C | Chapter 10.2 | Confession | Crack in the Evasion

“Oh… Oh my god… And you, Senior…”

Walter Stone covered his mouth with a fist as those words slipped out. Director Oakley didn’t voice anything, but his expression was almost identical. Revenant continued, speaking with a cold detachment, not meeting any of their gazes.

“When I went back, Ian was holding a gun. Luckily, he didn’t know how to release the safety.”

“And, then… what happened then?”

“I shot him.”

A single shot to the forehead. Then three to the chest. Quick, precise, and as professional as death could be.

Revenant’s face twisted as he mentally returned to that moment. In his ears, he could still hear Ian’s quiet sobbing.

-“I’m sorry, Leo. I didn’t mean for this to happen… I wasn’t really trying to kill you… I wanted to die. I was the one who wanted to die. I’m so sorry, Leo.”

The look on Ian’s face as he handed him the gun was filled with regret and guilt. Ian was apologizing for attempting to kill Marcus Winchell.

-“Run away, Leo. Don’t become a murderer because of me. It’s me who killed our father.”

But that wasn’t possible.

Revenant had shot Marcus Winchell without a shred of hesitation. Marcus wasn’t human—he was an animal. And when he’d killed that beast, he became a beast himself. There was no going back. Revenant had crossed an irreversible line; he knew he’d become a beast. The river he’d crossed was the butcher’s river, and he could no longer return to being human.

Fine, then. If he was going to be a beast, he would be a real one. But he wouldn’t be livestock.

He’d run. Not from murder, but from what had made him a beast—from Ian, the one person who should never become prey to a beast.

Revenant contacted an FBI analyst to get the remaining names on the list. Eighteen names, including Marcus Winchell. One by one, Revenant hunted them down and killed them. He shared Ian’s picture, locating those filthy livestock who violated Ian with their eyes, minds, and virtual nerves.

He didn’t hesitate, didn’t feel regret or guilt, and didn’t despair. He was a beast, and he hunted his own. What he did wasn’t murder—it was the difference between the comfort of domestication and its absence. It wasn’t about good versus evil or justice versus immorality. There was no line between executioner and criminal. He was focused solely on the hunt. The screams and terror of the fat, filthy livestock barely satisfied his raging anger.

“But, but why…”

Walter Stone stammered.

“That’s… that’s murder, even if it’s unauthorized. Isn’t it something the CIA could handle? Those people were criminals, and you, Senior… I mean, it wasn’t right, but…”

Those who dealt with crime often faced the dilemma between being an executioner and a murderer. It was possible to see Revenant’s actions as an excessive response to personal matters. If he’d called Director Oakley, he would’ve done his best to help him. Oakley would’ve resolved the dilemma within the framework of law and authority that Revenant’s mind couldn’t tackle.

But Revenant had chosen not to return as a federal agent, nor as the man named Leo. His choice was to go to Hebaulis.

“Why… why Hebaulis, of all places?”

“I was close with the prince. Since I handled international crime, I ran into him on about one in three missions. Our encounters were never pleasant. Every time, he offered me asylum.”

Walter Stone shook his head in frustration.

“No! That’s not what I mean. Why Hebaulis? Why didn’t you come back?”

The answer was simple.

“Because it’s a country of beasts.”

“…What?”

“It’s that kind of place.”

Director Oakley said nothing to clear up Walter Stone’s confusion, and neither did Revenant.

Few people knew Hebaulis had started as a mercenary group that turned into a small nation. During the Seven Years’ War, many small German principalities had disappeared without leaving a trace. So, of course, there was no record of nameless mercenaries who were caught up in the war.

After the war, the surviving mercenaries dug themselves into a remote valley. To survive, they did what mercenaries do: fought wars for money, made corpses for money, and made survival an art of pillaging.

It was in the second generation that the real money started flowing in. Europe’s revolutions brought lucrative opportunities, and during the Napoleonic era, a decisive event occurred: James Rothschild, the second head of the Rothschild family, amassed enormous wealth by manipulating stock prices after the Battle of Waterloo.

The Rothschilds had used every means to make it appear as if England had lost until the stock market opened. The nameless mercenaries had helped. They stole uniforms from the British and Napoleonic forces, manipulated the tide of war, and intercepted military information. The Rothschilds profited immensely from Waterloo, and the mercenaries learned how to make a fortune. The Rothschilds learned, too, that wealth sometimes needed appropriate force to protect it.

The alliance between Europe’s wealthiest family and the mercenaries continued, building a hierarchy within the mercenary group. Around that time, Hebaulis was born. The nation wasn’t modern—it was bizarrely structured. The first Duke, Conrad, wasn’t as skilled at making money as the Rothschild heirs, but he possessed one critical talent: he never forgot his mercenary origins. Mercenaries had no names or roots; they were vagabonds, outlaws, pillagers—beasts with no conscience.

