The Vision
Bradley Crawford stood at the window of Schwarz’s safehouse, watching Tokyo’s neon lights blur in the rain. Behind him, Schuldig lounged on the couch, tossing playing cards into an empty wine bottle with lazy precision. Farfarello sharpened his knives in the corner with ritualistic care, the rhythmic scrape of steel on whetstone a familiar backdrop. Nagi sat cross-legged on the floor, textbooks spread around him like he was just another high school student cramming for exams instead of a telekinetic assassin.
His team. His weapon. His responsibility.
The vision hit him without warning.
Blood pooling on concrete floors. Schuldig’s psychic scream cutting through Crawford’s mind like glass, then—silence. Terrible silence. Nagi’s small body crumpled against a wall, neck bent at an impossible angle. Farfarello finally, horrifically still, golden eye staring at nothing.
And Crawford himself—bound and kneeling before Rosenkreuz’s council. Alive. Rewarded. The Oracle who had eliminated his own compromised team before they could become a liability. Proof of his unwavering loyalty.
The council’s approval. A position of true power. Survival. Success.
The vision shifted. Another path. Crawford walking through rain toward Weiß. Surrendering. Dying. But in the fractured glimpses beyond his own death—Schuldig laughing in a cafe in Prague. Nagi in a university library, studying something other than killing. Farfarello with his face turned toward sunlight, almost peaceful.
Crawford’s hands spasmed on the windowsill, knuckles going white. The glass was cold beneath his palms but he felt nothing except the visions tearing through his mind, showing him futures branching like lightning—all the paths that led to survival, to power, to everything he’d worked for.
And the one path where he lost it all.
His breath came short, shallow. The room tilted. No. No, this couldn’t be the choice. There had to be another way, another timeline, something he’d missed—
“Brad?”
Crawford’s vision snapped back to the present. His hands were shaking. Actually shaking, visible tremors he couldn’t control. When had he last lost control like this?
He looked down at his hands like they belonged to someone else. Forced them still through sheer will, but he could feel the tremors running through his entire body now, adrenaline and shock and something else—something that felt dangerously close to fear.
“Crawford.” Schuldig’s voice was sharper now, concerned. The telepath was sitting up, cards forgotten. “What did you see?”
Crawford turned from the window slowly, carefully, assembling his expression into something neutral even as his mind raced. All three of them were looking at him now. Nagi had closed his textbook. Even Farfarello had stopped sharpening his knives, single golden eye fixed on Crawford with unnerving intensity.
They knew something was wrong. Of course they did. They knew him too well.
“A vision,” Crawford said. His voice came out steady, controlled. A small victory.
“We figured that much,” Schuldig said dryly, but there was worry beneath the sarcasm. “You want to share with the class? Or should I just—”
“Don’t.” The word came out sharper than Crawford intended. He took a breath, moderated his tone. “It’s… significant. Multiple branching paths. Complex variables.”
“Are we in danger?” Nagi asked quietly. The boy was too perceptive, too quick to sense threat.
Crawford looked at him—fifteen years old, still young enough to believe the world could be better than what Rosenkreuz had made them. Looked at Schuldig, who trusted Crawford enough to let him past his telepathic defenses. At Farfarello, who had finally found something like stability under Crawford’s command.
“There’s a path,” Crawford said slowly, choosing his words with surgical precision. “A future where Rosenkreuz and Takatori’s operation is exposed. Destroyed. Where we’re caught in the crossfire.”
“How bad?” Schuldig’s green eyes were intent, serious now.
“Terminal.”
The word hung in the air. Farfarello went back to sharpening his knife, but his movements were slower now, deliberate. Nagi’s face had gone very still.
“But it’s not the only path,” Crawford continued. “There are… other options. Choices that would ensure our survival. Our advancement, even.” He paused, let that sink in. “The question is what price we’re willing to pay.”
“What kind of price?” Schuldig asked warily.
Crawford turned back to the window, unable to look at them as he spoke the lie. “Timing. Positioning. Making certain moves before others do. Proving our loyalty to Rosenkreuz beyond question.” He kept his voice flat, analytical. “It would require eliminating potential threats before they become actual problems.”
“You mean betraying someone,” Nagi said. Not a question.
“I mean survival,” Crawford corrected. “Isn’t that what we’ve always done? Whatever’s necessary to survive?”
Schuldig was watching him with those too-knowing eyes. The German could sense emotions, even if Crawford kept his actual thoughts locked down. “This is bothering you more than usual.”
“Because the stakes are higher than usual.” Crawford turned to face them again, his expression cold and controlled—the Oracle, not the man. “But I’ve analyzed the variables. The path forward is clear.”
“So we’re doing it?” Nagi asked. “Whatever it takes?”
Crawford met his eyes. “When have I ever chosen differently?”
The boy nodded slowly, accepting this truth. They all did. Crawford had always chosen their survival over sentiment, practicality over morality. Why should this be any different?
“When?” Farfarello asked, his single eye gleaming with interest.
“Soon.” Crawford reached for his coat. “I need to verify a few details first. Confirm the timeline.”
“In this weather?” Schuldig gestured to the rain-lashed window. “Where are you going?”
“To ensure the future I’ve chosen is the right one.” Crawford shrugged into his coat, not quite meeting any of their eyes. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”
“Want company?” Schuldig started to stand.
“No.” Too sharp again. Crawford moderated his tone, allowed himself a small, cold smile. “This is something I need to handle personally. Trust me.”
And they did. He could see it in their faces—the absolute certainty that Crawford would do whatever was necessary to protect Schwarz. That the Oracle always knew the winning move.
Schuldig settled back onto the couch. “Don’t take too long. We should start planning.”
“Of course.” Crawford moved toward the door, pulling on his gloves with steady hands. The shaking had stopped. His control was back in place, iron-hard and unyielding.
At the door, he paused and looked back at them. Schuldig sprawled on the couch, already planning their next moves with that sharp, tactical mind. Nagi gathering his textbooks, trusting that Crawford would handle whatever needed handling. Farfarello returning to his knives with something like contentment.
His team. His family, though he’d never spoken the word aloud.
Crawford allowed himself one moment—just one—to memorize this scene. The three of them, alive and whole and trusting him completely.
Then he smiled. It was a small smile, calculated and cold. The smile of a man who’d just seen his path to power and was willing to pay the price for it.
The Walk
Crawford walked into the rain, closing the door softly behind him.
The visions came immediately, cascading through his mind in fragments and flashes. Futures branching and collapsing, possibilities blooming and dying with every breath. He let them flow through him as he walked, his stride measured and purposeful despite the chaos in his head.
Tokyo’s streets were nearly empty at this hour, the rain driving most people indoors. Crawford walked alone, his coat already soaked through, water running down his face and neck. The cold should have registered—it was autumn rain, biting and unpleasant—but he felt nothing. His body was somewhere distant, a vessel carrying him forward while his mind existed in a dozen different timelines at once.
A future discarded. Another examined and set aside. The threads of possibility narrowing with each step.
He walked for blocks, his path taking him through back streets and alleys where the neon didn’t quite reach. The rain fell harder, soaking through to his skin, but Crawford’s pace never faltered. He was barely aware of the physical world anymore. His consciousness existed in that space between present and future, watching paths unfold and collapse, choosing which threads to follow and which to sever.
The link to Schuldig was there, always there—a constant presence at the back of his mind that had become so familiar he barely noticed it anymore. The German’s telepathy created a connection between all of them, a web that let the team function as a single unit. Crawford had learned long ago to maintain just enough presence in that link to seem normal without revealing his deeper thoughts.
Now, as he walked, he carefully dampened it further. Not cutting it—not yet—but reducing it to barely a whisper. Schuldig would assume he was concentrating on his visions, lost in precognitive calculations. The telepath was used to Crawford going quiet when he was analyzing complex futures.
Another future examined. Another path refined.
Crawford’s feet carried him through the rain, his body knowing the way even as his mind worked through probabilities and outcomes. His destination was still twenty minutes away. Fifteen. Ten.
The visions crystallized, becoming sharper and more certain as the moment of decision approached. He could see the paths clearly now—all the futures he was choosing, all the ones he was abandoning. The mathematical certainty of what would happen next, who would live, who would die.
His hands clenched in his pockets. The only external sign of the magnitude of what he was doing.
Five minutes away now. Three.
Schuldig’s alarm hit him like a spike through the skull.
