It was just past 3 a.m. in the subterranean slums of Paris — the hour when the coldest winds crept through the city's arteries, and the city's sins breathed freely.
The underground didn't sleep. It twisted and coiled. It remembered.
Matt, the polar bear hybrid, stood alone at the top of a rusted service stairwell. Below him lay the warehouse — abandoned on the records, but known in whispers. From this perch, the world above seemed as distant as a dream. He pulled down the visor of his black hoodie, tightened the straps of his chest harness, and stepped into the dark.
The steel groaned beneath his heavy steps.
He passed graffiti-covered walls, makeshift homes carved into the cracks of concrete. No eyes followed him — not anymore. Among the outcasted, he had become a myth. A protector to some. A ghost to others.
He wasn't here to protect anyone tonight.
---
The First Kill (Flashback)
Matt remembered his first time.
It wasn't planned — not in the way assassins plan things. It was raw. Emotional. Born of fire and grief.
Three months ago.
He had found the man — Joseph LeBrac, a mid-tier city council member — alone in his lavish villa, with paintings of Anthro "integration" initiatives hanging on his walls like mocking masks. That man had signed the document to shut down Matt's neighborhood. The same one that bulldozed his sister into silence.
Matt had tied him with rope — silk rope, like the original Bleeding Eye cases.
"Why?" LeBrac asked, sobbing, not even recognizing Matt's face.
> "Because you smiled when she screamed."
When the knife plunged in, Matt didn't flinch.
---
Present Day – Back in the Shadows
Tonight, he had a new name. Another one tied to Zuekh's immunity. Another man who helped bury the truth beneath a pile of bureaucratic nonsense and official stamps.
His diary had a growing list — each one of them touched by corruption. Each one a piece in the puzzle of how Zuekh's real crimes had been erased from the public eye.
The public didn't know about the organ farms. The silent vanishings. The hybrid children who were registered, then removed from the system. Matt knew.
He had found one of those places once.
He didn't sleep for two weeks after.
---
The Target
Tonight's name was Jean-Pierre Froideur, a former chief of internal affairs.
He was now retired, living in a quiet estate at the edge of Bois de Vincennes. The kind of place birds chirped even at night and light never flickered.
Matt crossed the garden wall in a single leap, landing like a boulder wrapped in silence. He didn't need gloves — his fingers were naturally padded, claw-tipped. A shadow in slow motion.
He knew where the power line ran.
Snip.
The mansion went dark.
Inside, Jean-Pierre was fumbling for his phone. He never made it to the table.
Matt struck from behind — not to kill immediately. No. The fear had to settle in first.
> "Do you remember signing off on Protocol 77-B?" Matt's voice was calm, like a bitter wind.
Jean-Pierre stammered. "I– I — I'm retired — I don't—"
> "You authorized reallocation of medical hybrids for 'national health initiatives.' You remember now?"
The man gasped. "That was years ago! I didn't know—"
Matt's hand moved. The rope slipped around the man's throat.
"No. You didn't care."
---
An Internal Monologue
Later, as he walked away from the silent house, the blood soaked into his boots, Matt's breath was steady. His mind wasn't.
> I didn't want this life.
> I wanted the law. I wanted justice. I begged the ombudsman. I gave them her name, her number, her school ID. I gave them proof that Zuekh's men took her.
> But they told me I am 'emotionally unstable'.
He stopped at a bridge over the Seine, throwing the bloodied gloves into the river. His reflection stared back — a white bear in a black world.
> Then the real Bleeding Eye Killer came into the headlines. And for once, people started listening. So I followed.
> Not to mimic… but to give his legend a reason.
---
The Book of Names
Back in his basement, Matt crossed out another name in red ink.
> Jean-Pierre Froideur — "judged"
He flipped the page.
There were five more names. All connected. All human.
And at the center, untouched by any authority:
> Detective Juleus Zuekh
Matt stared at it for several minutes. Not yet. That one required more than rope. That one required truth.
He reached into the drawer, pulling out an old, folded photo. His sister. Smiling at the zoo, wearing her favorite scarf. White fur like snowflakes.
> "I'll burn the whole illusion down if that's what it takes," he whispered.
---
End Credit Scene — Brendon Watches the Rain
Meanwhile, across town, Brendon stood in the balcony of Christopher's apartment.
Rain hit the rail like quiet static.
He had an old file in his hand — Zuekh's background again.
He tapped the last page.
"There's something missing here."
Christopher, sitting on the couch with a cup of coffee, looked up. "You've said that four times."
"No. I mean something really missing. The first three years of his service record. It's blank. Not 'classified.' Not even redacted. It's just — gone."
Christopher sat up straighter. "That's not possible."
Brendon exhaled slowly. "That's what is bothering me."
He looked at the file again.
"Every people who has some shady business leaves behind a loose end. I just need to find the one Zuekh tried to stitch shut."
He didn't yet know that far away, in a basement lined with bloody ropes and quiet rage, Matt had already started to cut it back open.