Armand jolted awake, sitting on the edge of his bed, drenched in sweat. His head hung low as he tried to catch his breath, the remnants of his nightmare still clinging to him.
Or rather, a reprieve from the nightmarish reality.
He flexed his cold, clammy fingers, but the last image from his dream refused to fade—a bleeding Mu Sicheng, his head on the ground, pupils blown wide.
The other man's blood had spread across the floor, merging seamlessly with the pool beneath him.
Armand sat in a daze, staring at nothing as he thought back to his dream—or rather, his past life.
His older brother, Georgia, had been the head captain of the Heretic Authority's Zone 3 for as long as Armand could remember. The job was dangerous, and Georgia had always been fiercely protective, going so far as to dictate Armand's every move. He had a strict plan for everything Armand did, ensuring his safety at all costs.
For example, Georgia had outright forbidden him from joining the Heresy Authority or engaging in anything related to heretics.
But Armand had never been one to listen. The more Georgia resisted, the more determined he became. To him, the Bureau of Heresy wasn't just a job—it was the fantasy of saving the world.
As a child, Armand idolized his older brother and, in turn, became fascinated by the Heretic Council. By adolescence, his rebellious streak had reached its peak, and he defied Georgia completely by enlisting in the Heretic Authority's training camp.
It led to their first real fight. Armand threw a fit, stubbornly refusing to back down, until eventually, he got what he wanted.
Georgia had only looked at him coldly and said, "Armand, you're soft-hearted and cowardly. You lack the cruelty necessary to face your enemies, and if you stay this way, fate will punish you severely."
Looking back now, Georgia had been right. Georgia was always right.
Back then, Armand had yet to be punished. He still clung to naive illusions about fate's mercy.
Despite being accepted into the Heresy Authority, he had been placed in the safest possible role—handling paperwork in the heresy control department. It was Georgia's way of keeping him out of harm's reach.
Bored and frustrated, Armand spent his days cataloging heretics, always looking for an opportunity to move to the front lines. But every time, Georgia caught wind of it and tightened his leash, keeping him firmly confined within Zone 3 headquarters.
It left Armand feeling a strange, suffocating solitude.
All his life, Georgia had built an impenetrable wall around him, shielding him from the horrors of heretics. Inside that wall, there was nothing—just Armand, alone. Even Georgia remained outside, distancing himself, taking every precaution not to contaminate him.
And so, Armand grew up within that fortress, still isolated, still alone, with no one to talk to.
Until that night.
Zone 3, Georgia's jurisdiction, was a high-risk storage area for some of the most dangerous and valuable heretics. Its strongholds were located in secret places, nearly impossible to breach.
But for Zone 3's greatest adversary—Mu Sicheng—those barriers meant nothing.
Mu Sicheng was the district's worst nightmare. Every time the arrogant thief made an appearance, the entire division scrambled, desperately analyzing his weaknesses in a never-ending effort to capture him.
Yet, after all that research, the best they had managed was barely scratching the surface.
Armand sighed, stuffing his mouth with bread as his teammates once again started discussing Mu Sicheng's background.
"Mu Sicheng… his best friend died… he refuses to work with anyone now, completely withdrawn and solitary…"
"He takes it pretty hard. Loses control when it's brought up… maybe we can use that…"
Armand, still chewing, mumbled through a mouthful of food, "How is a dead friend considered a weakness?"
He playfully thumped his own chest. "Unless you make him a living friend. Now that'd be a weakness. I'd make a great spy as the thief's new best friend."
His teammates laughed at the absurdity. Since Armand was Georgia's brother, they humored him. "Do you even know how his last friend died?"
Armand shook his head.
They grinned. "Mu Sicheng killed him. If you befriend him, you might end up the same way."
Armand choked on his bread.
That night, Zone 3's red alert blared.
He woke in a daze to Georgia's voice over the radio:
"All districts on high alert! Mu Sicheng has been shot in the waist after stealing three heavy Level 2 Red Heretics and is now incapacitated but attempting to escape! All teams, commence search!"
"—Shoot on sight if necessary!"
The entire sector was thrown into a frenzy. The search parties were practically celebrating, thrilled at the thought of capturing the infamous thief at last. Armand, sneaking among them, found himself ignored—his status as Georgia's brother meant they turned a blind eye to his presence.