The telepath had noticed. Had finally realized that Crawford wasn’t just dampening the link—he was preparing to sever it completely. Confusion flooded through the connection, sharp and questioning. Brad? What are you—
Crawford stopped walking.
He stood in the rain, and felt Schuldig’s growing panic through their link. The German was trying to reach deeper, trying to understand what Crawford was planning. In moments, he would see. Would know.
Crawford took a breath. Then another.
His team couldn’t see what he was doing. Couldn’t know. If they knew, they would try to stop him.
He couldn’t allow that.
The decision was final. Had always been final, from the moment he’d seen the vision. Everything since had just been the space between seeing and acting.
Crawford severed the link.
It wasn’t clean. Couldn’t be clean. The connection between them had existed for years, woven so deeply into his consciousness that cutting it felt like tearing away part of himself. He felt Schuldig’s shock, his sudden desperate attempt to reach back, to reestablish contact—
Crawford slammed down his mental shields with brutal finality.
Silence. For the first time in years, his mind was completely his own. No gentle presence of Schuldig’s telepathy, no sense of his team existing somewhere in Tokyo, alive and whole. Just silence and the sound of rain.
His hands were shaking again. Crawford forced them still.
Crawford’s feet moved forward again, carrying him through the rain.
He crossed the final street. Climbed the steps. Stood before the door with rain streaming down his face and his mental shields locked so tight that nothing could get in or out.
Somewhere behind him, Schuldig would be losing his mind. Would be screaming Crawford’s name into the void of the severed link. Would be rallying Nagi and Farfarello, preparing to tear Tokyo apart to find him.
But they wouldn’t. Not in time. Crawford had seen to that, planned every detail. By the time they found him—if they found him—it would be too late.
Crawford raised his hand and knocked on the door.
The sound seemed too loud in the quiet street, too final. He stood there, water dripping from his coat, his shields locked tight, his team cut off from him completely.
And waited for death to answer.
Surrender
The flower shop was dark, closed for the night. But Crawford knew they were upstairs—could see the faint glow of lights through the upper windows. Four assassins pretending to be florists, living above their cover like ordinary men.
He’d left his gun at the safehouse. Left his knife. Even the razor wire he sometimes carried in his coat pocket was gone. He stood before their door with nothing but the clothes on his back, soaked through with rain, weaponless by choice.
Crawford raised his hand and knocked.
For a moment, nothing. Just the sound of rain and his own heartbeat, too loud in his ears. Then footsteps on the stairs—quick, purposeful. Angry. The door lock clicked with finality.
The door exploded open.
Aya Fujimiya filled the doorway like vengeance made flesh, katana already drawn and gleaming in the streetlight. Rain caught on the blade’s edge, running down the steel like tears or blood. Violet eyes locked onto Crawford’s face and blazed with instant, absolute recognition.
And hatred. Such hatred.
“You.”
The single word carried years of rage, of grief, of nights spent hunting the men who’d destroyed his family. Crawford saw his own death in those eyes—saw how much Aya wanted to cut him down, here and now, without questions or hesitation.
Crawford kept his hands at his sides. Deliberately visible. Deliberately empty. “I need to speak with Weiß.”
The katana moved faster than thought—a silver blur that ended with cold steel pressed against Crawford’s throat. Not hovering. Not threatening. Actually touching, the razor edge biting just enough that Crawford felt his skin part, felt the warm kiss of his own blood beginning to flow.
Aya’s hand was rock-steady. His face was carved from ice and fury. “You need to die.”
Crawford didn’t move. Couldn’t move. The blade was positioned perfectly—one twitch, one flinch, and it would open his throat. He could feel his pulse beating against the steel, each heartbeat a small movement that made the edge bite fractionally deeper.
“Perhaps.” Crawford’s voice came out steady despite the blade at his throat, despite feeling his blood start to run. “But first, I need to speak with your team.”
“Give me one reason.” Aya’s voice was soft now, deadly soft. The kind of quiet that preceded execution. “One reason I shouldn’t end you right here.”
“Because I have information you want.”
“Information?” Aya’s laugh was bitter, jagged. “You think I care about information? You think anything you could say matters more than watching you bleed out on my doorstep?”
Crawford felt the blade press harder. Felt more blood flow, warm against the cold rain soaking his skin. “I think you care about destroying the people who killed your family.”
Aya’s eyes widened fractionally—surprise, then sharper rage. The blade bit deeper. Crawford felt it cut further, felt the sharp sting as the edge found nerve endings, but he didn’t flinch.
“You killed my family,” Aya said, and his voice cracked. Just slightly. Just enough that Crawford heard the grief beneath the rage.
“Yes.”
Behind Aya, footsteps thundered on the stairs. The others appeared—Yohji with wire already singing between his fingers, Ken with bugnuks gleaming on his fists, Omi with a crossbow raised and aimed at Crawford’s chest.
“What the fuck?” Yohji’s voice was sharp with shock. “Is that—”
“Crawford,” Aya confirmed, not looking away from Crawford’s face. “Come to die.”
“Then let him,” Ken snarled, moving down the stairs like a predator. “Cut his throat and be done with it.”
“Wait.” Omi’s voice cut through, young but commanding. “Why is he here? Alone? Unarmed?”
“Does it matter?” Ken demanded.
“It might.” Omi moved closer, crossbow still trained on Crawford. “Crawford doesn’t make mistakes. If he’s here, if he’s weaponless, if he’s letting Aya hold a blade to his throat—there’s a reason.”
“The reason is I’m going to kill him,” Aya said flatly.
“Then do it.” Yohji’s voice was hard. “One less Schwarz to worry about.”
Crawford felt the blade press harder still. The edge was sharp enough that he barely felt it cutting, only the warmth of blood flowing more freely. This was the moment—the critical junction where futures branched. Where Aya either killed him now, or let him speak.
“I have information,” Crawford said, voice rougher now. “On Rosenkreuz. On Takatori. Everything.”
“We don’t negotiate with Schwarz,” Aya said.
“I’m not negotiating.” Crawford kept his eyes locked on Aya’s despite the pain, despite the blood running freely down his neck. “I’m offering.”
“Offering what?” Aya’s hand didn’t waver. “Your life? It’s already mine. I could take it right now.”
“Then take it.” Crawford’s voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “Cut my throat. Watch me bleed out. Get your revenge. But know that if you do, you lose everything else. Every chance to destroy the people who gave me the orders. Every opportunity to stop them from creating more weapons, more killers, more orphans like your sister.”
Aya’s breath hitched. The blade trembled—just fractionally, just for a heartbeat—before steadying again.
“You don’t get to talk about my sister,” Aya said, and his voice was raw now, broken. “You don’t get to use her name to save yourself.”
“I’m not trying to save myself,” Crawford said. “I’m trying to save them.”
“Them?” Ken moved closer, suspicious. “Who?”
“My team.” Crawford swallowed carefully. The movement made the blade cut deeper, made fresh blood flow. “I need immunity for my team.”
The silence that followed was absolute. Even the rain seemed to quiet.
“You want us to give Schwarz immunity?” Yohji’s voice was thick with disbelief. “After everything you’ve done?”
“Yes.”
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Ken demanded. “Your team has killed dozens of people. Hundreds, maybe. And you think we’re going to just let them walk?”
“I think you want to destroy Takatori Reiji,” Crawford said steadily. “I think you want to burn Rosenkreuz to the ground. I think you’d do anything to stop them from hurting anyone else.” He paused, held Aya’s gaze. “And I can give you that. All of it. Every location, every operation, every piece of evidence you need to tear them apart completely.”
“In exchange for letting murderers go free,” Aya said coldly.
“Yes.”
The blade bit deeper. Crawford felt it cut, felt blood running more freely down his neck now. His body wanted to pull back instinctively, but he held himself still.
“My family,” Aya whispered. “My parents. My sister. Do you remember them, Crawford?”
“I didn’t.” Crawford’s voice was steady, brutally honest. “Not until I saw you. Not until I knew I’d need to face you. Then I researched them. Read the files. Looked at the photos. Your father’s research. Your mother’s smile. Your sister’s piano recital schedule.” He paused. “They were just a mission before. Just targets. I killed them and moved on to the next operation.”
The raw honesty hit harder than any excuse would have. Aya’s breath caught, his face twisting with fresh pain.
