Chapter 12: Hardships

Part 16 – Ink and Shadows

(Sometimes the most dangerous truths are whispered in ink. Not spoken aloud, not shouted in battle—but confessed only to ourselves.)

Interior – Shadow League Quarters – Tom’s Room – Late Night

The base was silent.

No footsteps.

No clashing steel.

Just the slow scratch of a pen on paper.

Tom sat at a small metal desk, a dim lamp casting a golden glow across his weathered journal. He held the pen like a weapon—carefully, deliberately—like each word mattered.

He turned a fresh page.

At the top, in steady block letters, he wrote:

Ø  THE HARDSHIPS

He underlined it twice.

Then began listing them, slowly, thinking back on every word Tammy had spoken that day.

Ø  1. Silence Before Storm.

Speak only when the moment demands. Noise is panic. Silence is control.

Ø  2. Never Show Pain.

Pain is not weakness. Showing it is. Bleed in silence. Smile when you break.

Ø  3. Leave Nothing Behind.

Burn your past before someone else picks it up. That includes names.

Ø  4. Trust is a Liability.

Everyone is a blade. Even the ones you love. Especially them.

Ø  5. Kill Clean, Die Quiet.

No cruelty. No begging. If it ends, make it end with dignity.

Tom stared at the list for a long moment.

Then turned the page again.

This time, he didn’t write words.

He sketched.

Soft pencil strokes, careful lines.

Tammy.

First her silhouette—leaning forward mid-duel, sword in hand, smirking.

Then her eyes—one brow cocked, the way she looked at him before a fight.

Then her lips. Just a slight smirk, the shadow of a kiss.

He wasn’t an artist. But this wasn’t about perfection. It was about memory. About something real that stayed sharp even when the world blurred.

On the bottom of the page, in small, crooked script, he wrote:

Ø  She breaks every rule she teaches. And maybe I’m letting her.

He closed the journal slowly.

Ran a hand over the cover.

Then leaned back in his chair and looked toward the vent above—the same pale moonlight streaking through that had once reminded him of cages.

But now?

It felt like a crack in the wall.

A way out.

Or maybe… just enough light to draw by.

Chapter 12: Hardships

Part 17 – The Path of Shadows

(Some paths demand sacrifice. Others, surrender. But the darkest ones ask for something more: a choice that stains who you are, and who you could have been.)

Interior – The Throne Chamber – Shadow League Base – Night

The chamber was dimly lit, the air thick with smoke from incense that twisted through the ancient sewer tunnels like memories. Dark stone pillars lined the sides. Faded tapestries hung with symbols long lost to history. In the center, the throne loomed—crafted of twisted iron and blackwood.

Francis De Fluer sat there, dressed in sleek black robes, hands clasped together as Tom stepped forward.

No guards. No audience. Just them.

Tammy stood silently off to the side, her face unreadable. Her eyes flicked between them, waiting.

Ø  FRANCIS (low): “Come closer, Remnant.”

Tom obeyed, cautious. His boots echoed against the cold tile as he approached the man who had taught killers to walk like ghosts and disappear like sins.

Francis studied him for a long time, as if weighing not his strength—but his soul.

Ø  FRANCIS: “Do you know what it truly means to become a Shadow?”

Ø  TOM (careful): “I assumed this was it. Your league. The training. The hardship.”

Francis gave a small smile, like a knife sliding through silk.

Ø  FRANCIS: “No. Those are merely the shaping tools. The hammer and flame.”

He stood from his throne slowly.

Ø  FRANCIS: “To become a Shadow… truly… you must sever your past with a single act. An act no one else can force you into. It must be your choice. Your hand. Your will.”

He paused.

Ø  FRANCIS: “You must kill me.”

Silence fell.

Tom stared, unmoving. Behind him, Tammy shifted—but said nothing.

Ø  TOM: “What?”

Ø  FRANCIS (calmly): “You’ve already earned the skills. Learned the rules. But power without conviction is a whisper. A ghost without substance. We are not a league of blades—we are a legacy. Passed on not by words… but blood.”

Ø  TOM: “You want me to execute you?”

Ø  FRANCIS (nods): “I want you to ascend.”

He stepped closer.

Ø  FRANCIS: “I trained my daughter to be fearless. I built this league on the broken backs of tyrants. I carved a home from rot. But everything has a limit. A time.”

