"You are... that boy," the Clown whispered, his voice barely holding together. His wrinkled fingers twitched against the table, knuckles white. "Mi... Mike."
Miles’s gaze hardened—cold, sharp, but patient.
"So you rember that na?"
The Clown’s eyes widened. Terror flickered beneath the surface. "I—I don’t understand... you were with the Graveyard? Is this... is this really a Graveyard base?"
Miles gave a quiet, humorless chuckle, and the sound alone made the old man flinch. He leaned slightly forward, resting his hands on the table. "It doesn’t matter what this place is, Clown. What matters is that you answer what I ask. Do you understand?"
The Clown swallowed, his dry throat audible in the silence. "Let hear the questions first."
Miles’s tone dropped an octave, his words slicing through the still air. "That day. The attack on the Graveyard base. Who did it?"
For a mont, the Clown didn’t speak. His mind flicked through faces, explosions, flas, and screams. The mory of that day was a scar he’d long tried to bury.
"I... I don’t..." His voice trembled. "I wasn’t involved in the attack."
Miles’s palm struck the table—a sharp, thunderous crack. The Clown jumped.
"You weren’t involved? I’m not asking what you did, Clown. I’m asking who was it."
The old man’s breathing grew ragged. His pulse raced. "It was—The WEB. They were from The WEB."
Miles’s expression didn’t move, but his eyes darkened—anger, quiet and suffocating. "Do you think I’m a fool, Clown? I already know it was The WEB. They’re rcenaries, people for hire. I’m asking you—who sent them?" His tone lowered, more dangerous now. "Don’t you want to retire peacefully?"
The Clown hesitated, sweat gathering on his forehead. His voice shook. "I don’t know everything..." He took a trembling breath. "But I’ll tell you what I know. You have to promise—don’t reveal that I told you this. And... let go afterwards."
Miles straightened slowly, eyes locked on him. "I have nothing to do with your life. You speak, and I’ll let you walk out."
The Clown’s lips quivered. "Your na?"
Miles’s eyes narrowed. "Hun?"
"Your na," the Clown said again, more quietly. "Tell what to call you."
A faint smirk ghosted across Miles’s lips. "My na is Mike."
The Clown scoffed faintly, exhaling through his nose. "Mike, of course. You won’t tell your real one."
Miles leaned back, unbothered. "Mike will do. Just talk, Clown. Don’t ask questions."
The Clown sighed, lifting the cup of cold coffee and sipping the last bitter drop. The tallic taste of it grounded him just enough. He set it down gently.
"Alright," he said hoarsely. "Listen."
He gathered the remnants of his breath before speaking, the words dragging up mories heavy with smoke and blood.
"That year..." His eyes drifted toward the wall, unfocused. "That year, Graveyard was a na everyone in the underworld feared. You people—operatives, assassins, ghosts—you cleaned cities, destroyed gangs, shut down trade networks. Every dirty empire shook at the ntion of you. Every cri lord I knew either paid with their life or prayed you never found them."
His voice lowered. "But there was one man who hated the Graveyard more than anyone alive. His na was Silas. People called him the Accountant."
Miles didn’t interrupt, though the faint movent of his jaw showed the na had aning.
The Clown continued, his tone turning more cautious, more burdened. "Silas was a genius—calculating, ruthless, a broker like , only colder. His clients weren’t politicians or small-ti smugglers. They were empires. He moved their money, their weapons, their blood trade. When Graveyard dismantled his network, it wasn’t just business that collapsed. His legacy did. Everything he built turned to dust overnight."
The Clown’s fingers trembled against the table. "He made a plan to erase the Graveyard itself from existence. To tear the shadow down with fire. And that’s when he contacted a group from Norway... The WEB."
Miles’s stare darkened.
"That was the first ti I heard their na," the Clown said, his voice turning distant. "They were small back then—not what they are now. But efficient. They didn’t operate for ideology. They worked for debt and blood. Silas offered them both. They carried out the assault. The WEB struck the Graveyard base like ghosts. Many of your people died before they could even sound the alarm."
Miles’s fingers drumd once against the table, a faint, controlled motion—the only sign of the storm brewing beneath his calm expression.
The Clown exhaled heavily. "After that... Silas disappeared. Went underground. And for years, no one—no one—could find him. Graveyard looked everywhere, every city, every alley, every trade route. Nothing. Like he’d vanished from the face of the earth."
He lifted his gaze to Miles, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Your old commander... he searched through every shadow. Until one day..."
The Clown hesitated. His throat bobbed. "While searching, the commander t soone. From what I heard, they were strangers at first. But that eting—whatever it was—it changed everything. I don’t know how they ca to the deal they made, or how the promises were exchanged..."
He trailed off, his voice breaking under the weight of mory. The bulb above buzzed faintly, its light flickering across his tired eyes.
"...but that’s when the Graveyard stopped hunting for Silas."
The silence that followed was heavy enough to press the air from the room.
Miles didn’t move. He just stared. The Clown could feel it—that quiet, suffocating rage that ca not from impulse but from control.
The old man swallowed hard, realizing he had said too much. His lips trembled as he tried to speak again, but no sound ca.
Miles leaned forward slightly, voice low and calm.
"Good," he said. "Now we’re getting sowhere."
The Clown’s breath hitched. He felt it—the change in the air. The quiet before the storm.
And deep in his bones, he knew: he had just unearthed sothing that should’ve stayed buried.