“And still you came here,” Aya said, voice breaking. “Still you expect me to—”
“I don’t expect anything,” Crawford interrupted quietly. “I know what I am. What I’ve done. I killed your family and didn’t even remember them until I needed something from you. That’s the truth.” His eyes met Aya’s. “Why should you let me live? You shouldn’t. Why should you let my team live after what we did?”
“You shouldn’t.” Crawford kept his voice steady despite the blade, despite the blood. “You should kill me. You have every right. But—” His voice cracked. “But they deserve better. Schuldig was six when Rosenkreuz found him. Nagi was seven. They didn’t choose this. They were made into weapons before they could understand what it meant.”
“That’s not an excuse,” Ken said harshly.
“No.” Crawford’s voice was barely audible now. “It’s not. But it’s the truth. And if you kill me now, if you reject this—Rosenkreuz will kill them. Takatori will kill them. They’ll die because I failed them.” His eyes locked on Aya’s, desperate now, the Oracle’s perfect control completely shattered. “Please. I’m begging you. Take what I’m offering. Destroy Rosenkreuz. Destroy Takatori. And let my team live.”
“And what about you?” Aya asked, voice strange. “Where do you fit in this deal?”
Crawford’s laugh was bitter, broken. “I don’t. I know exactly what happens to me after you’ve used what I give you. I’ve seen it. Every moment.”
Aya stared at him. The blade remained at Crawford’s throat, but something shifted in his expression. “You’re willing to die. For them.”
“Yes.”
“They’re killers.”
“Yes.”
“And you love them.” Not a question.
“They’re my family.” Crawford’s voice cracked completely. “The only family I have. And I’d rather die than watch them be destroyed when I could have prevented it.”
Aya increased the pressure of the blade. Crawford gasped as it cut deeper, as blood poured more freely. The danger was immediate and real—one wrong move, one decision from Aya, and his throat would be opened completely.
And still he didn’t move. Didn’t try to escape. Didn’t reach for a weapon he didn’t have.
Yohji swore softly. Ken’s expression had shifted from anger to something more complicated. Even Omi looked shaken.
Aya studied Crawford’s face—the blood running down his neck, the absolute steadiness in his eyes, the way he stood motionless and accepting despite the blade that could end him with a single movement.
“This isn’t a trick,” Aya said slowly. Not a question. A realization. “You really are willing to die for them.”
The blade lowered. Just slightly. Just enough that Crawford could breathe without choking on his own blood.
“Get inside,” Aya said quietly. “Before I change my mind.”
Crawford stumbled across the threshold. His neck was bleeding freely, blood soaking his collar and shirt. His hands were shaking at his sides. He had no weapons, no backup, no escape plan.
Just the certainty that this was the only path. The only future where Schwarz survived.
Even if he wouldn’t be there to see it.
Yohji moved behind him, wire ready. Ken circled to his other side, bugnuks gleaming. Omi kept the crossbow trained on his back. Aya closed the door and locked it with a definitive click.
“Downstairs,” Aya ordered, gesturing with his blood-stained katana toward the basement stairs. “We have questions. A lot of questions. And if we don’t like your answers…”
He didn’t finish the threat. Didn’t need to.
Crawford walked toward the basement stairs, four assassins at his back, blood running down his neck and soaking his clothes, walking voluntarily into the death he’d seen so clearly in his visions.
His team would live. That was all that mattered.
Even if the price was everything he was.
The Interrogation
They bound him to a chair in the basement. Professional, efficient. Crawford didn’t resist. The rope bit into his wrists, tied with the kind of knots that would only tighten if he struggled. His ankles were secured to the chair legs. They took his glasses, leaving the world slightly blurred at the edges.
“Start talking,” Aya ordered, standing directly in front of him, katana still drawn.
Crawford took a breath and began. He laid out the basic structure of Rosenkreuz—the council of elders, the training facilities scattered across Europe, the way they identified and acquired psychic children. He gave them names, positions, operational hierarcharies.
Weiß listened in silence. Omi took notes, his young face serious and focused. Yohji leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching Crawford with cynical eyes. Ken paced, restless energy barely contained. Aya stood motionless, a statue carved from ice and fury.
Crawford spoke for over an hour. His throat grew dry, but no one offered water.
When he finally paused, Yohji laughed—a harsh, disbelieving sound. “That’s a hell of a story, Crawford. Real detailed. Almost too detailed.”
“It’s the truth.”
“Or it’s exactly what you want us to believe.” Yohji pushed off the wall, circling behind Crawford’s chair. “You’re the Oracle, right? You see the future. So you knew we’d be suspicious. You knew what kind of information we’d find convincing. This could all be an elaborate setup.”
“Why would I set you up?” Crawford kept his voice level. “What could I possibly gain?”
“That’s what we’re going to find out.” Ken stopped pacing, cracking his knuckles. “See, the thing is, we’ve dealt with Schwarz before. We know how you operate. Manipulation, misdirection, always three steps ahead. So why should we believe anything you say?”
“Because I have nothing to gain from lying.”
“Except our trust,” Omi said quietly, looking up from his notes. “Which you could use against us later.”
Crawford had expected suspicion. Had seen it in his visions. But knowing it was coming didn’t make it easier to face. “Then verify what I’ve told you. Contact Kritiker. Cross-reference the information. I can wait.”
“Oh, you’ll wait,” Aya said, voice cold as winter. “But while Kritiker checks your story, you’re going to tell us everything. Every operation Schwarz has run. Every target you’ve eliminated. Every person you’ve killed.” He leaned down until his face was inches from Crawford’s. “And you’re going to tell us about my family.”
The first three hours were just questions. Relentless, repeated, circling back to catch contradictions. They wanted operational details—dates, locations, methods. They wanted to know about Schuldig’s telepathy range, Nagi’s telekinetic limits, Farfarello’s pain tolerance and religious fixations.
Crawford answered everything. Betraying Schwarz’s capabilities felt like knives in his chest, but he’d already made his choice. His team’s survival was worth any betrayal, any pain.
“Tell me about my family,” Aya demanded. “What was Schwarz’s involvement?”
Crawford met his eyes steadily. “Your father was investigating Takatori’s financial dealings. He found connections to Rosenkreuz. We were ordered to eliminate the threat. I coordinated the operation. Schuldig created the psychological pressure. Nagi arranged the mechanical failure.”
“And my sister? My mother?”
“Collateral damage. Rosenkreuz wanted to send a message—that no one investigating their operations was safe.”
Aya’s knuckles were white on his katana’s hilt. “Do you regret it?”
“No.” Crawford’s voice was flat, honest. “I regret many things, Fujimiya, but not that I survived. Your family died because I chose my survival over their lives. That’s the truth. I’m a killer. I’ve been a killer since I was eight years old and Rosenkreuz found me. I’ve done what was necessary to stay alive, to keep my team alive. I won’t apologize for surviving.”
The brutal honesty seemed to surprise them.
“At least he’s not pretending to be sorry,” Ken muttered.
“Doesn’t make him trustworthy,” Yohji countered. “Makes him a sociopath who admits what he is.”
But Weiß wasn’t satisfied with answers alone.
“He’s too calm,” Ken observed, watching Crawford’s face. “Too controlled. It’s like he rehearsed all this.”
“Because I knew you’d ask,” Crawford said. “I’ve seen this interrogation.”
“Then you knew we wouldn’t believe you.” Yohji moved behind the chair again. “You knew we’d need more than just words.”
The wire came out of nowhere, wrapping around Crawford’s wrist where it was tied to the chair arm. Yohji pulled it tight—not enough to cut skin, but enough that Crawford felt the circulation constrict, felt his fingers start to tingle and go numb.
“Let’s try this again,” Yohji said conversationally. “Tell us about the Takatori operation. The real version, not the sanitized one.”
Crawford’s jaw tightened, but he spoke through it. He described how they’d identified Reiji Takatori as a potential asset, how Rosenkreuz had arranged his rise to power, how Schwarz had eliminated obstacles to his ambitions. He named politicians they’d blackmailed, business rivals they’d destroyed, journalists who’d gotten too close to the truth.
Yohji loosened the wire. Blood rushed back into Crawford’s hand, painful and tingling.
“Better,” Yohji said. “But still not good enough. You could’ve gotten that information anywhere. We need proof you’re really betraying Rosenkreuz, not just feeding us what they want us to know.”
“What kind of proof?” Crawford asked, though he already knew the answer.
