Chapter 1: The Trap
The warehouse district lay silent under a moonless sky, shadows pooling between rusted containers and abandoned loading docks. Crawford moved through the darkness with practiced precision, his team following in perfect synchronization. Schuldig’s mental presence brushed against his consciousness, a familiar whisper of awareness. Nagi’s telekinetic field hummed at the edges of perception. Farfarello’s bloodlust was a controlled simmer, waiting for release.
It should have been a simple extraction. Intel suggested a minor Kritiker safe house, lightly guarded, vulnerable. Crawford had seen the path forward—clean, efficient, successful.
He hadn’t seen the lie buried within the truth.
The explosion came from three directions at once.
Crawford’s precognition screamed a warning half a second too late. He threw himself sideways as the first detonation tore through the western wall, but the shockwave caught him anyway, hurling him into a stack of crates that splintered under the impact.
“Ambush!” Schuldig’s mental shout cut through the chaos, sharp with alarm.
Gunfire erupted from elevated positions—professional, coordinated, deadly. Not Kritiker’s usual operatives. These were Weiß.
Crawford pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the sharp pain in his ribs. Through the smoke and debris, he could make out four figures moving with lethal grace. Abyssinian’s katana caught the dim light as he cut down one of Takatori’s guards who had accompanied them. Balinese’s wire sang through the air. Siberian moved like controlled violence incarnate. Bombay’s crossbow bolts found their marks with surgical precision.
“Crawford!” Nagi’s voice was tight with strain as he deflected incoming fire with his telekinesis, but there were too many angles, too many threats.
Farfarello laughed, the sound wild and wrong as he engaged Siberian in close combat. Blood sprayed—his own, his enemy’s, he didn’t seem to care which.
Crawford’s mind raced, reaching for the future, trying to find the thread that would lead them to safety. But the possibilities were collapsing, narrowing to a single, terrible point.
We’re going to lose.
The realization struck him with the force of a physical blow. In all the futures he could see, Schwarz fell here. Schuldig with a wire around his throat. Nagi’s skull cracked against concrete. Farfarello finally finding the death he’d always sought.
His family. His responsibility. His team.
Unless—
There. A single thread, gossamer-thin, almost invisible. A path that required everything he had, everything he was, everything he’d built his identity upon.
Total surrender.
“Schuldig!” Crawford’s mental command cut through the psychic noise. “Stand down. All of you. Now!”
“What?” Schuldig’s confusion was palpable, even as he ducked a crossbow bolt. “Brad, we can still—”
“That’s an order!” Crawford’s voice cracked with an authority he’d never had to enforce before. His team had always followed him because they believed in his visions, in his leadership. Now he was asking them to believe in something else entirely.
He was asking them to trust him in surrender.
The fighting continued for three more heartbeats—Farfarello’s knife finding flesh, Nagi’s desperate telekinetic shield, Schuldig’s mental assault on Bombay’s concentration. Then, one by one, they fell back. Weapons lowered. Defenses dropped.
Crawford stepped into the open, hands raised, approaching the one person whose decision would determine whether his team lived or died.
Abyssinian.
Aya stood twenty feet away, katana held in perfect form, blood dripping from its edge. His violet eyes were cold, calculating, filled with a hatred that Crawford had seen a thousand times in his visions. This man had every reason to kill him, and Crawford had given him the perfect opportunity.
“I surrender,” Crawford said, his voice steady despite the chaos around them. “Completely. Unconditionally.”
The words felt like stripping away his own skin.
Behind him, he felt his team’s shock ripple through their shared consciousness. Schuldig’s disbelief. Nagi’s confusion. Even Farfarello’s bloodlust stuttered into uncertainty.
Aya didn’t move. His blade remained leveled at Crawford’s chest.
“You think surrender means mercy?” Aya’s voice was ice over steel. “After everything you’ve done? Every life Schwarz has taken on Takatori’s orders?”
“No.” Crawford took another step forward, deliberately moving closer to that blade. “I don’t expect mercy. I’m not asking for it.”
“Then what are you asking for?”
Crawford’s throat tightened. This was the moment. The knife’s edge between extinction and survival.
“I’m asking you to spare them.” He gestured back toward his team without taking his eyes from Aya. “Schuldig, Nagi, Farfarello. They followed my orders. They trusted my visions. Every atrocity we committed, every mission we executed for Takatori—the responsibility is mine.”
“Convenient,” Balinese called from his position, wire coiled and ready. “Blame the leader, save the soldiers.”
“It’s the truth.” Crawford’s hands were still raised, completely vulnerable. “But I’m not asking you to believe me. I’m asking you to let them live. And in exchange, I’ll give you everything.”
Aya’s eyes narrowed. “Everything?”
“Everything.” Crawford’s voice dropped to something barely above a whisper, but in the sudden stillness of the warehouse, every word carried. “My life. My knowledge. Every secret I hold about Takatori’s organization, about Rosenkreuz, about operations you don’t even know exist yet. I’ll tell you where the bodies are buried, who’s on which payroll, which politicians are compromised. I’ll give you the complete architecture of the corruption we’ve been part of.”
He took another step forward. The tip of Aya’s katana was now inches from his chest.
“I’ll give you my dignity.” The words tasted like ash. “My pride. Whatever you want to take from me, however you want to break me—I won’t resist. You can make an example of me. Use me as leverage. Keep me as a prisoner, a hostage, a trophy. I don’t care.”