"They stopped hunting for Silas," the Clown continued, his voice shaking just slightly, "because the deal the old commander made... it would bring Silas to Graveyard automatically."
Miles didn’t move, but his stare sharpened — like a blade being slowly drawn. "And that’s where you ca into the picture."
The old man exhaled, nodding once. "Yes. I was invited by that man — the one the commander t. I didn’t see his face, not clearly... but I know he wasn’t soone ordinary. He had power, the kind that bends people like without raising his voice."
Miles’s fingers tapped against the tal table — once, twice — then stopped.
"Bends people like you," he repeated quietly. "You an he bent the WEB too."
The Clown hesitated. "...Yes. He forced the WEB to make a deal. I was only the diator."
Miles’s eyes didn’t blink. "Why?"
The Clown frowned. "I had to?"
Miles’s voice lowered, a cold calm wrapping each word. "Why would Graveyard make a deal like that with the WEB? And why would the WEB agree to it?"
The old man’s lips quivered. "Like I told you... it was because of that man."
Miles’s tone turned sharper. "That man, that man — who the hell was that man?"
The Clown’s breathing quickened. He glanced down, eyes flicking to the coffee cup as though it might protect him. "I don’t know much about him... but I wrote both of the deals."
Miles’s eyes narrowed slightly. "Both?"
The Clown nodded. "Yes. The first deal was between that man and your old commander."
"And the second?"
"The second one was between Graveyard and the WEB."
Miles’s voice was steady now, too steady. "Elaborate."
The Clown swallowed hard, and his fingers began to tremble. "The man said... he would convince the WEB to give Graveyard the culprit behind the attack. That was the first half. The second deal stated that the WEB would hand over Silas — the Accountant — to Graveyard... but in return, Graveyard would stop hunting the WEB."
Miles leaned back, silent. His jaw tightened slightly.
"So that’s why," he said finally, his tone low. "That’s why the commander said the n responsible were ’completely eliminated.’ Because the WEB gave them to him."
The Clown nodded slowly. "Yes. And as for Silas... from what I know, your old commander made him suffer. He gave him the most painful death imaginable."
Miles’s gaze fell to the floor for a mont. His expression didn’t change, but sothing dark rippled through his silence — sothing old, buried deep.
"So he died," he murmured.
The Clown nodded again. "He did. Which ans, boy, there’s no reason for you to still be chasing ghosts. The revenge was taken long ago."
Miles exhaled, the sound heavy in the quiet room.
The Clown straightened slightly, sensing the shift. "I answered your questions. You said I could leave... let go now."
Miles looked up at him — calm, detached. "You’re forgetting sothing."
The Clown froze. "What... what do you an?"
Miles stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You said you wrote both of the deals."
"Yes," the Clown stamred.
Miles’s stare locked onto him. "Then tell . What were the conditions of the first deal? What did that man ask from the old commander?"
The Clown hesitated, searching his mory. "That was the part that always... puzzled ." He rubbed his temples. "It wasn’t about money, or weapons, or power. It was sothing small. Sothing personal."
Miles waited. The air between them grew heavy.
"It was sothing related to... taking care of a child."
Miles’s eyes lifted sharply. "A child?"
"Yes," the Clown said, his brow furrowing as he tried to recall. "Graveyard used to take in orphans, didn’t they? Kids from the war zones, from missions. The man said the commander should ’take care of the child until he grows up.’ I don’t rember the details — only that it was written clearly."
Miles’s voice dropped, quieter now. "What was his na?"
The Clown pressed his hand to his head, thinking hard. "Wait... I rember. Yes."
He looked up, and his next words struck like thunder.
"The na of that boy was Kai. I wrote it myself."
The world froze.
Miles didn’t move, but the silence that followed was deafening. His pulse echoed faintly in his ears. The fluorescent light above flickered once, briefly catching the distant shadow in his eyes.
"...Did you say Kai?"
"Yes," the Clown said, tilting his head slightly, confused by Miles’s reaction. "You seem familiar with the na."
Miles’s voice was barely audible. "What did you write? The exact words."
"The deal was simple," the Clown replied. "Graveyard would take care of the boy — Kai — until he grew up. That was all. No ntion of what happened after. No ntion of who he was."
Miles’s expression didn’t change, but inside, sothing shifted — a tremor behind his calm. Kai.
That was one of the many nas he had been given inside Graveyard. But only one person had ever called him that with warmth. And she had died in the attack.
The room suddenly felt colder.
The Clown didn’t notice the change in Miles’s eyes. He kept talking. "That’s all I know. Nothing else."
Miles took a slow step back. The mories were crashing — a blur of blood, a child’s voice echoing in the burning base, a na whispered like a prayer.
There were too many questions now. Too many missing pieces.
He turned toward the door, hand on the handle, and paused. His voice was calm again, distant.
"You may go."
The door opened, flooding the dark room with pale corridor light.
The Clown’s hands trembled, disbelief flashing across his face. "You’re... letting go?"
Miles didn’t answer. He just walked away, the echo of his footsteps fading into the silence — leaving the old man alone with his relief... and a fear he couldn’t explain.
Because as the door shut behind Miles, that flickering light buzzed again — and for a mont, in the reflection of the one-way glass, the Clown could swear he saw the faintest trace of a scar across Miles’s chest... the mark of a Grim Reaper.
To be continued.
[A/N : It’s my birthday today! I’m genuinely happy and wanted to thank you all for your continued support.]
User Comments
0 comments from readers