Cross stands at the head of the table, his eyes glinting with a mischievous smirk as he scans the room. The air is heavy with anticipation and the lingering scent of aging wood and coffee.

"Look at these two," he begins, jabbing a finger toward Ike and Boon-Nam. "Why couldn't they just... introduce themselves like everyone else? Like our dear Asian friends here? But no, we get Suhal storming in, taking down 2k men, and Prudenzio here charming half the female guards."

Ike and Boon-Nam remain silent, their expressions unreadable. The room is a mix of tension and amusement.

"I'm just curious, is that bad?" Prudenzio leans back, arms splayed wide. A lazy grin spreads across his face as he winks at Suhal. "Our Sudanese brother here took it to another level. 2k men? That's not a fight, folks. That's a phenomenon."

"Phenomenon? More like pathetic," Suhal interjects, tracing a scar on the table. "I thought the guards were fellow assassins. It's sad how low the standards have dropped since the old headmaster took over. They went down like tissue paper."

Cross gives a cold smile, his eyes narrowing. "Speaking of standards, I heard your pockets did pretty well."

Suhal starts to respond but stops, causing Cross to chuckle. "That's what I thought."

Turning to Ike and Boon-Nam, Cross's expression is stern and calculating. "Now, let's move on. Martial Arts Specialist and Stealth Expert—the new recruits. Don't kill each other or anyone else before orientation's over."

Boon-Nam's giggle fills the room, surprising everyone. "Oh, I hardly think that will be a problem, Keuroseu-nim." She glances at Ike, who nods subtly.

Cross looks at Boon-Nam, confusion flashing across his face. "Keuroseu-nim? Korean? I don't speak Korean."

Boon-Nam looks taken aback, shock evident. "You... You don't speak Korean? I assumed you were trained in all sorts of languages, like us."

Cross shrugs, his tone matter-of-fact. "No, I'm American. I only speak English, Latin, and a bit of Spanish."

Boon-Nam's shock turns into a warm smile. "Oh, sorry for assuming. I'll call you Cross from now on."

Cross nods, a hint of a smirk returning to his face. "Fair enough. But don't let the friendly introductions fool you. This place can get rough, and I'll be keeping an eye on you both."

Byron clears his throat, and everyone turns to him—a small interruption in the tense room. "We need to focus." His voice is steady and commanding. "We need a new approach for training our young assassins."

Byron slides a file across the table. Inside are old training manuals, their pages yellowed and ink faded, clearly showing their age.

"I've seen these manuals," Byron says, tapping the document. "They've been around for ages, but things are shifting. Gen Z isn't into the whole strict rules and tough love thing. It's time for an upgrade."

Elara's voice cuts through the air like a blade. "No, we can't really make it softer. This approach was specifically designed to filter out anyone who isn't tough enough. Our S-class assassins are seriously strong and highly disciplined. If we change that, we might jeopardize the core of how we train them."

There's a pause. Byron looks to Prudenzio, who nods somberly. "Remember how we all took that leap of faith? A lot of great assassins probably bit the dust, not because they couldn't adapt, but because they just followed orders. I'm all for change, but let's not sacrifice our kids in the process."

The room falls into a tense silence, the weight of history pressing against the promise of change.

Things got really quiet. All you could hear was the AC. Everyone in the room looked like they were reliving something traumatic: a last scream, the sound of a crash. Then Byron spoke up, breaking the silence. “Exactly. We rebuild. We keep the steel but lose the cruelty. Loyalty isn’t forged in fear; it’s earned with respect.”

“Then let’s vote. Raise a hand to change our ways.” Byron scanned the room. Hands shot up: Suhal, Prudenzio, Ike, Boon-Nam. Elara's hand remained on the table, her knuckles white. Cross hesitated a moment, then raised his hand. Six to one. Byron gave a quick nod. “It’s settled. We write new rules.”

“Still a mistake,” Elara grumbled, arms crossed. She glared at the tabletop, jaw clenched. “Soft hearts make soft killers. That’s the law of this world.”

Cross’s voice was calm but firm. “I respect your view. But the vote stands.” He pushed his chair back, the legs scraping against the wooden floor. “We start now. New protocols, new assessments. No more cliffs.” He looked at Elara, but she wouldn’t meet his gaze. Her lips were a thin line of anger.

“So…” Cross pulled out a thick file. “I’ve been planning a new way to train this generation.” He paused, scanning the room. “A new regimen, incorporating education and assassin training. The difficulty will increase with their age, and there’s something new as well.” He tapped the file. “We’re adding specialized tracks: combat, espionage, and tech infiltration. Each child will find their path early on. No more forcing square pegs into round holes. We will play to their strengths.”

He passed the file around. Pages rustled as they revealed diagrams and timelines. “Training starts at age four. They wake up at 5 a.m. and go to bed at 9 p.m. The schedule is packed with combat drills, academics, and specialized modules.” He pointed to a chart outlining the steps. At six, they learn simple evasion; by twelve, they engage in tactical simulations.