He held out a blade—a sleek dagger with an onyx handle and the league’s sigil engraved on its side.

Ø  FRANCIS (soft): “This is your throne now… if you want it.”

Tom stared at the dagger.

His heart pounded.

Not from fear—but conflict.

He’d killed before. In war. In survival. In justice.

But this? This was something else. Not defense. Not necessity.

This was… symbolic.

And that made it dangerous.

Ø  TOM (quiet): “I didn’t come here to be king of shadows.”

Ø  FRANCIS: “Then what did you come for, soldier?”

Ø  TOM: “To make sure people like you… didn’t get to make monsters.”

Francis nodded slowly. As if he expected this. As if he’d once said the same words.

Ø  FRANCIS: “We don’t make monsters, Tom. We reveal them.”

Tom stepped back.

Ø  TOM: “You believe that?”

Ø  FRANCIS: “I know it.”

He turned toward Tammy.

Ø  FRANCIS: “Did I force her to be what she is? No. She chose. Like I did. Like you must.”

Tom looked at Tammy.

She looked… conflicted.

For the first time since he met her, she wasn’t smirking. Her arms were folded tightly across her chest, her jaw tense.

Ø  TOM (to her): “You knew about this?”

Ø  TAMMY (quietly): “Everyone who makes it to the end faces the throne.”

Tom looked down at the dagger again.

And then, finally… he shook his head.

Ø  TOM: “No.”

Ø  FRANCIS (genuinely surprised): “No?”

Ø  TOM (firm): “I’m not killing you. Not to prove something. Not to wear some title. I didn’t survive torture and fire to become what tortured me.”

Ø  FRANCIS (stepping forward): “Then you are still just a mask. A man trying to wear vengeance like purpose. You came here because you thought we were evil.”

He pointed to the throne.

Ø  FRANCIS: “But we’re free, Tom. And freedom demands pain.”

Tom turned, walking away.

Ø  TOM: “If that’s freedom… I’ll take the chains.”

Interior – Hallway – Moments Later

Tammy caught up to him.

Ø  TAMMY: “You know my father won’t stop.”

Ø  TOM: “Neither will I.”

He didn’t stop walking. But then he heard her voice—softer.

Ø  TAMMY: “You’re not like them. Not like us.”

He turned.

She stood there, arms folded, eyes flickering with something vulnerable.

Ø  TAMMY (gently): “You want to be hope. Not just fear.”

Ø  TOM (nodding once): “I want to be the Remnant. Of something better.”

She smiled sadly.

Ø  TAMMY: “Then go before they make you forget that.”

He hesitated… then walked.

Chapter 12: Hardships

Part 18 – The Walk Alone

(Sometimes the strongest choice isn’t to stay and fight. It’s to walk away—bleeding, unsure, but still walking.)

The underground base of the Shadow League faded behind him, swallowed by dark tunnels and echoing silence. Tom walked alone, his boots splashing through shallow puddles that clung to the old sewer floor. The walls around him were marked with age—cracks in the brick, graffiti too faded to decipher, water stains that told stories no one cared to hear.

Each step echoed like the toll of a bell.

He didn’t rush. Didn’t run.

He walked.

Because there was no sprinting away from what had just happened. From her.

Tammy.

Her smirk. Her skill. Her blade pressed to his throat, her lips pressed to his own.

The smell of her skin still clung to his armor. Her voice still whispered in his ears. He saw her when he blinked—eyes filled with mischief, maybe something softer underneath. He’d never know for sure.

And that... hurt.

As he climbed an iron ladder to the city above, he didn’t look back. But he felt it in every muscle: the tension of unfinished business, the ache of a road not taken.

There could’ve been something real there.

Something twisted, yes—violent, unstable, but real.

In another life, maybe they’d have built something together. A world where vengeance and love weren’t at war with each other. A place where the Remnant and the Shadow could sit still for a moment.

But not in this life.

Not in this war.

When he reached the street above, night had already fallen. Rain came lightly, like mist, sticking to his coat and matting his hair. Neon signs blinked around him. People passed by—some drunk, some laughing, none knowing the storm beneath his surface.

He kept walking.

Hands in pockets.

Head low.

He thought of Francis. The dagger. The throne.

The crown made of blood.

