DESPAIR

Cold water streamed down Reed Gallow’s face, tracing the sharp edges of a man carved by conflict. The pipes above groaned and hissed, a sound that once unsettled him, but now grounded him. A year ago, that noise echoed through his initiation as a blue suit — an inexperienced recruit, a weapon barely shaped. Now, it was the rhythm of discipline, the sound of purpose.

One year. Five missions. Nineteen confirmed kills. Enough to place him at the top of his class — enough to etch his name among the highest blue suit kill counts in history. The boy who once flinched at blood now washed it from his hands as casually as water. He had trained, hardened, and killed for this moment: the Day of Rankings.

The door behind him creaked open. “Reed, it’s starting. Are you ready?”

Logan “Tag Team” Forsake stood in the doorway, his reflection meeting Reed’s in the mirror. Five missions, four kills, twenty assists — a solid record, though Reed knew those numbers didn’t tell the whole story. Logan had spirit, loyalty, the kind of fire that could make a man dangerous if left untamed.

Reed didn’t look back. “Yeah.” He threw the towel over his shoulder. “Are you?”

“Of course,” Logan said, his voice trembling with naïve conviction. “Today, we’ll be chosen. We’ll finally have the chance to end the Pigs firsthand. We’re going to save humanity, Reed.”

Reed lowered his gaze to the sink, watching a droplet of water spiral down the drain. “Let me ask you something, Logan.”

The younger man’s brow furrowed. “Yeah?”

Reed’s question struck not like a knife but like a quiet truth. “What do you do when you finally face someone who can’t be defeated?”

The air in the room grew still. Logan’s hand slipped from the door handle, fingers curling around the frame as if anchoring himself to the question. He looked down — not in thought, but in realization that there might be no right answer.

“I… I don’t know.”

“The answer,” Reed said softly, “is that you don’t let yourself end up in that situation at all.”

The silence between them thickened. Logan didn’t respond. His eyes darted to Reed’s reflection again, searching for understanding, but what he saw instead was warning.

“Defeat,” Reed continued, “isn’t when your enemy kills you. Defeat is when your enemy makes you feel hopeless.”

He had seen despair before — the kind that hollowed soldiers from the inside out. It left no scars on the body, only in the eyes.

Logan’s expression faltered. He tried to speak, but Reed cut him off before the first word. “Never,” he said, “climb into the jaws of despair. The moment you do, you've died.”

The door opened again, sunlight slicing through the dimness. “You ladies finished talking?” a voice called. “They need us out there at ten. Be ready.”

Lance “Living Sword” Cooper leaned casually against the frame — one mission, eleven kills, and a reputation sharp enough to wound by name alone. His mind was his blade, and both were equally lethal.

Reed glanced at him once. “Give me a moment.”

The march through the black hallways felt endless, their boots striking in rhythm to the pounding hearts beneath their uniforms. The light at the end of the corridor grew stronger with every step, until it burst into the roar of the Colosseum — a storm of drums, fire, and cheering citizens.

Thousands filled the stands, their chants echoing off marble and metal. This was not a ceremony; it was a spectacle, humanity celebrating its saviors and sacrifices alike. The blue suits lined up in formation, each one stiff with pride and fear.

On the grand stage above them stood Yol Farg, Chief of Military. His eyes, dark and hollow, carried the weight of battles fought long before any of these soldiers were born.

“Thank you, everyone,” he began, his voice cutting through the noise. “Every soldier standing here today has risked their life for the sake of humanity. Some have sacrificed limbs. Some, comrades. Some, themselves. All for survival.”

The crowd hushed, reverent. Reed’s jaw tightened. He had never met the Chief in person, but he could feel the man’s authority — it radiated from him like a presence.

“My name is Yol Farg,” the Chief continued, “and I will choose the five blue suits who will ascend to red suit status.”

The arena erupted. Confetti rained down like ash.

“Number Five — Gayle ‘Clash’ Fall! Four missions, nine confirmed kills.”

Logan’s eyes flicked to Reed, searching for reassurance. Reed simply motioned forward, his expression unreadable. He had told Logan he would likely be fifth. He had been wrong. Gayle strode to the stage with pride — her grin bright, her shoulders squared.

“Number Four — Reese ‘Unseen’ Hail! Eight missions, nine confirmed kills.”

The crowd cheered again, drums shaking the ground. Sweat rolled down Logan’s temple. The realization crept in slowly — he wasn’t being called.

“Number Three — Lance ‘Living Sword’ Cooper! One mission, eleven kills.”

Even Lance looked puzzled. The order didn’t make sense. Around them, the blue suits exchanged wary glances. Something about the rankings felt off, calculated.

Then came the announcement that silenced Reed’s mind:
“Number Two — Reed ‘Untamed’ Gallow.”

The name struck him like a blade turned inward. Number two. How could that be? Who could possibly—

Then he saw him.

A boy with long, unkempt brown hair. Frail in build, his arms pitch black and gleaming faintly in the sunlight. But it was the eyes — hollow, reflective, stripped of light — that rooted Reed in place. He had seen that look before. Soldiers broken by despair. Men who had crossed death and come back wrong.

The boy’s name was already forming on Reed’s tongue before Farg even spoke it.

“Number One — Parsival Venn.”

Confetti burst overhead, painting the sky in fleeting color. The boy stepped forward to the stage, unflinching, unblinking, emotionless.

Farg’s voice rose again. “Zero missions. One confirmed kill.”

The Colosseum fell deathly silent.

“This,” the Chief said, “is the boy who killed the Beast — single-handedly.”

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. The boy bore no wounds, no scars, no proof of the feat. Yet his stare silenced any doubt.

“Not only that,” Farg continued, “but he is the fastest red suit in history to be chosen as an apprentice to a black suit.”

From the line of high-order officers, a figure stepped forward: Leg ‘Blitz’ Lagaan, a black suit whose legend carried as much weight as his name. He placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“Give it up,” Farg declared, “for the chosen five!”

The Colosseum exploded in cheers. Reed turned to find Logan among the crowd — the man who had entered the day with dreams of saving humanity.

Now, his eyes were red, his lips quivering, his expression frozen in devastation.

And in that moment, Reed recognized it — the very thing he had warned him of hours ago.

Despair.