Ken stepped forward, brass knuckles catching the light. “The kind that tells us you’re not doing this because you want to. The kind that says this is costing you something real.”
The first punch caught Crawford in the ribs—precise, controlled, hitting the spot that would hurt without causing serious damage. He grunted, breath knocked out of him.
“Tell us about Schwarz’s safe houses,” Ken demanded. “All of them. Not just the ones you think we already know about.”
Crawford gave them three locations. Ken hit him again, same spot. Pain bloomed across his ribs.
“That’s three. You have at least six. Stop holding back.”
Crawford gave them two more addresses. Ken stepped back, satisfied for now.
This was how it went. Questions and pain, truth extracted inch by inch. Yohji’s wire cutting circulation, making Crawford’s hands go numb and clumsy. Ken’s fists finding nerve clusters, pressure points, places that hurt viciously without leaving obvious marks. Even Omi participated, his questions clinical and detached, asking about psychological profiles and operational planning with the same tone someone might use to discuss the weather.
Hours passed. Crawford lost track of time. His body ached, his throat was raw from talking. The rope around his wrists had rubbed the skin raw. His ribs throbbed with every breath. But still, some core of control remained—the Oracle’s perfect composure, built over years of necessity and survival.
Crawford endured it all with grim determination. The pain was irrelevant. He’d been tortured before, by Rosenkreuz trainers who believed suffering built character. This was nothing he couldn’t handle.
“He’s still holding back,” Yohji observed. “Look at him. He’s in pain, sure, but he’s managing it. He’s had worse.”
“Much worse,” Crawford confirmed. “Rosenkreuz’s training was thorough. If you think this will break me, you’re wasting your time.”
“Arrogant bastard,” Ken growled, but there was a hint of respect in his voice.
“Realistic,” Crawford corrected. “I came here knowing what you’d do. I’ve seen every method of interrogation you’re capable of. Pain doesn’t frighten me. Death doesn’t frighten me. I’ve accepted both.”
“Then what does frighten you?” Aya asked quietly.
Crawford didn’t answer.
Breaking
They took a break after six hours. Omi brought water—which Crawford drank gratefully—and they stepped into the corner to confer in low voices. Crawford watched them through swollen eyes, his body a map of pain, but his mind still clear and focused.
He knew what was coming. Had seen it in his visions. This was the moment that mattered.
Aya turned back to him, and Crawford saw the decision in his eyes.
“Kritiker checked your information,” Aya said. “Some of it is accurate. The safe houses exist, some of the names check out. But it’s not enough.”
Crawford felt something cold settle in his chest. “What do you mean?”
“I mean we don’t believe you.” Aya’s voice was flat, final. “This could all be a long-term manipulation. Feed us real information, gain our trust, wait for us to commit—then spring whatever trap you’ve really planned.”
“I’m not—”
“We’re done here.” Aya sheathed his katana with a decisive click. “We’ll pass your information to Kritiker, let them decide what to do with it. As for you…” He paused. “We’ll hand you over to them as well. Let them interrogate you properly.”
“And Schwarz?” Crawford’s voice was steady, but something shifted in his expression.
“What about them?” Ken asked.
“The deal was immunity for my team. In exchange for my cooperation.”
“There is no deal,” Yohji said. “Because we don’t trust you. Which means your team is still enemy combatants.” He shrugged. “Kritiker will handle them the usual way.”
Crawford’s control finally cracked. “No. That wasn’t—the visions showed—”
“The visions showed wrong,” Aya interrupted. “Or you interpreted them wrong. Either way, we’re not making deals with Schwarz. Your team will be hunted down and eliminated. Just like they would have been anyway.”
“You can’t.” Crawford’s voice was rising now, control slipping. “They’re not the threat. I am. I’m the one who made the decisions, planned the operations. They just followed orders—”
“Like you followed Rosenkreuz’s orders?” Aya’s voice was cold. “That’s not an excuse, Crawford. They’re killers, just like you. They’ve murdered innocents, destroyed families, served Takatori’s ambitions. Why should they walk free?”
“Because they didn’t have a choice!” Crawford was pulling against the ropes now, ignoring the pain as they cut into his wrists. “Rosenkreuz took them as children, trained them, broke them. Schuldig was six years old when they found him. Nagi was seven. Farfarello—” His voice cracked. “They made us into weapons. But they can still be saved. They can still have lives, futures—”
“And all those people they killed?” Ken demanded. “What about their futures?”
“I know!” Crawford shouted. “I know what we’ve done. I know what I’ve done. I’ve seen every victim, every life destroyed. I remember all of them. But I can’t undo the past. The only thing I can do is stop it from happening again. Stop Rosenkreuz from creating more weapons, stop Takatori from using them. And I can save three people who never chose this life, who were forced into it before they were old enough to understand what it meant.”
“Why should we care?” Aya asked. “Why should we save your team when you killed mine?”
“Because they’re innocent!” Crawford was beyond control now, beyond the Oracle’s perfect composure. “They’re victims of the same system that killed your family. Rosenkreuz creates killers, Fujimiya. They find children with power and they break them, train them, turn them into tools. Your family died because of that system. My team will die because of that system. But you have the power to stop it. You have the power to save them.”
“We have the power to kill them,” Yohji corrected. “Which is exactly what Kritiker will do.”
“No.” Crawford pulled harder against the ropes, blood now running from his wrists. “No, you don’t understand. If you don’t believe me, if you don’t make the deal, they die. I’ve seen it. Rosenkreuz will find them, and they’ll execute them for my betrayal. Or Kritiker will hunt them down. Or they’ll try to rescue me and get killed in the attempt. Every future where you refuse ends with them dead.”
“Then you miscalculated,” Aya said simply. “You gambled on us believing you, and you lost.”
“Please.” The word was ripped from Crawford’s throat. “Please, I’ll give you anything. Everything. Every secret I know, every operation, every contact. I’ll testify against Rosenkreuz, I’ll help you destroy Takatori completely. I’ll let you kill me right now if that’s what you want. Just please, promise me they’ll be safe.”
The desperation in his voice was raw, undeniable. The Oracle who always knew the winning move was begging.
“Why?” Omi asked softly. “Why do they matter so much?”
“Because they’re mine!” Crawford’s voice broke completely. “Because Schuldig trusts me enough to let me into his mind even though he knows what I am. Because Nagi still looks at me like I’m someone worth following. Because Farfarello, who hates God for making him unable to feel pain, can feel my hand on his shoulder and knows he’s not alone.” Tears were streaming down his face now, cutting through the blood and dirt. “Because they’re the only family I’ve ever had, and I’d rather die a thousand times than watch them be destroyed for my choices.”
The basement fell silent except for Crawford’s ragged breathing.
“This is real,” Omi whispered. “Look at him. This is real.”
Crawford was shaking violently now, all pretense of control gone. Blood dripped from his wrists where he’d torn the skin fighting the ropes. His face was wet with tears and sweat and blood. The perfect Oracle had shattered completely, leaving only a desperate man pleading for the lives of the people he loved.
“I saw every version of this,” Crawford said, voice breaking. “I saw you refuse me. I saw my team die. I saw futures where I tried to save them alone and failed. I saw futures where I sacrificed them to save myself. This was the only path. The only one where they survived.” He looked up at Aya, eyes red and swollen. “I knew you’d hurt me. I knew you’d break me down. I accepted all of it because I thought—I thought if I gave you everything, if I held nothing back, you’d believe me. You’d see I was genuine.”
“We needed to see this,” Aya said quietly. “The desperation. The fear. Not for yourself—you weren’t afraid of the pain, the interrogation, even the death you knew was coming. But for them…” He stepped closer. “That’s real. That can’t be faked.”
Crawford stared at him, not daring to hope.
“You’re right,” Aya continued. “Your team didn’t choose this life. Rosenkreuz made them into weapons, just like they made you. And maybe…” He paused. “Maybe they deserve a chance to be something else.”
“You believe me?” Crawford’s voice was barely a whisper.
“We believe you love them,” Yohji said. “We believe you’d do anything to protect them. Whether that makes you trustworthy is still questionable, but…” He shrugged. “It makes you human.”
“Kritiker confirmed the first batch of information,” Omi added, checking his phone again. “The raids were successful. Everything you told us was accurate.”
“So we’re making the deal,” Ken said, though he didn’t sound happy about it. “Full cooperation from Crawford in exchange for immunity for the rest of Schwarz.”