Excitedly, he joined the search.
He was caught, of course. Georgia spotted him within two searches, scolded him harshly, and sent him back to his room in disgrace.
But when Armand returned, something felt… off.
The room appeared untouched, but there was a scent in the air that didn't belong.
Blood.
His heartbeat spiked.
Armand knew he wasn't capable of handling an intruder alone, so he turned to leave, intending to alert the others.
But before he could take another step, sharp claws hooked around his throat. A low, ragged breath brushed against his ear, followed by a chuckle.
"You're sharp, aren't you? Your nose is as good as mine. You smelled my blood, didn't you?"
Armand stiffened, raising his hands in surrender. Before he could reply, the weight on his shoulder suddenly slid away.
He turned, stunned.
Lying weakly in a pool of blood was a young man his age, monkey headphones resting on his head, his breathing shallow and labored.
Mu Sicheng.
He was on the verge of shock from blood loss, Armand realized, staring at the wounded thief. Despite his condition, Mu Sicheng clutched the three stolen heretic boxes as if they were his lifeline.
Memories of all the intelligence reports on him flooded Armand's mind.
[No friends… always alone… seems lonely… only ever speaks with a presence behind him.]
[Everything he steals, every move he makes—it's all to impress someone in the shadows, to earn their approval.]
Armand had imagined some sinister, middle-aged figure pulling the strings. He hadn't expected… this.
Blood pooled beneath Mu Sicheng, but he made no effort to tend to his wounds—only to protect what he had stolen.
Armand pressed his lips into a thin line. His fingers hovered over the gun at his waist.
Then, he gritted his teeth and drew it.
But no matter how much he steeled himself—he couldn't pull the trigger.
Georgia had been right.
Even knowing Mu Sicheng was a criminal, even knowing he was dangerous, Armand couldn't bring himself to shoot.
Because in Mu Sicheng's fading eyes, he saw the same thing he had always longed for—
A desperate, quiet yearning to be understood.
A knock on the door shattered the moment.
Armand startled, then, without thinking, yanked Mu Sicheng under the bed. He hastily wiped the blood from the floor, sprayed an excessive amount of air freshener, and flopped onto the mattress, feigning sleep.
The visitor asked, "Have you seen any suspicious activity?"
Armand blurted out, "No! The air freshener is because I just took a really nasty shit, so I had to spray a lot!"
A long pause.
"…You didn't have to tell me that."
The visitor left, muttering complaints about the overpowering smell.
Armand exhaled, collapsing onto the bed. After a long moment, he hesitantly placed a healing potion and a roll of bandages under it.
A while later, a pair of monkey paws snatched them away.
Then, a quiet voice drawled, "Hey. What's your name?"
Armand answered honestly. "Armand."
A scoff. "Sounds awful. You look just like the guy who shot me. Who is he?"
"…My brother."
A long silence. Then, the inevitable question: "Why did you save me?"
Armand sighed. "I don't know. I just… couldn't help it."
A raspy laugh. Then, a low, amused murmur.
"Idiot."
Armand: "..."
Although he thought it was pretty ridiculous too, wasn't it still wrong for him to say that?
When Armand woke early the next morning, Mu Sicheng was gone. He felt relieved—but at the same time, he wondered if he had lost his mind, working himself into a frenzy just to succeed. Maybe that was why he'd dreamed of chasing Mu Sicheng.
But why had his dream self saved him—only to let him go?
Armand gave up trying to make sense of it.
Not long after, however, the notorious thief made another appearance at the Heretic's Authority. This time, he didn't take anything. Instead, he left something behind.
Like every arrogant, over-the-top eccentric thief in history, he had the audacity to send a teaser letter—naming three districts in advance.
[- Coming Wednesday to steal something. What? Don't know yet. Watch and find out. And tell your captain's brother—the one with the ugly name—to clean up and wait for me at the door!]
Georgia lifted his gaze and tossed the letter onto a stunned Armand's desk.
"Explain why Mu Sicheng is targeting you."
"... I don't know..." Armand was nearly in tears. He really, truly regretted everything.
Georgia let out a long breath, fixing Armand with a sharp stare before delivering his judgment.
