clutched at his shoulder where the fresh wound bled freely, and his whole body trembled like a wire about to snap. “Mr. Zawisza, I— I’m not ready to die—”

  “You’re not going to,” Zawisza cut in, sharply, his voice a ragged whisper through the smoke. His eyes, bloodshot and watering, were still cold with focus. “You hear me?! You’re not dying today. You're going to live long enough to clear your name. I won’t let them bury a innocent man!”

  Another bullet cracked through the doorway, splintering the wood inches above Zawisza’s head. He flinched but didn’t lower his aim.

  The coughing from the corridor grew louder, more desperate.

  The tear gas was working. He had maybe a minute. Maybe less.

  Through the sting of his tears, Zawisza looked down at Janssen, young, terrified, in pain. Blood oozed from the leg wound, soaking his pants and trailing toward the desk’s edge. His shoulder was worse; he was fading fast.

  Zawisza pressed his free hand over the shoulder wound, earning a fresh scream from Janssen.

  "YAGHHHHHHH!!!!!!"

  “I know it hurts. I know. But if you pass out, you’re done. You understand?” Zawisza's voice cracked, gruff with urgency and something softer—fear. “You stay awake. Think of something. Anything. Think about the truth. Think about the girl you liked. Think about how furious you’re going to be when you survive and take your badge back.”

  Janssen whimpered but nodded weakly. His hand gripped Zawisza’s forearm like a drowning man clinging to driftwood.

  Then—

  BANG! Another shot hit the wall beside the two.

  Zawisza’s expression shifted.

  Something inside him stilled.

  He felt it again.

  That switch.

  The one he hadn’t felt since the YK Serials.

  That strange, quiet click.

  He inhaled slowly through his nose, the sting of gas burning deep in his lungs—and smiled.

  Not with warmth. But with the chilling calm of a man who was no longer afraid.

  He stood. Calm. Precise. Unafraid.

  The laughter bubbled out of him, hoarse and breathless, but unmistakable.

  Janssen looked up at him, confused, frightened.

  “Sir…?”

  But the man standing over him wasn’t quite the same.

  “I told you to stay down, didn’t I?” Zawisza muttered with a crooked grin, brushing ash and dust from his shirt. His hand didn’t tremble as it regripped the pistol. “Time to teach these bastards some manners.”

  And then he moved—calm, focused, cutting through the gas like a phantom, toward the officers.

  ***

  A dark room. A child strapped into a chair. Pale. Wide-eyed. Flinching. Eyes forced open with surgical tape, hands bound. A projector whirring.

  A grainy screen. A black-and-white cartoon playing on a loop. Laughter. Music. Over and over and over.

  “Watch it again, Zawisza.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Remember Zawisza. You are a soldier. Remember Mrs. Vos’s book?”

  “Yes”

  “Can you be that?”

  “No.”

  What if I told you, Zawisza? What if humans can become anything?”

  The projector hums behind him, casting a glowing image on the wall—a cheerful cartoon soldier with round eyes and a painted-on smile marching stiffly across a battlefield. The character salutes after every action. Righteous. Unfeeling. Controlled.

  A voice-over, a speaker clicks on:

  “Again.”

  The reel restarts. The child stares. His fingers dig into the arms of the chair. His lips twitch.

  “You are Sergeant Valor.”

  “Sergeant Valor does not cry.”

  “Sergeant Valor does not question.”

  “Sergeant Valor stands up, no matter how many times he is shot.”

  The cartoon repeats. And repeats. And repeats.

  “I’m always ready. I never feel pain. I stand up, and I move on.”

  The screen flickers white.

  ***

  The tear gas still lingers in curling white ribbons, mixing with the stench of gunpowder, sweat, and blood. The floor is scattered with brass shell casings, overturned chairs, broken picture frames—and bodies. Two officers groan near the hallway, another lies deathly still by the threshold, his gun arm outstretched. A blood trail smears across the wooden floor.

