"What the hell did I do wrong?" Alas muttered, his brows furrowed in frustration. "I literally did that to help out—what the fuck?!"
He couldn't stomach the fact that after stepping up to help, he was the one being painted as the villain.
"Well, I didn't ask for your damn help," Kenzii snapped back cold-bloodedly, leaving Alas gasping in utter disbelief.
"Both of you, drop it," Sota commanded, stepping between the two and placing his coffee mug onto the table to defuse the rising tension.
"Ha?! Just so you know, I didn't do that purely for you," Alas countered fiercely, washing his hands over his face in sheer aggravation. "I did it for our family, so don't act like I ruined your precious killer image."
Alas shook his head, taking a few steps back. "Kenzii, you shouldn't be losing your mind over something like this—especially when you know damn well that none of us had a choice to begin with." then he walked awayy.
Numb and exhausted, Kenzii closed his eyes, pressing his thumb and forefinger against his temples to dull the thumping ache.
Why can't he see it? Kenzii thought bitterly. He was only thinking about what was best for Alas. He didn't want his cousin to end up like him—trapped in a dark abyss where the act of taking a life slowly consumed a person's soul until nothing else remained.
Wasn't I enough as the designated killer of this family? Did Alas really have to drag his hands into the blood, too?
Grandfather... am I still not enough for you?
Kenzii's mind spiraled into a dark, suffocating rage aimed squarely at their grandfather, knowing full well the old man had orchestrated these circumstances. Just thinking about Don Hidalgo's manipulative hands made Kenzii's flesh crawl with fury.
"Hey!"
A violent shake to his shoulder shattered his trance. Sota was staring at him, his face pale, his eyes wide with genuine panic.
"Y-Yeah?" Kenzii blinked, forcing his breath to steady.
"You're losing control," Sota exhaled sharply, watching in relief as the pitch-black void consuming Kenzii's irises slowly came back to their normal shade.
Sota sat down on the long sofa, pulling Kenzii down beside him.
"Let me explain everything to you," Sota sighed heavily, his voice measured. "I need you to listen, and I need you to try to understand where he's coming from."
Sota began breaking down the reality of what had happened—how deeply anxious Alas had been for Kenzii on every single hit. Alas was terrified that the international task forces and any investigation crime would link the Soul Collector directly to the Monteriel family.
Because Sota had been present in Mexico for the corporate meeting days before Garza was killed, it presented a glaring risk. Sure, Sota officially boarded a flight back to the Philippines before the massacre went down, but the fact remained: a Monteriel executive hosts a private placement offering for investors, and days later, one of the high-profile attendees ends up slaughtered? It was a breadcrumb trail ripe for speculation and official investigation.
If theft or corporate rivalry were floated as motives, no one would suspect the Monteriel empire—they were far too wealthy to care about a drug lord's hidden cash. Also Monteriel is known for its cleanliness when it comes to business, they don't do illegal things. But Alas didn't hatch this scheme to fool external authorities; he designed it to throw off suspicions from within their own bloodline.
Ever since Alas discovered that a faction inside their family was actively plotting against Don Hidalgo—attempting to oust the throne and seize control of the corporate empire he had hardly built—he had been on edge. Alas might not possess Sota's tactical corporate genius, but when it came to protecting his cousins and his own closes blood, his instincts were sharp.
He knew that if the traitor succeeded in removing Don Hidalgo, Sota—the man he considered a true brother, who poured his life into the company—would be stripped of his power and cast aside. Alas refused to sit back and watch that happen.
The hidden traitor within the family knew Don Hidalgo would stop at nothing to retain absolute control. If any of his cousins, were linked to Garza's murder and the news reported that Garza died at the hands of the Soul Collector, the traitor would instantly deduce that Kenzii was the assassin deployed by Don Hidalgo to seize Garza's hidden fortune.
"That's why Alas forged a solution," Sota explained softly. "Before he presented his idea to Grandpa and me, he had already quietly investigated a target—a high-profile executive in Indonesia. He proposed replicating your signature method on that target to create a massive misdirection."
Sota looked Kenzii in the eye. "He did it so the traitors in our family would believe Garza's killer wasn't you, but merely a copycat mimicking the Soul Collector's signature hit."
Kenzii's breath hitched as memory clicked into place. He recalled what Sota had instructed him right before leaving Mexico.
"Make sure to make the hole in his chest bigger."
He had followed the order without questioning it at the time, but now the terrifying logic behind it became crystal clear.
"Yes," Sota confirmed with a nod as if he could read what was in his cousin's mind. "That's why I told you to deliberately enlarge the wound in Garza's chest. Everyone tracking the Soul Collector knows your operational signature: a precise, surgical chest entry, and you never, ever touch the victim's wealth or personal assets.
"Since Alas used to be part of the CIDG, he knew how law enforcement and forensic investigators think. Neither Crime Scene Investigation nor our internal family rivals would ever believe a single killer carried out two identical executions thousands of kilometers apart within the same 24-hour window."