"Whatever happened between you and Mu Sicheng, Armand, you need to understand this: that man is a demon. And he will get you in the end."
"But if you need a firsthand lesson in reality, I'll give it to you."
Georgia assessed Armand's faint-hearted expression before handing down the final verdict.
"Take a gun and join the raid on Wednesday."
Come Wednesday, Armand stood at the front of the team, gun in hand, wary.
Then the thief arrived.
For the first time, Armand saw Mu Sicheng in action—stealing and running.
Mu Sicheng moved like the wind, as fast and free as a passing storm. He laughed, a blur to the naked eye, and in the span of a heartbeat, he brushed past Armand—grabbing his wrist and yanking him along.
Gunfire rang out. Shouts echoed through the streets.
And yet, in the chaos of the Heretic's Authority scrambling after them, the infamous thief and his accidental accomplice sprinted off like two kids caught pulling a prank.
Armand snapped out of his daze, jerking his arm to break free. But by then, Mu Sicheng was already glancing back at him with a mischievous grin.
"Isn't it fun watching them fail to catch us?"
Armand instinctively turned back to look at his own team—their faces twisted in frustration as they sprinted full-speed after them, only to be utterly outmatched by Mu Sicheng's impossible speed.
It was... kind of funny.
Despite himself, Armand laughed.
Mu Sicheng ran faster, dragging Armand along.
These dangerous heresies—items so carefully measured, contained, and guarded by the Heretic's Authority—meant nothing in Mu Sicheng's hands.
They weren't threats. They were toys.
This wasn't a criminal act against the world.
To Mu Sicheng, this was just a game.
With a smirk, Mu Sicheng tossed one of the heresies to Armand.
"Know what this does?"
Armand squinted at the item, brain scrambling for the statistics he had memorized.
"Number 8035… I think this one is… um…"
Wind.
Butterflies.
They could summon hurricanes.
Mu Sicheng didn't wait for him to finish. He impatiently flipped open the box.
A swarm of multicolored butterflies burst into the air, their wings fanning out fierce winds. Within seconds, the gusts whipped through the chamber, strong enough to push Armand clean off his feet.
Caught off guard, Armand was sent flying.
Mu Sicheng caught him by the ankle before he could be blown away entirely, laughing as he kept him anchored.
"You've been guarding this place for so long, and your brother never even let you play with these?"
"Is this a game?!" Armand yelled, voice breaking. "Shut it down! It's causing extreme climate shifts!"
"No."
Mu Sicheng effortlessly balanced himself in the raging wind, floating just above Armand. He steadied Armand's shoulders and leaned in, voice low and amused.
"That's stupid. Your brother never taught you this, did he? Watch—every heresy has a weakness."
Guiding Armand's fingers, Mu Sicheng made him grab the tail of one of the butterflies.
Whispering close to Armand's ear, he murmured:
"The moment you find it, the heretic is yours."
Armand watched, stunned, as the butterfly stilled at his fingertips.
Mu Sicheng grinned. "Right?"
Then—just to be a menace—he let go, flicking the butterfly's tail feathers.
The wind roared to life.
Armand barely had time to panic before Mu Sicheng seized him by the back of the neck, dragging him backwards into the storm.
Laughing wildly, Mu Sicheng shot a gleeful two-fingered salute at the Heretic's Authority as they came rushing after them.
"I'll be borrowing your captain's brother for fun!"
And just like that, they disappeared into the howling wind.
The storm didn't carry them far before Mu Sicheng abruptly stopped.
Somewhere along the way, he had picked up a call.
His previously exuberant expression instantly sobered. His voice, usually light and teasing, turned measured and serious.
"...Yeah, I got it. I'll bring the goods back. No issues on security along the smuggling line."
As soon as the call ended, Mu Sicheng turned and took one look at Armand—
And burst out laughing.
Armand, still reeling from everything, was a sight to behold.
He had Georgia's face—ninety-nine percent identical.
But right now, after experiencing high-speed pursuit and a literal hurricane for the first time, his brown hair was windswept into an absolute disaster. His entire expression was frozen in bewildered, shell-shocked idiocy.
He was on all fours. Not because he wanted to be—he just hadn't regained his balance.
Mu Sicheng crouched in front of him, smirking.