“Wait,” Byron said, pointing at the high school section. “College-level education at sixteen? How?” He looked at Cross, puzzled. “How do we prepare them for college by then?”

Cross replied without hesitation. “Most countries have high schools that mimic college life. The graduation rates are low, only 28%, because it’s challenging. But they will be assassins. They must manage tough tasks, both in and out of combat.”

Byron’s fingers tightened on the file. "Why give them a higher chance to fail? Why not just use regular American schools?"

Cross leaned forward, his palms pressed flat against the table. "Because normal gets them killed." His voice was low and firm. "We aren't raising mindless tools. We are forging weapons that can think."

A heavy silence fell. The room grew still. The weight of his words felt like shrapnel. Rain began to tap against the window, a soft sound against the quiet tension.

Boon-Nam's eyes moved over the curriculum. She traced her finger down the list: chemical espionage, digital warfare, acoustic assassination. A genuine smile touched her lips. "Mr. Cross, your new plan is amazing. It honors their talents instead of breaking them."

Byron's eyes narrowed as he flipped through the thick binder. "This system seems solid. I didn't think you had it in you." His finger tapped the section for psychological tests. "But what about the kids who can't handle the pressure? We aren't equipped for therapy here?"

"First off, fuck you," Cross retorted, ignoring Byron's snort. "I'm smart even though I didn’t have a formal education." He flipped to the appendix, which was full of psychological rules. "Second, if they can't handle a combat role, they don't have to be in one. It's simple. Plus, we can get therapists." He tapped a flowchart. "Burnouts become analysts, tech specialists, or handlers. We lose nothing. We waste nothing. Right?"

Ike finally spoke. "What about Leo? He seems more developed than the other kids." He pointed at the file, at the section about early childhood. "He's already reading at a tenth-grade level. How do we challenge him?" The question hung in the air. Everyone knew Leo was different. He was a genetic mystery.

"He's exempt from most of it," Cross said. "He'll stay in Victoire’s care until I decide what to do. But you, Elara, and Byron will train him a little, but only at Victoire's discretion." He looked at the security monitor. It showed Leo stacking blocks with perfect precision. Each move was flawless. Too flawless, Cross thought. Like a machine pretending to be human.

He continued, "He will join group sessions when he is ready. He's technically the first autistic person we're training. So we must ensure he's okay."

Boon-Nam giggled. "Aww. He’s so cute!" she said, smiling. "He looks like a little scientist." Leo was stacking blocks while Victoire taught him math. "He is pretty cute," Cross said with a smile. "But we have to get back to the meeting."

"Did he pass the formal inspection?" Suhal asked, leaning back with a smirk. His eyes went to the monitor. Leo was scribbling some complex math on a whiteboard. "All babies must go to the Gerousia to see if they can be trained."

"The Gerousia is not needed," Byron snapped. His knuckles turned white on the table. "He is fine. Plus, Cross is a Gerousia since he’s older." Suhal’s smirk faded. He leaned forward. "He isn't DNA-tested. We don't even know if he has a previous member in his lineage. You know the rules. Even bastards get inspected. Or are we bending those now?" The air thickened with old anger.

"Not bending. Just waiting," Cross said, feeling nervous. I can't hide what he is if I do this. His knuckles whitened on the scarred wood. The monitor flickered. Leo stacked blocks into a perfect Fibonacci spiral. Victoire beamed. "Fine. If the rules demand it, we will schedule the inspection. Next week."

Lara’s voice was tight. She glared at Suhal. "It isn't needed," she said, her knuckles white against the file. "The child is already proven. Why risk the Gerousia’s old ways?"

Cross's jaw tightened. The inspection would expose everything: the tank, my lies, Project ÜBERMENSCH. He forced his voice to stay steady. “Protocol is protocol. We will get him ready.” Outside, rain hit the windows hard, matching the tension in the room. Byron caught Cross’s eye, and a silent warning passed between them.

After the meeting, Byron stormed into Cross's office. "Are you fucking nuts?! Why the hell would you agree to that?!" Byron slammed his palms on the desk, rattling the monitor. "The Gerousia will find out how much of a monster he is. Literally. They'll see the five different DNAs in him, the bone density—"

"I know, goddammit! But what else was I supposed to do?! If I said no, it would make me look incredibly suspicious, especially after Elara backed me." Cross paced behind his desk, fingers raking through his hair. Rain streaked the office windows like claw marks. "Suhal's already sniffing around. One wrong move and he’ll tear this whole thing open."

Byron took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Well... We have a week to even try to bullshit our way out of this, so there's that."

Cross stopped pacing and turned to the window. "A week isn't enough time to hide what he is. Not from them." His voice was low, laced with frustration. "They’ll tear him apart, Byron. Not just physically. They’ll dismantle him piece by piece, psychologically. And then what? We lose everything we've worked for. Everything Victoire's done for him."

Byron ran a hand through his hair, his earlier anger giving way to weary resignation. "So what's the plan, Cross? Because 'bullshit' is about all I've got left in the tank right now."