Aya looked at Crawford for a long moment. “You understand what this means? You give us everything. Every secret, every operation, every piece of information that will help us destroy Rosenkreuz and Takatori. You work with Kritiker until the job is done. And when it’s finished…”
“You’ll kill me,” Crawford finished. “I know. I’ve always known.”
“And you accept that?”
“If they’re safe, I accept anything.”
Aya nodded slowly. “Then we have a deal.”
He moved behind the chair and cut the ropes. Crawford nearly collapsed, catching himself on numb, clumsy hands. He stayed there, kneeling on the concrete floor, shaking with exhaustion and relief and the aftermath of complete emotional devastation.
“Get him water,” Aya ordered. “And medical supplies. We need him functional.”
As Omi hurried upstairs, Crawford closed his eyes, letting the reality sink in. They believed him. His team would be safe. The price was his life, his dignity, his complete destruction—but he’d known that from the beginning.
The Oracle was gone, stripped away to reveal the man underneath. A man who’d done terrible things, who carried uncountable deaths on his conscience, but who loved his team enough to sacrifice everything for them.
Aya crouched in front of him, meeting his eyes at level.
“We believe you,” Aya said quietly. “But don’t think this means you’re forgiven. What you did to my family, to all your victims—that doesn’t go away just because you’re helping us now.”
“I know.” Crawford’s voice was wrecked, exhausted. “I’m not asking for forgiveness. I’m just asking for their safety.”
“You’ll have it. After this is over, your team walks away clean. They get new identities, new lives, a chance to be something other than Rosenkreuz’s weapons.” Aya paused. “But you won’t be there to see it.”
“I know,” Crawford repeated. “As long as they survive, that’s enough.”
Aya studied him for another moment, then nodded and stood. “Omi will patch you up. Then we start the real work.”
Crawford stayed kneeling on the floor, too exhausted to move. But for the first time since he’d seen that terrible vision of his team’s death, he felt something like peace.
They believed him. They would honor the deal. Schuldig, Nagi, Farfarello—they would live.
And if Crawford had to be broken, had to beg, had to give up every shred of pride and control to buy their survival, then that was a price he’d pay gladly.
The Oracle had fallen. But his team would rise.
That was all that mattered.
The Long Game
The operation took three months.
At first, the days had stretched endlessly. Each interrogation session, each briefing with Kritiker’s analysts, each night locked in a room that was a cell in all but name—they had felt infinite, unbearable. Crawford had counted every hour, every minute, knowing that somewhere out there his team was searching for him, that every moment he delayed increased the risk they’d do something reckless.
But then Rosenkreuz began to fall. The first safe house raid. The first financial network exposed. The first high-ranking operative captured.
And suddenly time was flowing. Racing. Rushing toward the end like water down a drain.
Three months to destroy an organization that had existed for decades. Three months to dismantle Takatori’s empire. Three months until Crawford’s usefulness expired.
Three months until Aya killed him.
Kritiker’s analysts hated him.
Crawford had expected suspicion. Had expected hostility. What he hadn’t expected was the sheer depth of their contempt, the way they looked at him like something diseased, the way they made every interaction as difficult as possible.
“These coordinates are wrong,” one analyst said, throwing the documents back at Crawford. “Either you’re incompetent or you’re sabotaging us.”
Crawford looked at the pages. The coordinates were correct—he’d triple-checked them against his visions. “They’re accurate. Cross-reference them with the satellite imagery from—”
“Don’t tell me how to do my job,” the analyst snapped. “Maybe in Schwarz you could bullshit your way through, but here we actually verify intelligence.”
Crawford took a breath. Kept his voice level. “I’m not trying to—”
“Save it.” Another analyst leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “We all know what you are. A killer trying to buy his way out with lies.”
“The information is real,” Crawford insisted. “If you’d just—”
“If it’s so real, why does nothing match our existing intelligence?” The first analyst’s voice was sharp with accusation. “Unless you’re feeding us disinformation. Unless this whole thing is a setup.”
It went like this for weeks. Every piece of intelligence questioned. Every detail scrutinized not to verify it, but to find reasons to discredit it. They wanted him to be lying. Wanted to prove that Schwarz’s Oracle was just another con man.
More than once, Crawford found himself in briefings where the analysts had deliberately misinterpreted his information, creating operational plans that would fail. More than once, he had to speak up, correct them, and face their accusations that he was trying to undermine the mission.
“The entry point should be the north side,” Crawford said, pointing at the blueprints. “The security is—”
“We’ve already established the entry point,” an analyst interrupted. “South side, through the loading dock.”
“That’s a kill zone. Rosenkreuz will have it monitored and trapped.”
“According to you. Who we don’t trust.”
Crawford’s jaw tightened. “I’ve given you accurate intelligence for two months. Every raid has been successful. Why would I sabotage this one?”
“Why wouldn’t you? Maybe this is where your real plan kicks in. Feed us good information, build trust, then lead our teams into a massacre.” The analyst smiled coldly. “We’re not idiots, Crawford.”
Before Crawford could respond, the door opened. Aya walked in, katana at his side as always.
“The north entry,” Aya said flatly. “Crawford’s information has been verified by three separate sources. Use it.”
The analysts fell silent, resentful but unable to argue. Aya’s presence carried weight—not just as Weiß, but as the man everyone knew would eventually execute Crawford. If Aya said to trust the intelligence, they trusted it.
For now.
After the meeting, Crawford found Aya in the hallway.
“Thank you,” Crawford said quietly.
Aya didn’t look at him. “Don’t thank me. I’m not doing it for you.”
“I know.”
“If the mission fails because of bad intelligence, you die. If it succeeds, you die. Either way—” Aya’s hand rested on his katana hilt. “You die. I’m just making sure it’s on the right timeline.”
Crawford nodded. Of course. Aya wasn’t helping him. Aya was protecting the mission.
Protecting the chance to destroy the people who’d killed his family.
Still, as the weeks passed, Crawford noticed something shift. Aya started attending more briefings. Started questioning the analysts when they tried to twist Crawford’s information. Started catching the small sabotages—the “misunderstood” details, the “clerical errors” that would have led teams into danger.
“They’re doing it deliberately,” Aya said one evening, after another meeting where an analyst had claimed Crawford’s timeline was “unclear.”
“I know,” Crawford said.
“Why didn’t you report it?”
Crawford almost laughed. “To who? I’m a prisoner. An enemy operative giving intelligence to save his team. No one would believe me over Kritiker’s own analysts.”
Aya was quiet for a moment. Then: “I believe you.”
Crawford looked at him, surprised.
“Not because I trust you,” Aya clarified quickly. “But because I’ve been watching. They want you to fail. Want to prove you’re lying so they can justify killing you now instead of waiting.” His eyes were hard. “But you’re not lying. Every piece of intelligence you’ve given us has been accurate. Which means they’re the problem, not you.”
It was the closest thing to vindication Crawford had felt in months.
After that, Aya was always there. In every briefing, every planning session, every moment Crawford had to interact with Kritiker’s people. A silent, lethal presence that kept the analysts honest.
Crawford’s jailer. His judge. His executioner.
And, inexplicably, his only ally.
The hardest part was knowing his team was searching for him.
In his visions, Crawford saw them. Nagi, sixteen years old and brilliant, hacking into every security network in Tokyo, searching for any trace of their leader. Farfarello interrogating Rosenkreuz contacts with his particular brand of persuasion, leaving bodies in his wake as he tore through anyone who might know where Crawford had gone. Schuldig scanning half the city, his telepathy stretched to its limits, trying to catch even the faintest whisper of Crawford’s thoughts.
Crawford kept his mental shields locked tight. Every moment was an effort, a constant strain to keep Schuldig out. The German’s presence pressed against his mind like a knife against glass—sharp, insistent, desperate.
Brad. Brad, where are you. Brad, please—
Crawford blocked it out. Gritted his teeth and reinforced his shields and tried not to think about how much it hurt to shut Schuldig out, how wrong it felt to sever the connection that had existed between them for years.
In his visions, he saw them slowly realize the truth. Saw Nagi’s face when he finally admitted that Crawford wasn’t coming back. Saw Schuldig’s fury turn to grief, the telepath drinking himself into oblivion because he couldn’t sense Crawford anywhere, couldn’t feel him alive or dead. Saw Farfarello go silent, his madness turning inward without Crawford’s stabilizing presence.