"I thought the big kook's brother would be a little kook." He let out an exaggerated sigh. "Didn't expect a little idiot."
Armand glared. "Say that again."
Still grinning, Mu Sicheng stuffed his hands into his pockets, casually pulling out a few heresy boxes and tossing them to Armand.
"Well, I had my fun for today. See you next time. Bye."
With that, he turned on his heel and sauntered off, exuding effortless swagger.
Armand looked at the boxes in front of him—
And was suddenly struck by a thought.
Not only had Mu Sicheng stolen boxes today, but he had also returned the three he had taken before—ones Armand had recovered after Mu Sicheng's last injury.
"Mu Sicheng—" Armand hesitated, then called out, "You gave back what you stole last time, too."
Mu Sicheng raised an eyebrow, pivoting on one foot. "What, is returning them not good enough for you?"
Armand answered honestly, "You were just having fun today. The ones you took were all low-tier, level-one red heretics. But these three—" he gestured at the boxes— "they're all high-risk, level-three red. They should've been your real targets. I appreciate you giving them back, but honestly? I'm more worried you'll just come back and steal them again."
Mu Sicheng smirked. "They were my targets." His tone was light, almost amused. "But last time, you caught me. I failed. And if I fail, it doesn't count as my prize."
With a casual wave, he turned away, his voice carrying a grin as he left.
"Of course I'll steal again. Try to catch me if you don't want to lose, Armand."
Armand stared at the boxes for a long time, lost in thought.
That day, after finally recovering stolen heretics, he officially earned his place on the front lines.
From then on, Mu Sicheng would send him teaser letters from time to time. And Armand—who had once hesitated, who had once second-guessed himself—grew up overnight. He became composed, relentless in his pursuit of Mu Sicheng.
Whenever the thief appeared, Armand was the first to move, fast enough to nearly match him.
But he never shot Mu Sicheng.
Over time, he became the best in the department at retrieving stolen goods from Mu Sicheng's hands.
Chasing him, Armand matured. He became steadier, more capable, more responsible.
He became Georgia's second-in-command.
One evening, after dinner, Armand returned to his dorm to log the heretics he had recovered. But before he could sit down, he spotted something by his bed—a teaser letter.
[Lieutenant, no more chase games. Want a drink?]
Armand's lips curled into a faint smile.
After carefully ensuring his brother wasn't around, he slipped out through the back door of the Heretic's Authority.
He knew where to go.
It was the clearing where Mu Sicheng had once swept him up in the wind. They had met there often—though neither of them could quite explain why. It had simply happened. Unspoken, understood.
The ground was barren, but if you looked up, the sky was dazzling.
When Armand arrived, Mu Sicheng was sitting atop a small hill, staring at the stars.
"Here." Mu Sicheng greeted him lazily, tossing him a bottle of wine.
Armand caught it easily—habit, at this point. Then, as he glanced up at Mu Sicheng, he suddenly felt something was off.
His instincts screamed at him.
Something wasn't right.
"…What's wrong?" Armand asked, sitting beside him.
Mu Sicheng tilted his head back, taking a sip before exhaling heavily.
"That guy put me in charge of the smuggling line," he muttered. "No more stealing."
A silence stretched between them.
Then Mu Sicheng spoke again, as if brushing the moment aside.
"The next time we meet, we'll both be shooting." He glanced at Armand. "So ditch that fake gun of yours."
Armand said nothing.
—Because if it had only been theft, it could've been a game.
But smuggling?
That wasn't a game anymore.
It was life or death.
For countless people.
Armand rarely drank. But at that moment, he took a long, hard swig, wiped his mouth, and said, "I will."
Mu Sicheng looked back up at the stars.
"I've played a lot of games. Some cruel, some horrifying. And one…" His voice softened.
"…One I'll never forget."
He lowered his gaze, not looking at Armand as he held out a hand.
"Thanks. For sparing me. And for keeping me company."
Armand clasped his hand, serious. "It's okay. We're friends."
Mu Sicheng froze.
For a long moment, he didn't speak.
Then, finally, he snorted. "You know how my last friend died?"
"Killed by your own hand."
Armand's grip on Mu Sicheng's hand tightened. His dark brown eyes burned with quiet resolve.