Cross let out a heavy sigh, his gaze fixed on the security monitor. Victoire was teaching Leo a new card game, and the boy, unburdened by the world's looming shadows, was actually smiling—a genuine, unrestrained display of childlike joy. It tightened a knot in Cross's stomach.

"We didn't ask for this life, did we?" Cross murmured, almost to himself, his voice raw with a rare vulnerability. "We were born into it, or in my case, given to it. We’re needed; I know that. But at the same time, should we really force this life on a hundred children? A hundred little souls who don’t even know what's waiting for them?"

Byron walked over, stopping beside Cross. "What we do, it’s a dirty job. Killing good people, bad people, all to maintain this fragile 'peace' we live in. If we don’t do it… well, we might have already nuked each other into extinction."

Byron then looked at Leo on the screen, a quiet intensity in his gaze. "We all hate our job," he said, his voice a low, heavy rumble. "Every last one of us wishes we could just walk away, live some normal life. But the problem, Cross, is if we don't do it... who will? Who will make sure it's done right? Who will protect the balance when no one else even knows it exists?"

Cross finally turned from the window, his eyes meeting Byron’s. "That’s the question that keeps me up at night, Byron. Who will, and at what cost?"

Byron scoffed, running a hand through his hair. "One hundred little human souls, destined for this… this life. We weren't raised to be religious, were we? 'Religion is a way to control the public,' they always said." He strolled over to Cross's desk and sat on the edge, letting out a tired sigh. "But I chose to be a Christian. And I believe He would forgive me for what I have to do, as long as I pray to Him every day… At least, that's what I tell myself."

Cross let out a short, hollow chuckle. "Funny, I never quite bought into it myself. But… if it makes taking a life just a little easier, then maybe there's something to it."

"So does that make life more or less precious to you? After all, you did create one, didn’t you?" Byron said, clearly poking holes in Cross’s ideals.

Cross remained silent, his gaze fixed on the laughing boy on the screen.

"Guess you don’t know, huh?" Byron prodded, his voice softening, a hint of genuine curiosity replacing the earlier sarcasm.

"Alright, aside from all that, I need to talk to Victoire about the meeting," Cross said, finally settling into his desk chair. "You go make sure the new instructors have decent rooms. I’ve still got more paperwork to do."

Byron got up and started for the door, but then a low chuckle rumbled from his chest. Cross looked up, confused. "What’s so funny?"

"It’s been fifteen minutes, and we haven’t tried to kill each other," Byron said, turning back with a smirk. "That’s new for us."

Cross’s eyes widened, then a surprised laugh burst from him. "Ha! Look at us, getting all mature."

Cross’s laughter faded quickly, and he returned to reality, feeling the weight of it all. He heard Byron close the door and then his heavy footsteps fade down the hall. The office went quiet, just the hum of the AC and the rain tapping on the window.

He glanced back at the security monitor, where Leo was still engrossed in his game with Victoire. The kid's clear, happy laughter came through the speakers, a stark contrast to the turmoil in Cross's head. A tight feeling in his chest worsened—it had been there for almost twenty years, ever since this whole thing kicked off.

He sighed and leaned back, the leather chair groaning. His office essentially screamed, "This is my life's work!"—walls covered in old mission reports, a desk scarred from years of use, and dusty trophies from past wins. It was his space, his legacy. But as he looked at the photos of the kids—all those bright, hopeful faces smiling from the frames—he felt a deep weariness.

If I were a religious man, he thought bitterly, I’d probably be headed straight to hell.

He'd always told himself the messy stuff was just part of the job, that it was all for a bigger purpose. But Leo? Leo was a whole different story. Not just another guy in the Fraternity, he was something else—a wild mix of amazing and terrifying. And Cross, well, Cross was behind it all.

The rain outside really started coming down, with the wind rattling the window panes. He walked over to the window and leaned his forehead against the cool glass. The storm, he thought, felt a lot like the mess he was in—just a total whirlwind of chaos and the fallout from it, all hitting at once.

Man, I never signed up for this, you know? None of us did. But hey, here we are.

He drummed his fingers on the glass, a restless beat mirroring his swirling thoughts. His reflection stared back—hollow eyes, a face etched with tough decisions, a jaw set in grim resolve.

No point dwelling on it, he told himself. Byron’s right. If we don’t do it, who will?

But the question kept nagging him, like a rat in the walls.

Laughter from the monitor broke through his gloom, a stark contrast to his serious thoughts. He turned back to the screen, watching Victoire high-five Leo after winning their card game. Something in Cross’s chest twitched—a feeling he couldn't quite place, but it felt a lot like regret.

He looked up at the ceiling, at the shadows lurking in the dark corners.

If there's a heaven, he thought, it's probably more mercy than we deserve. Hell, on the other hand… that feels like an old friend.

But the thought no longer brought him any satisfaction. As he switched off the monitor and the room fell silent again, he made his choice. For better or worse, he’d play the hand he’d been dealt.

Even if it felt like cheating.