The rain had stopped sometime before dawn, leaving London glistening under a sky the color of bruised flesh. The city was quiet, too quiet, as if holding its breath in the aftermath of the divine storm that had torn through its streets. On the rooftop of a building overlooking the scarred cityscape, three figures stood locked in a silence heavier than the recent downpour.
Ren stood at the edge, his hands resting on the shattered parapet. The Kusanagi was sheathed at his hip, but its presence was a cold weight against his leg, a constant reminder of the path he had chosen. The wind tugged at his dark hair and coat, but he stood unmoving, a statue gazing out at a world he had sworn to unmake.
Twenty-eight confirmed dead. Thousands injured. Because of me. The newspaper headline was burned i