Saw them think he was dead.
“They think you’re dead,” Aya observed one evening.
He’d taken to checking on Crawford periodically. Every few days, Aya would appear—sometimes with food, sometimes just to stand there and watch Crawford work through intelligence reports. Neither of them acknowledged why. Crawford suspected Aya didn’t fully know himself.
“Better that way,” Crawford said, not looking up from the documents.
“Is it?”
“If they think I’m dead, they’ll mourn. They’ll be angry. But they’ll move on. They’ll disappear, find new identities, stay hidden.” Crawford’s voice was firm despite his exhaustion. “If they knew I was alive, they’d try to rescue me. They’d compromise their safety for mine. I won’t allow that.”
Aya was quiet for a long moment. Then: “You really do love them.”
It wasn’t a question, but Crawford answered anyway. “Yes.”
The visions came more frequently as the end approached.
Crawford saw Aya with his katana drawn. Saw himself kneeling in a dozen different locations—a basement, a rooftop, a courtyard. Saw the blade coming down, saw his own death from a thousand angles.
The visions were so constant now that sometimes Crawford wasn’t sure what was real and what was future. He’d be in a briefing and see Aya standing behind him with bloodied steel. He’d be reviewing reports and see his own corpse reflected in the window.
Aya was always there. Always watching. Death wearing a human face, waiting patiently for the right moment.
And that moment was coming closer.
The raids continued. Rosenkreuz’s network crumbled piece by piece. Takatori’s empire collapsed as evidence poured into the authorities—financial crimes, human trafficking, political corruption. Everything Crawford had promised, Kritiker claimed.
Crawford watched it all on monitors in the operations center, Aya a silent presence at his shoulder. Each successful raid was a vindication. Each piece of Rosenkreuz destroyed meant his team was safer.
It also meant he was closer to the end.
Time, which had crawled so slowly at first, now raced. Days blurred together. Weeks vanished. The final operation approached like a freight train.
Crawford found himself counting not months anymore, but days. Then hours.
The night before the final assault on Rosenkreuz’s headquarters, Crawford couldn’t stay in his cell. The walls felt too close, the air too thin. He made his way to the balcony—they didn’t stop him anymore, where would he run?—and stood at the railing, looking out over Tokyo.
The city sprawled below him, millions of lights against the darkness. Somewhere out there, his team was alive. Safe. Because of what he’d done.
Worth it, he told himself. Whatever comes next, it was worth it.
Footsteps behind him. Crawford didn’t turn.
Aya joined him at the railing, standing close enough that Crawford could see his katana in his peripheral vision. Close enough to kill him, if Aya chose.
Neither of them spoke.
They stood in silence, watching the city. Both of them knew this was Crawford’s final night. Both of them knew what dawn would bring.
Crawford’s hands gripped the railing. He looked out at the lights, tried to memorize them. This view. This moment. The last time he’d stand here, alive and breathing.
Aya stood beside him, patient as death itself.
The hours passed. The city’s lights began to dim as businesses closed, as people went home to their families. Crawford watched it all, drinking in every detail.
This was his last night. His last chance to see the world.
The sky began to lighten. Grey, then purple, then the first hint of gold at the horizon.
Aya’s radio crackled to life. “Teams in position. Ready for final assault.”
Aya didn’t move. Didn’t reach for the radio. Just stood there, watching Crawford watch the sunrise.
“You should go,” Crawford said quietly. His first words in hours.
“Yes,” Aya agreed. But he didn’t move.
The sun crept higher. Gold spreading across the sky, painting the clouds, reflecting off glass towers. Beautiful and terrible and final.
“Thank you,” Crawford said. He wasn’t sure what he was thanking Aya for. For the silence. For the company. For making his last night less lonely.
Aya’s hand rested on his katana hilt. “It’s almost time.”
“I know.”
Aya turned and walked away. His footsteps faded down the hall, heading toward the operations center where he’d listen to the assault on the comms, where he’d hear the final piece fall into place.
Crawford stayed on the balcony.
The sun rose higher. Morning light flooded the city, warm and golden. Somewhere, his team was waking up. Safe. Alive. Not knowing that today, their leader would die for them.
Crawford watched the sun climb. Knew this was his last sunrise. His time was running out. He’d never see the sun high in the sky again. Never see another sunset. Never see stars or rain or any of the thousand small things he’d taken for granted.
The radio in the operations center would be crackling with reports. The assault teams breaching Rosenkreuz headquarters. The final battle beginning.
Soon it would be over. Rosenkreuz destroyed. Takatori’s empire ash.
And then Aya would come for him.
Crawford took a breath. Let it out slowly. Memorized the feeling of sunlight on his face, the warmth of morning, the sound of Tokyo waking below.
Then he turned from the railing and walked inside.
His last sunrise was over.
The Final Payment
The assault on Rosenkreuz’s headquarters was brutal and efficient. Kritiker had learned well from Crawford’s intelligence. By late morning, it was over. The organization that had created Schwarz, that had twisted children into weapons, was destroyed.
Crawford sat in his cell—not locked, never locked anymore, but a cell nonetheless—and felt the moment Rosenkreuz fell. He didn’t need the radio reports or the celebrations echoing through Kritiker’s halls. His visions showed him the truth with crystalline clarity.
It was done.
Which meant his time was up.
Footsteps in the corridor. Steady, purposeful, familiar. Crawford’s hands clenched on his knees, then deliberately relaxed. He’d known this moment was coming for three months. Had seen it a thousand times in his visions.
The door opened.
Aya stood there, katana at his side, violet eyes unreadable.
“It’s time,” Aya said simply.
Crawford stood on steady legs. Nodded once. There was nothing to say, no words that would change what came next. He’d made his choice three months ago when he’d walked through Weiß’s door. Everything since had been borrowed time.
He followed Aya through corridors he’d seen in his visions. Past offices where Kritiker analysts celebrated their victory. Past rooms where evidence of Rosenkreuz’s crimes was being catalogued. Past all of it, toward the end he’d always known was waiting.
They emerged into a courtyard, empty and quiet. The sun was climbing toward noon, painting everything in sharp, bright light. The sky was achingly blue. Beautiful. Crawford took a moment to look at it, to memorize the color.
His last sky.
“Kneel,” Aya ordered.
Crawford knelt on the concrete. The ground was hard beneath his knees, cold seeping through his clothes. His hands rested on his thighs, trying for steadiness and almost achieving it.
He thought of his team. Wondered where they were right now—if Schuldig was finally sleeping without nightmares, if Nagi had found a school where he could just be a teenager, if Farfarello had found some measure of peace. Hoped they’d moved on. Hoped they thought him dead and had grieved and let go.
I’m sorry I couldn’t say goodbye, he thought. I’m sorry you’ll never know why I left. But you’re alive. You’re safe. That’s all that matters.
The image of them—alive, free, no longer weapons—steadied something in him. Made the fear bearable. Almost.
Aya moved behind him. Crawford heard the soft rustle of fabric, the quiet sound of breathing. Felt the presence of death standing at his back.
Not just death. Aya.
Three months. Three months of working with Kritiker’s hostile analysts, of being hated and mistrusted and sabotaged. Three months of being a prisoner in enemy hands with no allies, no backup, nothing but his intelligence and his visions.
Except Aya had been there.
Not as a friend—never that. Not even as an ally, really. But as a constant presence. Watching, waiting, ensuring the mission stayed on track. Stepping in when the analysts tried to sabotage Crawford’s intelligence. Standing beside him in briefings when everyone else wanted him to fail.
Aya had done it for the mission, Crawford knew. Had done it to ensure Takatori and Rosenkreuz were destroyed, to avenge his family. There was no kindness in it, no mercy, no forgiveness.
But in a building full of enemies, Aya had been the only one who stood by his side. The only one who’d kept him from breaking completely under the weight of Kritiker’s hatred.
And now Aya would complete his revenge. Would take the life of the man who’d coordinated the murder of his family.
It was fitting, somehow. Right. If Crawford had to die—and he did, he’d always known he did—then let it be by Aya’s hand. Let the man who’d lost everything because of Crawford be the one to end him.
There was a strange comfort in that certainty. In knowing who would kill him. In knowing it would be Aya’s blade and not some stranger’s bullet.
Behind him, he heard the whisper of steel leaving its scabbard.
The comfort shattered.
