Billions of eyes were fixed on their screens.
From grand news studios to dimly lit apartments, from crowded town squares to war rooms filled with government officials—everyone was watching history unfold.
The first manned mission to Mars. A single astronaut, chosen against all odds.
For months, the world had speculated about him. Theories flooded every corner of the internet. Who was he? How had a C-Rank astronaut—a man with no prior fame—outperformed the best in the world?
But as the live feed continued, the excitement of history being made turned into something else.
The screen showed the interior of the spacecraft. Mr. Angel, clad in his sleek astronaut suit, was strapped into his seat, the control panel flickering wildly with red alerts.
But it wasn't just the failing ship that caught the world's attention.
Not a relieved chuckle. Not the composed, enigmatic demeanor the world had come to expect.
This was something else.
A fractured, breathless cackle, his voice raw and uneven. His body twisted in his seat, his golden-lined mask glinting in the dim emergency lights.
"Dust, my S-Rank friend, you seeing this? What kind of garbage is this?!"
The world held its breath.
There was no S-Rank named Mr. Dust.
The name wasn't unfamiliar—Mr. Dust was listed as B-Rank, a known but unremarkable figure in the grand scheme of things. But now, Mr. Angel was calling him S-Rank?
The highest level of mastery. A title only given to individuals who had shattered every limit of their profession.
Mr. Dust was supposed to be a detective. A good one, certainly, but not a legend.
And yet, Mr. Angel was speaking as if he was standing right there.
A hushed murmur spread across the newsrooms. Reporters exchanged quick glances. Governments scrambled to confirm their databases.
Had the system been wrong?
Had the Masked Syndicate—whatever it was—been hiding the truth?
The tension only grew when Mr. Angel turned again, his masked face tilting as if acknowledging someone else.
"Fox! You gonna help, or just watch me crash and burn?"
Another masked figure.
And this time, the world knew who he was.
Mr. Fox had once been C-Rank. A firefighter who had seemingly come from nowhere, earning an A-Rank reevaluation in record time. A man who had been praised for heroic feats, but still... just a firefighter.
Nothing about him had ever suggested he was anything more.
Yet Mr. Angel spoke to him like an equal.
Like someone who belonged to something far greater.
The Masked Syndicate.
A term no one had ever heard before.
A name no civilian had ever spoken.
"The World President."
The reaction was instantaneous.
Governments scrambled. Officials stood so abruptly their chairs clattered to the floor.
Civilians, unaware of the weight of those words, simply watched in confusion as Mr. Angel's voice turned to venom.
"YOU SIT ON YOUR THRONE OF LIES, THINKING YOU'RE UNTOUCHABLE!"
In high-security war rooms, world leaders and intelligence directors exchanged alarmed looks.
Civilians still didn't understand.
The World President. The hidden figure at the peak of power. A man—or entity—known only to the highest ranks of government.
A secret that should have never left their walls.
And yet here was Mr. Angel, screaming his name to billions.
"BUT YOUR TIME IS COMING!"
His voice cracked, raw with fury.
"YOUR SYSTEM IS ROTTING!"
Every news station played his words on repeat, journalists stumbling over themselves to make sense of it.
Who was the World President?
What was the Masked Syndicate?
"AND WHEN THE MASKS COME FOR YOU—"
The camera shook violently.
The ship was spiraling.
"THERE WILL BE NOWHERE LEFT TO HIDE!"
The screen showed only static.
The entire world seemed to stop breathing at once.
Online forums exploded. Social media collapsed under the weight of speculation.
"What the hell did we just watch?!"
"Did he just say Mr. Dust is S-Rank???"
"WHO IS THE WORLD PRESIDENT?!"
Governments scrambled to regain control of the narrative.
News anchors fumbled for words.
"W-We seem to have lost contact with Mr. Angel's spacecraft," one of them stammered. "Uh—w-we don't know if—"
Another reporter cut in, visibly shaken. "Was that—was that an attack? Was this sabotage?"
In the streets, people whispered in fear.
Some dismissed it. A madman's ramblings.
Others weren't so sure.
In a quiet apartment, far away from the war rooms and broadcast stations, two women sat in silence.
Sienna's hands trembled. Her breath was uneven. The screen before her had gone dark.
It was 15 minutes behind real time.
If he had died, if the ship had truly crashed, it had already happened.
Camille, beside her, was deathly still. Her usual smirk, her usual confidence—it was gone.
For the first time, she had no words.
Sienna's hands gripped the fabric of her shirt so tightly her knuckles turned white. She refused to cry. She refused.
Then—she felt Camille shift beside her.
Camille's fingers curled around her own, squeezing tightly.
"Hold out for hope," Camille whispered, her voice hoarse.
Sienna turned, only to see tears running down Camille's face, too.
She wasn't sure who broke first.
But when the sobs finally came, they didn't stop.