  And in the middle of it all stands Wolfgang Zawisza, no longer the gentle, laughing man who made small talk at the cafe.

  His shirt is soaked in red. Splattered. Tattered. His hands drip with blood—barely his own. The veins in his neck bulge, his hair matted with sweat and soot.

  He stands like a statue. Still. Breathing hard, but calm.

  At his feet: the smoking aftermath of chaos.

  His eyes shift slowly—unnaturally slowly—toward the couch, where he had put down, Detective Janssen. He was clutching his bleeding shoulder and thigh. Pale. Shaking. Tears were still drying on his cheeks.

  Zawisza looks at him—truly looks—and then begins to smile. Not with cruelty. Not even with triumph. But with the strange, childlike calm of a man waking up from a dream.

  He crouches beside Janssen.

  And whispers, almost to himself:

  "Sergeant... you did it again..."

  He lifts his hands before his face, fingers trembling, covered in crimson. His smile doesn’t fade. If anything, it grows softer. Warmer. Like he’s greeting an old friend.

  The gas has begun to clear now, revealing the rest of the destruction. A wall peppered with holes. Curtains smoldering from a stray flashbang.

  Zawisza doesn’t seem to notice any of it. He sits there, cross-legged beside Janssen like a child at recess, still smiling, still whispering.

  "You saved him, didn’t you? Just like you used to." His voice is light, wistful. "Good old Sergeant… Always knew how to clear a room."

  A creak from the hallway. The quiet sound of footsteps.

  Zawisza lifts his head.

  And sees him.

  Dr. Kazou Kuroda, standing in the ruined doorway. His dark coat flaps faintly in the draft. His face is pale with shock. Hands shaking.

  But now, he is frozen.

  His dark eyes locked on Zawisza.

  On the blood.

  On the bodies.

  On the smile.

  The two men stare at each other.

  For a moment, the world is silent.

  A single heartbeat.

  Zawisza’s smile fades—not from guilt, but from recognition. Recognition of the horror on Kazou’s face.

  "Ah..." He tilts his head, blinking as if waking from a fog. "I had forgotten that you were coming tonight, Kuroda." He tries to laugh. It’s weak. Sad. "I—must look awful."

  Kazou doesn’t move. He doesn’t blink.

  Zawisza looks down again. At the blood. At the broken body behind him. At his own shaking hands.

  Then, softer—almost tender:

  "It was him again. I tried to keep him asleep."

  His fingers tighten over his own wrists. Like he’s trying to hold them still. Trying to keep them from rising again.

  Kazou finally speaks.

  "Mr. Zawisza..." His voice is low, heartbroken. "What did you do?"

  Zawisza meets his gaze.

  And this time, there is no smile.

  Only a flicker of something ancient. Something wounded.

  "He kept him safe..." he says, glancing at Janssen. Then, softer—cracked like glass, "Sergeant Valor decided to protect us."

  Kazou steps forward slowly, past the blood, past the bodies, toward the man sitting in the center of it all.

  Light rain begins to fall, tapping softly on the broken glass of the windows—like the ticking of a clock, counting down something that can no longer be stopped.

  "Who? Who is Sergeant Valor?" Kazou asked, his voice laced with concern.

  "Ah. Kuroda, I remember now. The dark room... You asked me what I meant by ‘helping my peers escape that place,’ I remember now.”

  "Remember?" Kazou repeated gently.

  “Vast. Cold. Not like a room, more like an endless hall with no walls. We were running. So many of us. Bare feet slapping the ground, breath shaking.” His voice softened. “We were running toward a bright door. A real door, light pouring from it like daylight. As if it were the gates to heaven. I told you that part, but I remember what happened before it. I was a child in an experiment. I was a clone. I was subjected to psychological experiences... And then... Another half of me arose... Sergeant Valor."

  Kazou’s stomach dropped.

  "H-hold on, we have to get this man to the hospital!" Kazou growled, kneeling against Janssen.

  "Right." Zawisza noded.