Crawford’s breath hitched. His body went rigid, every muscle locking up despite his desperate attempt to remain calm. Terror crashed over him like a wave—primal, undeniable, overwhelming.
He’d thought he was ready. Had accepted his death, made his peace with it, told himself it was worth the price.
But his body didn’t care about acceptance or worth. His body knew a blade was about to end him and screamed for him to run, to fight, to do anything but kneel here waiting to die.
He tried to stay strong. Tried to keep his head bowed with dignity, to accept this with the control he’d maintained for so long. But his hands were shaking violently. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps that he couldn’t control. His whole body trembled with fear he couldn’t suppress, couldn’t hide, couldn’t master.
The Oracle who’d faced death a hundred times without flinching was terrified.
And Aya could see it. Could hear it in Crawford’s harsh breathing, could see it in the trembling of his shoulders, in the way his hands clenched and unclenched on his thighs.
Crawford bowed his head lower, exposing the back of his neck. Tried to breathe steadily and failed. Tried to stop shaking and couldn’t.
Please, he thought desperately. Please just make it quick.
Aya stood behind Crawford, katana raised, and felt the weight of three months settle on his shoulders.
He’d waited for this moment. Dreamed of it. Every time he’d looked at Crawford—working with Kritiker’s analysts, providing intelligence that destroyed Rosenkreuz piece by piece—Aya had thought about this. About the moment he’d finally make Crawford pay for what Schwarz had done.
His parents. His sister. All the lives Crawford had destroyed.
This was justice. This was revenge. This was the moment Aya had lived for since the day his family died.
Crawford knelt before him, neck exposed, waiting for death. Shaking with fear.
Part of Aya felt satisfaction at that. Felt a dark, fierce pleasure seeing the man who’d always been so controlled, so perfect, reduced to trembling and gasping. Crawford was afraid. After everything he’d done, all the lives he’d taken without hesitation, he was finally facing the same terror he’d inflicted on others.
Good. Let him be afraid. Let him know what his victims felt.
Aya raised the katana higher, feeling the familiar weight of it in his hands. The blade caught the sunlight, gleaming. One strike. One cut. And it would be over.
His family would be avenged. Would finally have peace.
Aya swung the blade.
The katana cut through the air with lethal precision. The strike he’d practiced a thousand times, the killing blow that would sever Crawford’s neck cleanly. Fast. Final. Perfect.
Crawford didn’t move. Didn’t try to escape. Just knelt there, waiting for death.
The blade descended—
And stopped.
Aya’s muscles locked, the katana freezing mere inches from Crawford’s neck. So close that Crawford’s hair moved in the wind of its passage. So close that one more heartbeat of movement would end everything.
But Aya couldn’t do it.
His hands trembled on the katana’s hilt. His breath came harsh and ragged. The blade hung suspended, caught between revenge and something else—something that made his arms refuse to complete the strike no matter how much he willed them to move.
Why? Aya thought desperately. Why can’t I finish this?
Crawford still hadn’t moved. Still knelt there, eyes closed, neck exposed, waiting for the death that hadn’t come.
Aya stared at him. At the trembling shoulders, the ragged breathing, the absolute terror that Crawford couldn’t hide. But also at the acceptance. The resignation. The complete lack of resistance.
He’s not fighting, Aya realized slowly. Not begging. Not trying to escape or negotiate or manipulate. He’s just… accepting it.
Something shifted in Aya’s chest.
Crawford wasn’t begging. Wasn’t pleading for his life or making excuses. He knelt there, shaking with terror, but accepting it. Waiting for the blade with a quiet resignation that spoke of a choice already made and accepted.
He came here knowing this would happen, Aya thought. Walked into our hands knowing I’d kill him. Gave us everything we needed to destroy Rosenkreuz. And did it all to save his team.
Three months of working together. Three months of watching Crawford provide intelligence that could have been disinformation but never was. Three months of seeing him endure Kritiker’s contempt, the analysts’ sabotage, the constant threat of death—all without wavering.
Three months of seeing Crawford choose his team’s survival over his own, again and again.
That wasn’t the action of a monster. That was something else. Something Aya hadn’t expected to find in the man who’d killed his family.
He loves them, Aya realized. The way I loved my family. The way I’d have done anything to protect my sister.
The blade felt impossibly heavy in his hands.
Crawford was still waiting, still trembling. His breath came in ragged gasps that spoke of absolute terror held barely in check. But he didn’t try to run. Didn’t try to fight. Just knelt there, accepting his death because he believed it was the price for his team’s survival.
He’s willing to die for them. Actually willing. Not as a strategy, not as manipulation—just willing.
Aya had spent three months watching Crawford work. Had seen the intelligence that destroyed Rosenkreuz piece by piece. Had seen a man systematically dismantling everything he’d once served, burning every bridge, betraying every secret—all to buy safety for three people he loved.
Had seen something that looked disturbingly like sacrifice.
The kind of sacrifice Aya would have made for his own family.
If I kill him now, I complete my revenge. My family is avenged. Everything I’ve worked for, everything I’ve lived for—it ends here.
But looking at Crawford kneeling before him, terrified but accepting—
Is this what my revenge should look like? Killing a man who’s already given everything?
The Moment of Mercy
Aya hesitated.
He stood behind Crawford, katana raised, and looked at the blade in his hands. The steel gleamed in the sunlight. Sharp. Ready. All he had to do was swing.
He looked at Crawford kneeling before him. Shaking. Trembling so hard Aya could see it in his shoulders, hear it in his ragged breathing.
Was this the Oracle? The strong, untouchable leader of Schwarz? This terrified man waiting for death?
But even as Crawford shook with fear, he wasn’t cowering. Wasn’t begging. Wasn’t trying to twist away from the blade. He knelt there with his neck exposed, offering his throat, offering his life—because he believed it was the only way to save his team.
This was love. This was strength.
This was a man Aya could respect.
But Crawford was also a killer. Merciless. Cold. He’d admitted to coordinating the deaths of Aya’s family without apology, without regret. Had said plainly that he’d killed them and moved on to the next mission.
How could Crawford be both? How could someone love so deeply and kill so easily?
And then another thought came, unbidden: How old was Crawford when Rosenkreuz found him?
Eight years old, Crawford had said once. Eight years old when they took him. Trained him. Made him into a weapon.
Just like they’d done to his team. Just like they’d done to so many children.
The blade lowered. Slowly. Until it pointed at the ground.
Crawford didn’t move. His eyes remained closed. He was still shaking, still waiting for death that hadn’t come. He didn’t know the blade had been lowered.
Aya opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. What could he say? You’re free? I can’t kill you? Go?
Nothing seemed adequate.
The silence stretched. Crawford’s breathing was harsh, ragged with fear and the effort of staying still.
Then Crawford spoke, his voice hoarse and breaking: “If you want to make me suffer, I understand. But if not—please don’t make me wait any longer. Finish it.”
The words hit Aya like a physical blow.
Crawford’s surrender was complete. Absolute. He wasn’t asking for mercy. Wasn’t hoping for survival. He just wanted the waiting to be over. Wanted the fear to end.
Aya looked at the blade in his hands one more time. Then he sheathed it.
Silence
Crawford flinched at the sound of the blade being sheathed.
That wasn’t right. That wasn’t what he’d seen in his visions. His death had always been swift—the blade cutting clean, ending everything in an instant. But the katana was sheathed now, and Aya was still standing behind him, silent and still.
Crawford’s mind raced. He’d provoked Aya. Had told him the brutal truth about his family—that he’d killed them and forgotten them, that they’d been just another mission. Of course Aya wouldn’t give him a clean death now. Of course he’d want Crawford to suffer first.
Crawford braced himself for the blow. For Aya’s fists, for pain, for punishment. His body trembled harder, fear spiking into something close to panic.
But nothing happened.
Aya didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stood there in terrible silence.
Crawford’s fear skyrocketed. What was Aya waiting for? What was he planning? The not-knowing was worse than any blow, worse than the blade. His breath came in harsh, ragged gasps. His heart pounded so hard he could hear it in his ears, could feel it in his throat.
Then Aya spoke.
Crawford strained to hear him over the rush of blood in his ears, over his own panicked breathing.
“I hated you,” Aya said quietly. “I still hate you. I wanted to kill you. I’ve dreamed about it for three months.”
Crawford closed his eyes. So this was it. Not a swift death. Aya would make him suffer.