"But I believe you won't kill me." His voice was firm. "Or rather—I'll make sure I'm strong enough that you can't. I won't let you die, and I won't let myself die, either."
He clenched his fist. "I'll be strong enough to stop you."
Mu Sicheng withdrew his hand, looking away with a squirming, reluctant expression—yet a small, stifled smile played on his lips.
"...Stupid brat," he muttered. "Don't get cocky just because you've caught me a few times."
But perhaps neither of them could have imagined—
That would be the last time they ever looked at each other and smiled.
Three months later.
When Bai Six arrived to deliver a shipment, Mu Sicheng was spotted by Georgia during the handover.
The cargo was high-risk. A smuggled heretic shipment. If it hit the market, the consequences would be severe.
Georgia acted instantly.
His attack was relentless.
Mu Sicheng, left behind, struggled to hold his ground. Then Bai Six—who had already left—doubled back, returning to the port.
With Bai Six's intervention, the outcome was sealed.
Mu Sicheng captured the captain of Zone Three on the spot.
And when he finally saw Georgia's face—
His pupils shrank.
Bai Six, lounging in his seat, didn't miss the shift in Mu Sicheng's expression.
His gaze flicked to Georgia, half-kneeling before him, unreadable.
"You know this captain?" Bai Six asked.
Mu Sicheng hesitated. "…I used to steal from his jurisdiction."
Bai Six turned to him, unimpressed.
"I don't like being lied to." His voice was calm, but cutting. "You know I meant more than that. You have feelings for him?"
"No!" Mu Sicheng denied it too quickly.
Bai Six observed him for a moment, then turned back to Georgia.
"Your reaction wasn't because of him," he mused. "It was because of someone who looks like him."
He crouched, tilting Georgia's face up. Examining his features.
"A relative? Immediate family?" Bai Six's gaze sharpened. "A male, similar in age."
Mu Sicheng's breath hitched.
His fists clenched.
Bai Six smiled slightly.
"—His brother, isn't he?"
Mu Sicheng's silence was answer enough.
Bai Six leaned back, folding his hands. "This kind of bond, built on opposing sides—"
His eyes met Mu Sicheng's.
"Was it fun?"
Mu Sicheng's hands trembled. His eyes burned red.
And then—he exhaled.
Lowered his head.
Knelt.
"…Please." His voice was quiet, strained. "Let Georgia go."
Bai Six's expression didn't change.
Mu Sicheng swallowed hard, forcing his words out. "I got carried away. I won't let it happen again. Killing him now would disrupt the balance in Zone Three—complicate our plans—"
He faltered.
And then he fell silent, motionless.
Bai Six lowered his eyes.
"…Out of respect for you, and for the importance of our work this time," he said finally. "I'll let him go."
Mu Sicheng looked up, stunned.
"Not next time." Bai Six cast a fleeting glance at Georgia. "But before that, there's something I need to show this Captain of Sector 3—just to ensure he won't remember our smuggling routes."
Mu Sicheng exhaled sharply, relief washing over him. "A memory-erasing prop?"
"No," Bai Six murmured. "Something new I recently acquired—[Future]."
Georgia took one look at the object and went deathly still, as if his very soul had been drained. When it was over, Bai Six abandoned him in a barren wasteland—the same secret spot where Mu Sicheng and Armand used to drink together.
Mu Sicheng sent a quiet message, summoning Armand to retrieve his brother.
Armand arrived in a panic, gathering up Georgia's lifeless form and carrying him away.
That was the beginning of the nightmare.
For a month, Georgia remained silent, lost in despair, teetering on the edge of suicide. Desperate and out of options, Armand finally snapped—he logged into the game.
He fought his way through the brutal trials, inching toward death with every step, until, in his last moments, he saw something on the massive arena screen—something that shattered him.
Mu Sicheng.
But not the one he knew.
On the screen, Mu Sicheng grinned wildly, drenched in sweat and blood, slaughtering without hesitation, treating human lives like disposable playthings. He wasn't alone. He followed another man, his movements precise, his hands deadly—no longer just a thief, but a weapon honed to perfection, a blade made for killing.
Armand stood frozen in the roaring crowd, watching the spectacle unfold.
So this is what Mu Sicheng meant by "the game"…
Was this…?