So Conrad embraced the most mercenary approach to earning money. He seized gold and iron mines, robbed freight trains, and stole the remaining wealth of wandering nobles. But the limitations of this predatory rule soon became clear. Conrad believed in the mercenary creed that force was money, and he turned to the modern arms industry. He spent all the money he’d made to develop, acquire, and mass-produce weapons.

When World War I erupted, it repaid his investments many times over. The more money he made, the more stable Hebaulis became. The rise of communism, fascism, and extreme popularism fueled their profits.

After WWII, Hebaulis’s arms industry waned briefly but surged again with the Cold War. Hebaulis became the fourth nation to acquire nuclear missiles. Initial capital for natural resource companies in South America, Africa, Europe, and India often came from the Rothschilds or Hebaulis.

In the 20th century, Hebaulis’s royalty became unimaginably wealthy, with weapons so advanced that even the U.S. couldn’t keep up. It was a tiny country with a total area of 11.1 km² and a population of 4,481, and few even knew of its existence. Yet Hebaulis was always invited to secret forums that shaped global order. When Prince Eduard, after a sleepless night, said “Are you screwing with me?” to a former White House spokesperson, he meant it.

Money and power were capitalism’s holy trinity, and in the world of capitalism, Hebaulis was its most faithful saint.

“In the human world, it’s the beast’s den.”

Even now, Hebaulis’s methods of earning money were the same. They created chaos through war and murder and rebuilt wealth on the ruins they created. Securing dam development rights or canal operations from military dictatorships in small African nations at war was, comparatively, the legal part of Revenant’s work.

Walter Stone sighed heavily.

“So, you… you, Senior…”

Before he could finish, Director Oakley stepped in.

“It’s not so different, really. The CIA does similar work, after all.”

Revenant chuckled bitterly.

“There’s a difference between making money for America and making money for Hebaulis.”

Oakley added his own dose of irony.

“Also, the difference between respecting the law or not.”

“Not that it was ever my intention.”

Hebaulis’s ways blurred the lines of legality, drawing illegal profiteers like flies to honey. Revenant’s life as Hebaulis’s hunting dog was, in truth, not so different from before—except now, his hunts were rougher.

With that, Revenant was finished.

“I’m not going back.”

Revenant’s gaze was tight, impenetrable. No words could shake him. Director Oakley felt the weight of the tragedy that Revenant had accepted as his fate. It wasn’t his place to judge if Revenant’s choice was better or worse. He couldn’t weigh eighteen murders against the sins of those eighteen.

“I’m sorry.”

So he said.

“I can’t say I understand you completely. But I won’t object.”

Revenant relaxed, tension slipping from his body as if that was all he needed to hear.

“No need to reinstate me. But this pardon…”

Revenant cut him off.

“I don’t need a pardon. Charge me with murder. Make up a reason—embezzlement or bribery would work. Just don’t connect this to Into the Deep.”

Walter Stone, shocked, yelled out.

“…What? Why?”

“That way, Ian will see me as nothing but a killer. Ian doesn’t need to remember why I killed Marcus Winchell. If he remembers everything, he’ll remember what happened between him and Marcus Winchell. And I can’t let that happen.”

Neither Stone nor Oakley understood.

“What do you…?”

“This way, it’s something Ian can live with.”

Stone shouted, looking as if he mourned on Revenant’s behalf.

“That’s ridiculous! Why would you have to… take that burden? Marcus Winchell is one of those murders!”

Revenant’s answer was simple and clear.

“Because it’s better for Ian.”

“But… But didn’t Ian love you? If he thinks you killed his stepfather over something trivial, like dirty money…”

“That’s better.”

“Why are you so certain?”

Revenant knew because he remembered that night. He’d never forgotten Ian’s words.

“Ian… Ian felt guilty towards me. Can you believe that?”

Revenant’s face twisted with disbelief. Stone could hardly comprehend it either. The emotions between Ian and Revenant weren’t typical. If Ian truly loved Revenant, guilt would be natural.

“Because he thought you became a killer for him? Anyone would feel guilty over that. Especially if…”

Revenant’s face froze at Stone’s words. Stone instinctively recoiled, a chill spreading down his spine.

Revenant’s slightly parted lips revealed his white teeth. In that moment, Stone saw a beast, poised to attack, to rip out the throat of the human before it. Revenant’s blue eyes gleamed, veins pulsed on his neck, and his knuckles stood out, clenched tightly—a barely contained murderous intent.

“No one talks about Ian like that in front of me.”