“But looking at you now…” Aya’s voice was strange. Strained. “I can’t do it.”
Crawford’s breath caught. What?
“I’ve seen you suffer,” Aya continued. “Seen you bleed. Seen you beg Weiß to believe you, to spare your team. I’ve watched you kneel before my blade, terrified but accepting—all of it to save them.”
Crawford couldn’t move. Couldn’t process what he was hearing.
“That’s love,” Aya said, and there was something raw in his voice now. “That’s what love looks like. And I—” He paused. “I can see now. You’re not just the cold killer I thought you were. Yes, you kill. Yes, you destroyed my family. But you’re more than that. More than just Rosenkreuz’s weapon.”
Crawford knelt frozen, barely breathing.
“You deserve a chance,” Aya said quietly. “A chance to find out who you are without Rosenkreuz. Without orders. Without being a weapon. You deserve the future you sacrificed everything for.”
Crawford’s eyes were still closed. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Couldn’t let himself believe it. This had to be a trick. Had to be another form of torture.
Crawford’s eyes were still closed. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Couldn’t let himself believe it. This had to be a trick. Had to be another form of torture.
But slowly—so slowly—Crawford raised his head. Opened his eyes. Looked up at Aya.
Tears streamed down his face. He hadn’t even known he was crying.
Aya saw them. Saw the disbelief, the fear, the desperate hope Crawford didn’t dare to feel. And in that moment, looking at Crawford’s tear-streaked face, Aya knew his decision was right.
He extended his hand.
Crawford stared at it. At the offered hand, the impossible gesture. His whole body trembled.
The moment stretched. Endless. Crawford looking at Aya’s hand like he couldn’t understand what it meant.
Then, finally, Crawford reached up. His hand shaking violently, he gripped Aya’s.
Aya pulled him to his feet.
The Departure
Crawford’s legs buckled the moment Aya pulled him upright.
His knees gave out, weak from kneeling, from fear, from the three months of waiting for this moment. Aya’s grip tightened instantly, the only thing keeping Crawford from collapsing back to the ground.
They stood frozen like that. Aya holding Crawford upright, Crawford barely able to support his own weight. Enemy and enemy. Killer and victim’s son. Or something else now—something neither of them could name.
Crawford’s breath came in shallow gasps. He was shaking so hard he could feel it in his bones. His hand was still gripping Aya’s, holding on like it was the only solid thing in a world that had just tilted sideways.
He was alive. Aya had spared him. The visions had been wrong, or he’d changed them, or—
He couldn’t process it. Couldn’t make sense of standing here, breathing, feeling Aya’s hand steady and warm in his own.
“Go,” Aya said quietly. Not a command. An offering. “Find your team.”
Crawford’s breath hitched. He tried to speak, to say something—thank you, I’m sorry, I don’t understand—but his throat was too tight. The words wouldn’t come.
Aya’s eyes held his for a moment longer. Then he released Crawford’s hand and stepped back.
The loss of support made Crawford sway again, but he caught himself. Stood on his own legs, trembling but upright. He looked at Aya one more time, trying to memorize this moment—the man who should have killed him, choosing mercy instead.
Then Crawford turned toward the courtyard exit.
The first step was the hardest. His body didn’t want to move, didn’t believe this was real. But he forced himself forward. One step. Another.
Each step felt impossible. He kept expecting to hear the whisper of steel being drawn, to feel the blade between his shoulders. Kept expecting Aya to change his mind, to remember his family, to finish what he’d started.
But there was only silence behind him. And sunlight ahead.
Crawford’s hands were shaking. His whole body was shaking. But he kept walking, each step taking him further from death, closer to a future he’d never thought he’d have.
At the courtyard entrance, something made him stop.
He turned back.
Aya stood exactly where Crawford had left him, alone in the center of the courtyard. Sunlight painted him in gold and shadow. His hand rested on his sheathed katana, but there was no threat in the gesture. Just a man standing still, watching.
Their eyes met across the distance
Aya’s expression didn’t change. But after a moment, he nodded. Just once. Barely perceptible.
Crawford nodded back.
Then he turned away and walked through the courtyard entrance, into the street beyond. Into Tokyo’s morning light.
After
Crawford found them in Prague, living quietly in a apartment near the Old Town. He knocked on the door, half-expecting them to attack him on sight.
Schuldig opened the door. His eyes went wide.
“Scheiße,” the German breathed. “You’re alive.”
“Apparently so.”
Schuldig grabbed him by the collar and hauled him inside, slamming the door behind them. Nagi appeared from the bedroom, textbooks in hand, and froze. Farfarello looked up from cleaning his knives, single eye unblinking.
“Brad,” Nagi said, voice shaking.
Crawford had prepared a speech, had planned how to explain everything. But Schuldig was already in his mind, tearing through memories with the delicacy of a sledgehammer, seeing everything—the surrender, the interrogation, the cooperation, the final confrontation with Aya.
“You idiot,” Schuldig said, and punched him hard enough that Crawford staggered. “You magnificent, self-sacrificing idiot.”
Then the German pulled him into a crushing embrace.
Nagi joined them, arms wrapped tight around Crawford’s waist. Even Farfarello stood, moving closer, pressing one pale hand against Crawford’s shoulder like he needed physical confirmation that their leader was real.
“You were supposed to be dead,” Nagi said, face buried against Crawford’s chest. “We felt sure you were dead.”
“I was supposed to be,” Crawford admitted. He held them close, his family, his team, alive and safe. “The visions all showed me dying. But something changed. Someone changed.”
“The Weiß assassin,” Farfarello said, tilting his head. “The red-haired one. He spared you.”
“He did.”
“Why?” Schuldig pulled back, studying Crawford’s face with those too-seeing eyes. “Why would Fujimiya, of all people, let you live?”
Crawford thought about Aya standing in that courtyard, katana lowered, talking about his parents and redemption and choosing mercy over vengeance.
“Because he’s a better man than I ever gave him credit for,” Crawford said simply.
They stayed up all night, talking through everything that had happened. Crawford explained the visions, the choice he’d made, what he’d endured to buy their safety. His team listened, occasionally interrupting with questions or sharp observations, but mostly just listening to their leader—their Oracle—admit to being human, to being afraid, to loving them enough to sacrifice everything.
“So what now?” Nagi asked as dawn approached. “Rosenkreuz is destroyed, Takatori’s empire is gone. What do we do?”
Crawford looked at the three of them—this strange, damaged family he’d somehow acquired.
“We live,” he said. “We find a way to be something other than weapons. I don’t know what that looks like yet, but…” He smiled faintly. “I have some time to figure it out.”
Epilogue: Peace
Three months later, Aya stood in the cemetery where his parents were buried. The graves were well-tended, fresh flowers laid by his sister who visited regularly now that she’d awakened from her coma.
“I let him live,” Aya said to the headstones. “The man responsible for what happened to you. I had the chance to kill him, to take revenge, and I let him walk away.”
The wind rustled through the trees. Birds sang in the distance.
“I think you’d understand,” Aya continued quietly. “He did terrible things, hurt countless people. But in the end, he chose to sacrifice everything to protect the people he loved. That’s not something a monster would do. That’s…” He paused, searching for words. “That’s something human. Something you taught me to value.”
He knelt, placing his own flowers beside Aya-chan’s offerings.
“I’m not letting go of what he did. I’ll never forget. But I’m also not going to let hatred consume the rest of my life. You wouldn’t want that for me. You’d want me to live, to find peace, to be the person you raised me to be.”
For the first time in years, Aya felt the tight knot of rage in his chest loosen. Not gone—it would never be completely gone—but no longer controlling him, no longer defining every breath and heartbeat.
He’d been Aya the assassin for so long, had lived for vengeance and violence. But sitting here in the quiet cemetery, he remembered being Ran Fujimiya, a boy whose parents taught him about compassion and mercy and the complicated nature of human beings.
“I’m going to try to be better,” he promised the graves. “Not just as an assassin, but as a person. The kind of person who can see humanity even in enemies. The kind of person you’d be proud of.”
The sun broke through the clouds, warming his face. Somewhere in the city, his teammates were preparing for another mission. Somewhere in Europe, Crawford was building a new life with the family he’d saved.
And here, in this quiet place, Aya finally felt something he’d thought lost forever.
Peace.
He stood, bowed once to his parents’ graves, and walked back into the world—not as a man driven by hatred, but as someone who’d learned, at last, how to let it go.