Mu Sicheng wiped blood from his jaw with the hem of his shirt, waving off the deafening cheers as he stepped off the field.
Bai Six, watching him closely, suddenly asked, "So, which game was more fun? This one, or that little 'game of friendship' with the lieutenant from the third district?"
Mu Sicheng's pupils dilated, his bloodlust still simmering, his sharp teeth flashing in a wicked grin. "Is that even a question?"
"Of course, this game."
Armand felt like the world had gone silent.
As Bai Six's entourage paraded through the arena, the crowd erupted into applause. Mu Sicheng, the highest-scoring killer of the match, trailed behind Bai Six, walking with careless arrogance—so carelessly that he bumped straight into Armand.
He didn't even notice.
Armand, shoved to the ground, stared up at Mu Sicheng's retreating figure.
Mu Sicheng glanced back briefly, meeting Armand's eyes—but there was no recognition, no flicker of familiarity. Just a fleeting look of contempt before he turned away.
Armand sat there, dazed, as Bai Six passed by.
Then Bai Six smiled, tilting his head slightly. His lips moved, forming a silent message.
"It's just a game."
—All of it. Just a game.
Armand barely remembered how he logged out. He stumbled back to his dorm at the Heresy Bureau, dug through his drawers, and found them—Mu Sicheng's old letters.
The teasing letters.
He tore them apart, shredded them into pieces, then burned them.
The drinks they had shared, the stolen heretics they had played with, the fake bullets in his empty gun—he erased it all.
Lying on his bed, he closed his eyes. But behind his lids, the memories wouldn't fade. He could still hear Mu Sicheng's quiet laughter, still see that endless, star-filled sky over the wasteland where they once sat together.
When he finally opened his eyes, they were empty.
Without hesitation, Armand replaced the blanks in his pistol with live rounds and sent Mu Sicheng a message.
He didn't know if Mu Sicheng would come.
He could only hope that, for once, the thief had enough patience to play their game to the very end.
Mu Sicheng showed up.
So Armand ended it.
With tears streaming down his face, he gritted his teeth and pulled the trigger.
The bullet tore through Mu Sicheng's throat.
Mu Sicheng staggered, his eyes wide with disbelief—as if he couldn't fathom that Armand had actually shot him.
As he collapsed to the ground, his body twisted, his arms shifting into the clawed form of a monkey's paw. He dragged himself forward, inching toward Armand.
Armand, thinking he was still trying to attack, fired again.
The shot hit his temple.
Mu Sicheng let out a ragged breath, his claws seizing Armand's wrist in a feeble grip. He wheezed, voice raw and broken—
"…Caught your brother. I'm sorry."
His trembling hand covered Armand's, as if he wanted to shake it.
His eyes, usually brimming with mischief, were clouded with something far heavier.
Even in death, he didn't ask why.
He just apologized.
For Georgia.
Armand's breath hitched.
Tears blurred his vision as he tried to speak—but no sound came.
His throat burned.
Only then did he realize—Mu Sicheng's claws had ripped through his vocal cords. He couldn't speak anymore.
His body grew cold. His heartbeat slowed.
The last thing he saw was a pair of black leather shoes stepping toward him.
A whip dragging against the ground.
A figure kneeling beside Mu Sicheng's body, cradling the thief's lifeless form with eerie gentleness.
With gloved hands, the man carefully shut Mu Sicheng's vacant eyes.
Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he murmured:
"If this was your chosen game… then this is your [end]."
"But death is merely a long sleep for you. Your soul will always belong to me."
"And when you wake, we will meet again."
His tone was soft. Patient. Almost… fatherly.
Like a parent soothing a restless child to sleep.
Armand tried to lift his gaze, tried to see the man's face—but his body was shutting down.
His eyelids were too heavy.
The stranger's words felt like a lullaby, dragging him under.
Before his vision went dark, a stray thought crossed Armand's fading mind—
If Georgia were here, he'd scold him for being so reckless. He'd make him write a three-thousand-word report on his foolish attachment to an enemy. He'd demand it on his desk by morning.
A single tear slipped from the corner of Armand's eye.
His soul, like a butterfly caught in the wind, finally surrendered to the long sleep called death.
And within the enclosed battlefield, the storm finally ceased.