Sweat beaded on Stone’s forehead.

“Se… Se…”

“Don’t. Say. Another. Word.”

Revenant closed his eyes. He thought of Ian’s pale hand in the darkness, clutching the gun’s cold barrel.

Ian had said, “I’m sorry, Leo. I didn’t mean to do this.” That pale hand trembled with regret, hanging onto the trigger. But Ian had handed him the gun.

Ian had said, “I’m sorry, Leo. I… I never meant to hurt you…”

It was unbelievable. Of anyone, Ian had the strongest reason to want Marcus Winchell dead.

“No, I couldn’t… I could never hurt you, Leo… I couldn’t… I wouldn’t have done it.”

Ian’s face had that boyish innocence, like when he’d received the phone with Leo’s recorded alarm message, looking like a boy in love, desperate for forgiveness.

That man… because he was Leo’s father…

The gun pressed to his heart wasn’t the thing suffocating him—it was Ian’s dark, hollow eyes. Revenant turned, pointing his gun at Marcus Winchell, the beast that had given him beastly blood—his biological father.

Bang!

The killing ended, but something remained unfinished. The beastly blood coursing through him would never stop. He was no different from Marcus Winchell. As Ian’s pale face emerged in the darkness, Revenant felt both relieved and satisfied. He could never fully separate his actions for Ian from his actions for himself.

Ian had screamed, “Run, Leo! I’ll say it was me. I can’t let you become a killer because of me. Run!”

Through Ian, Revenant realized he didn’t seek salvation. He wanted to remain a beast and possess Ian—to bite, chew, and make him a part of his flesh, to own him forever.

It was a feeling no human should have towards the boy their father had violated.

Walter Stone swallowed audibly.

“Winchell… Senior…”

Leonardo Winchell.

That had once been Revenant’s real name. Ian was the stepbrother adopted by his father, the same father who had assaulted Ian, and whom Revenant had killed. He slept with his amnesiac brother.

-There’s no turning back. That means I’m going to become a real beast.

Ian would never understand what that meant, nor would he know that he, too, had crossed an irreversible river. If Revenant could keep Ian safe in ignorance, it was a price worth paying. Revenant had sacrificed everything for Ian—his name, his past, and what remained of his humanity. Becoming a killer was a small price for lying with Ian. He willingly became a beast.

The only wish he had left was for Ian to remain ignorant. As long as he vanished here, as a murderer, Ian’s memories would be frozen as well.

“Prosecute me. In a state with the death penalty. Leonardo Winchell will officially die.”

The Leo Ian loved would die, a traitor who’d killed his stepfather. Revenant, as Revenant Matthais, would live in the beast’s kingdom. No further connection was needed.

Revenant felt content, as if he’d eaten his fill. But that mistake—going to see Ian after hearing he’d struggled financially after his mother’s death—had been a slip. If he’d wanted to be an anonymous benefactor, there were other ways.

But it wasn’t a mistake. In the end, he’d had Ian. He hadn’t consumed him fully, but that was fine. Confessing to being a beast here in the CIA’s interrogation room was a small price.

“I understand.”

Director Oakley nodded heavily.

“So you’re running away…”

“Yes.”

There was no shame in running away. He didn’t need to pretend to feel human guilt. He was running from Ian—from the last sanctuary he’d possessed.

Satisfied, he relaxed, the tension easing. It was always Ian who relaxed him.

“I’ll prosecute you, as you requested. For now, you’ll be held here. You know the rules; only your lawyer will be allowed to see you.”

Director Oakley rose, urging Walter Stone, who still seemed reluctant, to follow suit. Revenant knew it was for the best—for everyone, as long as “everyone” meant only Ian.

“As you wish.”

“I’ll need time to handle Justice and Defense. If Eduard causes trouble in the meantime, it’s on you. And you owe me. Remember that.”

“I’ll handle it my way.”

“Good.”

Oakley gestured to a reluctant Walter Stone, signaling him to leave the interrogation room.

Now, Revenant’s final task was to erase Leonardo Winchell from this earth completely.

But things didn’t go as Revenant had planned. Director Oakley had just reached the door when he received a call from the FBI. Handing him the CIA’s secure phone, Oakley’s face darkened.

After hanging up, Oakley turned back to Revenant, his face as grim as if it could crack.

“A red alert’s been triggered on the deep web. It’s a hit.”

“…”

Revenant didn’t respond, only stared at Oakley, dread creeping over him.

“The code is ‘Pretty One.’”

In that moment, Revenant realized that, in his rush to protect Ian, he’d missed something crucial.

Just because Ian’s memories had stopped didn’t mean he was safe. There were still too many beasts in the deep web’s murky depths who remembered Ian.