Kenzii let out a heavy, solemn sigh. He had never imagined Alas—who, despite his law enforcement background, possessed a gentle, foolish heart—would go to such extreme lengths. In Kenzii's eyes, watching his cousin copy his gruesome murder method felt as though Alas's innocent nature had been corrupted.
"Alas did that for you, for Grandpa, and most importantly, for me," Sota said, his voice dropping as he glanced toward the closed door of the bedroom Alas had retreated into. "He knows how much I love this company and that Grandpa intends to pass the throne to me one day. He wasn't going to let anyone steal that away."
In that quiet moment, the weight of the truth settled over Kenzii. Just like himself, Alas valued family above his own.
.
A short while later, Kenzii stepped toward the desk where Alas was staring blankly at his laptop screen. Kenzii set a steaming mug of coffee beside the keyboard.
"Cuz," Kenzii called out softly.
Alas visibly flinched at the term. Kenzii almost never called him "cuz"—it was usually a term reserved for Alas's overly energetic greetings. Yet, Alas kept his eyes glued to his screen, pretending to remain unbothered.
"I know I was wrong. I shouldn't have let my emotions take over like that," Kenzii said, lowering his gaze to the floor. "I'm... I'm s-sorry."
Kenzii closed his eyes tightly as the words left his mouth. Apologizing was foreign to him. In his mind, he was already a damned soul—a killer whose hands were washed in blood. Making mistakes on top of that felt like a drop in the ocean, making apologies seem meaningless.
"I knew you couldn't stay mad at me for long," Alas suddenly smirked, turning around in his chair.
Before Kenzii could react, Alas lunged forward, throwing his arms around Kenzii in a dramatic, goofy bear hug.
"You idiot," Kenzii muttered under his breath. A small smile cracked through his stern expression as he feigned pushing his cousin off.
Sota secretly leaned against the doorframe, a genuine smile gracing his face.
No matter how dark the path ahead grew, the three of them stood together—unbreakable, bonded by blood and shared burdens.
INTERPOL Headquarters — Special Task Force Unit
Marcus stood beside a massive intelligence board, casually spinning a marker between his fingers.
Pinned to the corkboard were crime scene photos of the victims, a devil photo representing the "Soul Collector," and a shadowed silhouette marked with a bold question mark representing a potential second perpetrator.
Photos of the crime scenes in both Mexico and Indonesia were pinned side-by-side, linked by red string and detailed case notes. Yet, the evidence pointed in conflicting directions, leaving the entire team baffled.
"So what's your read on this mess?" Agent Raddin asked, rubbing his forehead. He looked as though he had aged five years just by thinking of the Soul Collector.
"According to historical dossier entries on the Soul Collector, he has never stolen a single item or cent from any target," Marcus pointed out, tapping the tip of his marker against the photo of Garza's burnt, open safe. "That directly contradicts what happened in Mexico. On top of that, the chest trauma on Garza was significantly wider and far more violent than any prior Soul Collector hit."
"Not entirely," Agent Kenna chimed in, leaning back in her swivel chair as she studied the board. "The Soul Collector has produced heavy chest hole before—take the female high-value target in Russia. He eliminated secondary guards during that breach, though that was a rare operational exception."
"Even so, it doesn't align," Marcus countered, turning to face her. "Unlike the Garza factory breach, the Soul Collector doesn't use heavy firearms or tactical blades to kill. He relies almost exclusively on his bare hands."
"You're not wrong," Kenna conceded, spinning her chair slightly. "Dozens of personnel at Garza's facility were wiped out by automatic rifle fire and edged weapons. Garza was the only victim who suffered chest extraction. But here's the crucial detail: the hit on the executive in Indonesia was officially confirmed via an encrypted release article by the Soul Collector. The Mexican hit on Garza? Not a single word."
"Did the Soul Collector release any manifesto or statement regarding Garza?" Raddin asked.
Kenna shook her head. "Nothing. But he also hasn't issued a denial. That means he doesn't care what the public or law enforcement think about the connection."
"Because his public profile is established: he collects the hearts of high-level criminals, doesn't harm non-combatant civilians, and never steals," Marcus explained. "With that reputation, he knows people will naturally assume Garza's death was either a copycat or a rival cartel doing. He has no reason to issue a statement to clarify anything."
"Are you suggesting we're dealing with a copycat?" Raddin asked, raising an eyebrow.
"It's a possibility," Kenna said, standing up. She took the marker from Marcus, uncapped it, and drew a thick red circle around the profile of the Soul Collector. "Or... it's not a copycat at all. There's another variable..."
Kenna paused, staring at the profile on the board.
"The Soul Collector, we all know that he has superhuman physical capabilities. Yes, is it entirely impossible for a normal person to cross thousands of kilometers in a fraction of the time. But he was not a normal person. With the nature of what we're dealing with, we can't rule anything out."
Silence fell over the room. Deep down, Kenna harbored another theory—a far darker possibility about who or what was truly pulling the strings behind the scenes. But without concrete evidence, she kept the thought locked away.