Chapter 10: Direct Confrontation

  In the pale light of the hospital room on the 10th floor, where broken souls lay fast asleep — the space felt frozen in time. Footsteps echoed softly on the cold tile floor as Major General Martin entered, his sharp gaze settling on Tom, who stood with two fallen female agents behind him.

  Martin spoke quietly:

  — Tom, you're very clever.

  The teenager turned his head, his voice devoid of emotion:

  — You don’t need to compliment me. It’s just that the two of them were too incompetent. It was obvious this room could hold a maximum of twenty-two people — twenty “those who must pay” and two undercover officers — and yet no one noticed there were twenty-three. A simple headcount.

  Tom’s gaze, sharp as a thin blade cutting through the dark, landed on the two motionless bodies on the floor.

  — Besides — he continued — the patients on this floor all suffer from severe conditions. When they wake up, they scream, convulse, or hide in corners crying. And yet no one found it suspicious that someone was awake and speaking coherently... I didn’t think the police would train agents who make such basic mistakes.

  Martin frowned but tried to maintain the composure of a commanding officer:

  — They’ve only been in the force for a week...

  Tom shrugged:

  — That doesn’t excuse their incompetence.

  A heavy silence fell. In the weight of that stillness, Martin spoke again, this time lower, more patient:

  — You're breaking the law, boy. If you surrender now, we can help you. You're only fifteen — you’re not criminally liable yet... This is your chance to make things right.

  Tom gave a faint, cold smile — the kind worn by someone who’s seen more than their age should allow:

  — When the law truly becomes just... I’ll reconsider.

  Martin hesitated for a moment:

  — Isn’t... isn’t the law created to bring justice?

  Tom immediately replied:

  — Wrong. It was created to maintain social order.

  With that, he swept his arm across his chest, tearing off the hospital gown. Shredded white fabric fluttered to the floor, revealing a dark, sharply tailored outfit beneath, the stitching crisp, a faint emblem glinting on the hem — the style of an underground organization, mafia, or perhaps something even darker. All he needed was a pair of sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat, and he would look no different from a young leader of the underworld.

  Martin narrowed his eyes:

  — You make claims, but where's the evidence? Arguments mean nothing without a legal foundation.

  Tom looked at him like someone watching a man fall from his ivory tower:

  — If the law were truly just, then why are there exceptions?

  His voice lowered, like reciting a lesson long memorized:

  — A ten-year-old kills someone... no death sentence. A mentally ill person kills... sent for treatment. A ninety-year-old man kills... and still doesn't face harsh punishment. If justice means treating everyone equally, then why does the law categorize people into so many special cases?

  Martin bit his lip, about to respond:

  — But...

  — But what, sir?

  Tom cut him off, his voice still cold and unwavering:

  — What about the right to die? If every person is the ultimate authority over their own life, then the right to end that life should belong to them too. But the law forbids it. A failed suicide attempt can lead to punishment, forced treatment... Why?

  Martin said nothing.

  Tom took a step forward, closer now, like an executioner reading out a sentence:

  — Because if the right to die is acknowledged, a wave of suicides would follow. Social order would be threatened. And in that moment, the law will gladly strip away personal rights to protect what it calls stability.

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  The room fell utterly silent. Even the beeping of the heart monitor seemed choked into stillness.

  Tom delivered his conclusion, sharp and final like a judge’s gavel:

  — Law exists to preserve social order. And to preserve order, it must make the majority believe it is just. Justice itself doesn’t matter. The feeling of justice — that is everything.

  Martin stood motionless. In front of him was no longer a fifteen-year-old boy.

  It was a living indictment — cold, despairing, and chillingly logical.

  And on the tenth floor of the capital’s largest hospital, where the ghosts of the past began to take form, truth and justice had just stepped into the most dangerous game in the history of national security.

  Thud!

  The sharp clatter of metal rang out, dry and stark, in the deathly quiet room. Major General Martin had drawn his pistol, eyes cold as stone, aimed straight at the teenager standing in the midst of the freezing dark.

  — You’d best surrender, Tom.

  The boy responded with a curl of his lip — cold and contemptuous.

  — When they can’t win with reason, — Tom emphasized each word — they resort to force to claim they’re right.

  Thud!

  Tom drew his own weapon. Sleek, light, and compact — every mechanical part on it had been fine-tuned to the precision of an assassin.

  — Then let’s see... who wins.

  They stood facing each other, the air between them thick enough to slice. Every second passed like a lifetime.

  BANG!

  The shot cracked the silence — not the sound of justice, nor of guilt — just the judgment of the stronger.