And he knew—if he’d taken that life, he would’ve never come back from it. It wouldn’t have been justice. It wouldn’t have been right.

It would’ve been surrender.

He passed alleyways where dealers stood. He passed a mother rocking her crying child on a stairwell. He passed a man sleeping in a cardboard shelter with “War Vet – Hungry” written on a piece of soggy cardboard.

He stopped.

Looked down.

Pulled a small wad of cash from his pocket—crumpled bills, earned from old mercenary jobs—and placed it in the man’s hand.

No words.

Just a nod.

Then he kept walking.

Because he knew what he had to become now wasn’t a killer.

It was something harder.

A protector.

And yet, as he reached the edge of the district—where the lights turned dimmer and the city grew quiet—he paused.

The rain fell harder now.

Behind him, nothing.

Ahead of him, unknown.

But somewhere in the shadows, he knew Tammy was still watching. Or maybe she wasn’t. Maybe it didn’t matter.

Maybe this was just his mind playing tricks.

Still… he turned.

Looked back over his shoulder at the city behind him—the hidden paths, the whispered secrets, the woman in the dark who almost made him forget who he was.

And softly, almost too quiet for even the wind to carry, he said:

Ø  “Bye, Tammy.”

Chapter 13 – Through the Fire Again

Part 1 – The Return

(Sometimes coming home is the hardest part. Especially when you’re no longer the same man who left.)

The elevator doors creaked open with a low metallic hiss.

The quiet hum of the underground HQ returned like an old song, one Tom hadn’t realized he missed. Cool fluorescent lights buzzed above, casting long shadows over the workbenches, monitors, and rows of half-finished armor plating. The air smelled faintly of soldered steel and coffee left too long on the burner.

Tom stepped inside, soaked from the rain, his mask off, his eyes bloodshot.

Manners was the first to look up from his workstation—then stood immediately.

Ø  MANNERS: “Jesus Christ, Tom—”

Layla appeared from the next room a second later, still in her light tactical gear. She froze when she saw him.

Ø  LAYLA (softly): “You’re alive.”

Tom nodded once.

That was all he could manage.

But they weren’t ready to let it go that easily.

Ø  MANNERS (crossing the room fast): “Do you have any idea what we’ve been through? You shut off your comms! We thought you were dead!”

Ø  LAYLA (stepping forward): “I couldn’t sleep, Tom. For three days. I thought we lost you.”

Ø  TOM (quietly): “I had to.”

Ø  MANNERS (stern): “That’s not your call to make. Not anymore. We’re in this together now, remember?”

Ø  LAYLA: “Where the hell were you?”

Tom took a breath, ran a hand through his wet hair, then looked them both in the eye.

Ø  TOM: “I found them. The Shadow League.”

Silence.

Manners and Layla stared at him like he’d said he saw ghosts.

Ø  LAYLA: “You what?”

Ø  TOM: “They’re real. Bigger than we thought. Hidden. Organized. And they’ve got eyes everywhere.”

He walked past them, dropped his gear on the table, and sat heavily on the metal bench beside the tactical wall. His body ached from the long walk. His mind even more.

Ø  TOM: “They pulled me in. Tested me. Trained me.”

Ø  MANNERS (wide-eyed): “Trained you?”

Ø  TOM: “They tried to recruit me. Francis De Fluer runs it—Tammy’s father.”

Layla’s expression darkened.

Ø  LAYLA: “Tammy. The rooftop girl?”

Ø  TOM (nodding): “She’s not just part of it—she’s born into it. And she’s damn good.”

Ø  MANNERS: “And you just... walked away?”

Tom hesitated.

Then nodded.

Ø  TOM: “They wanted me to kill him. Francis. To take over the League.”

Ø  LAYLA (soft): “Did you?”

Ø  TOM (firm): “No. I couldn’t. Not for a crown made in blood.”

Manners sat down, stunned.

Ø  MANNERS: “You did the right thing.”

Ø  TOM: “Then why does it feel like I left something behind?”

Layla stepped closer, placed a hand on his shoulder.

Ø  LAYLA (gently): “Because you did.”

A silence settled between them.

Not uncomfortable—just heavy.

Shared.

Real.

Tom looked at the monitors—footage still running, the suit diagnostics running background loops, the AI simulations paused mid-action. Everything still moved forward here, even without him.