  Martin staggered. The bullet wasn’t enough to kill, but it had shattered the miniature recorder hidden in his right breast pocket. He collapsed, pistol skidding across the floor. In his eyes was no fear... only a flicker of recognition, tinged with disappointment.

  Tom remained still, voice steady:

  — You have four minutes to leave. I didn’t kill you because you’re still the only one in this rotten system who’s truly lucid.

  Martin pushed himself up, blood dripping from his lip, but his eyes stayed sharp, alert. He stared at Tom:

  — You’re too smart. But tell me... has someone in your family been a bit careless?

  Tom narrowed his eyes.

  Martin turned and walked out of the room, heading straight toward the corner of the 10th floor hallway — the very spot where, earlier that morning, Victor, had quietly stashed a slate-gray backpack.

  Martin crouched and pulled it from beneath the hospital bed. Heavy. Full. It seemed like...

  — Just toss this into the hospital courtyard and it's over. — Martin muttered, eyes sharpening with an old soldier’s instinct.

  But behind him, Tom gave a faint smile:

  — Really...?

  Martin froze. A chill of dread swept over him. He unzipped the backpack immediately.

  No explosives. No electronics. Only... rubble, bricks, and chunks of concrete.

  And at that moment, the sound of death rang out:

  BEEP – BEEP – BEEP...

  Tom crossed his arms, voice as calm and cold as a ticking countdown:

  — Three minutes left.

  Martin spun around. Two black-clad agents had burst into the hospital room after hearing the gunshot, eyes wide as they took in the scene.

  — General Martin!

  Martin barked, without hesitation:

  — Grab the two female officers! Get down now!

  There was no time for questions. The two agents dropped their weapons, scooped up the “nurses” — the two undercover cops rendered unconscious by gas — and Martin led the charge down the hallway.

  — Elevator! Move!

  The cold steel doors slid open like gates of life or death. All five rushed inside, hearts pounding like war drums.

  Ground floor.

  As soon as the elevator doors opened, they didn’t step — they sprinted.

  Their footsteps no longer in formation. It was a desperate flight from hell.

  And just as they crossed the hospital gates...

  BOOOOM!!!

  A deafening explosion tore through the night.

  The 10th floor of the hospital — once the last refuge for those who’d lost all light in life — erupted in fire and debris, as if concluding a long, damning sentence. Glass shattered. Smoke and dust billowed into the sky. Concrete pillars swayed. Emergency lights flickered in chaos.

  Screams. Sirens. The crumbling of a symbol of hope.

  Police officers outside stood frozen in disbelief. Some drew their weapons. Others rushed toward the scene, driven more by instinct than duty.

  Martin stood in the hospital plaza, hair drenched in sweat, blood spreading across his uniform. But his eyes never left the wreckage.

  Tom was gone.

  That shadow — the fifteen-year-old boy straddling the line between justice and anarchy — had left his mark not in blood, but in the form of the greatest question ever posed to the legal system:

  Who truly controls justice — the law, or those smart enough to surpass it?

  From a high-rise building not far from the central hospital—close enough to see every crack and fracture on the rooftop after the explosion—a young man leaned against the balcony railing, a remote control still glowing faintly in his hand after completing its task.

  A gentle smile played on his face, eyes fixed on the wisps of smoke curling up from where the 10th floor once stood.

  — It’s done... — he whispered, as if he had just concluded a play, not orchestrated a massive act of destruction.

  Victor wore that same smile — half sincere, half insane — like a mask that could never be removed. Whether at a secret meeting or in the aftermath of an explosion, it was always there.

  Suddenly—

  — Hey, “Two-Face,” can you not wear that damn smile all the time?

  The voice came from behind, unexpected but familiar. Victor didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

  — Since when did "Madman" start caring about anyone’s personality? — he quipped.

  He turned to see Tom — the fifteen-year-old boy with a mind like a demon and a heart like ice — standing silently, unreadable. He carried no bag, no gear, just dark clothes and the shadow that clung to him like a second skin.

  — In that backpack... — Tom asked, his voice dry — What did you put in there besides bricks and concrete?

  Victor narrowed his eyes, his smile unchanged. He tapped two fingers lightly against his temple and replied:

  — A story.

  Tom was silent for a few seconds. In that moment, both of them stared out at the hospital, still burning red in the distance, as if remembering something only they understood.

  Then Tom spoke softly:

  — Let’s go home.

  No need to ask where. No one needed to lead.

  They turned their backs and walked away, their silhouettes fading into the golden city lights. Below them, firefighters and police still scrambled in chaos, people still flailed in panic. But up above, the two shadows had vanished—like they were never there at all, or as if they were merely characters from a dark play that had just taken its final bow.

  The night went on.

  But something had changed—in the city, and in the hearts of its people.