“Brad—” Schuldig’s mental voice was strained, horrified. “Don’t do this. We can fight our way—”
“No.” Crawford’s mental response was absolute. “We can’t. I’ve seen it. This is the only way.”
He met Aya’s gaze directly, and for the first time in years, allowed himself to be completely transparent. No calculation. No manipulation. Just desperate, raw honesty.
“I know you hate me. You have every right to. I know what I am, what I’ve done. But my team—” His voice wavered, just slightly. “They’re all I have. The only family I’ve ever known. If you need someone to pay for our sins, let it be me. Punish me. Break me. Kill me if you must. Just let them walk away.”
The silence stretched. Somewhere in the warehouse, a piece of debris settled with a crash. Smoke continued to drift through the broken walls.
Aya’s blade didn’t waver. But something flickered in those violet eyes—not mercy, not forgiveness, but perhaps… consideration.
“You’re offering yourself as collateral for their lives,” Aya said slowly, as if testing the words.
“Yes.”
“And if I decide to kill you anyway? Right here, right now?”
Crawford’s answer came without hesitation. “Then they go free first. That’s the deal. You give me your word that Schwarz walks away alive, and I’m yours. Completely. I won’t fight. I won’t resist. I won’t even try to escape.”
Behind him, Nagi made a small, choked sound. Crawford felt Schuldig’s mental presence pressing against his consciousness, desperate to understand, to argue, to make him see reason.
But Crawford had already seen. He’d seen every other path, and they all ended in blood—his team’s blood. This was the only future where they survived.
“Why?” Aya’s question was quiet, but it cut through everything else. “Why sacrifice yourself for them?”
Crawford’s answer was simple, stripped of all pretense. “Because they matter more than I do.”
The admission hung in the air like a confession.
Aya studied him for a long moment. The katana remained steady, its edge catching the dim light. One thrust, and this would be over. Crawford had left himself completely open, completely vulnerable. The precognitor who always saw the future, who always stayed three steps ahead, who never let anyone close enough to hurt him—standing here, offering his throat to the blade.
“Fascinating,” Aya said softly. Then, to Crawford’s shock, he lowered his sword. Not sheathing it, but no longer aimed at Crawford’s heart. “Bombay, secure them. All of them.”
“Aya—” Siberian started to protest.
“All of them,” Aya repeated, his tone brooking no argument. “Including Crawford. We take them to the safe house. We’ll discuss terms there.”
Crawford felt his knees weaken with relief so profound it was almost painful. But he didn’t let it show. He simply stood still as Bombay approached with reinforced restraints, professional and cautious.
“Hands behind your back,” the young man instructed.
Crawford complied. The metal cuffs closed around his wrists with an audible click—the sound of power surrendered, of control relinquished.
Behind him, he felt his team’s emotions through their psychic connection. Schuldig’s fury mixed with grudging understanding. Nagi’s fear and confusion. Farfarello’s strange, twisted pride.
You actually did it, Schuldig’s mental voice was quiet, almost awed. You really surrendered everything.
I told you, Crawford responded, his mental tone weary but certain. This was the only way.
As Weiß moved to secure the rest of Schwarz, Crawford caught Aya watching him. There was something new in that gaze—not trust, not even sympathy. But perhaps the beginning of respect. Or at least, the recognition that Crawford had done something Aya hadn’t expected.
The proud leader of Schwarz had bent his neck to the blade.
And in doing so, he had saved his family.
Chapter 2: The Weight of Chains
The safe house was nothing like the luxurious headquarters Schwarz had operated from. It was utilitarian, sparse, hidden in a nondescript building that could have been anywhere in Tokyo. The room where they placed Crawford was even more austere—concrete walls, a single chair bolted to the floor, one high window with reinforced glass.
They hadn’t blindfolded him during transport. Crawford found that interesting. Either they didn’t care if he knew where they were, or they were confident enough in their security that his knowledge was irrelevant.
Probably both.
The chair was uncomfortable by design, positioned in the center of the room where he could be observed from multiple angles. The restraints on his wrists had been replaced with heavier ones, connected to a chain that ran through a bolt in the floor. He had perhaps three feet of movement in any direction. Enough to sit. Not enough to do much else.
Crawford settled into the chair and waited.
The door opened after what he estimated was two hours, though without his glasses or watch, he couldn’t be certain. Aya entered alone, katana sheathed at his side, carrying a folder under one arm.
Their eyes met. Crawford didn’t look away.
“Your team is secured in separate rooms,” Aya said without preamble. “They’re unharmed.”
Relief flooded through Crawford, though he kept his expression neutral. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” Aya set the folder on a small table that Crawford hadn’t noticed before, then pulled it closer, positioning himself just outside the range of Crawford’s chains. Close enough to talk. Far enough to be safe. “You made certain promises. I’m here to see if you’ll keep them.”
“I will.”
“Prove it.” Aya opened the folder, revealing what Crawford recognized as intelligence files—incomplete, marked with gaps and question marks. “Takatori’s operations in the Kabukicho district. We know he’s running something out of the Seventh Heaven building, but our surveillance has been compromised every time we get close. Why?”
Crawford could have deflected. Could have negotiated. Could have tried to extract concessions for each piece of information.
Instead, he simply answered.
“There are three telepaths on his payroll. Low-level Rosenkreuz washouts, but competent enough for basic scanning. They’re not strong enough to read deep thoughts, but they can detect active surveillance and intent to investigate. Your operatives are probably being flagged before they even get within a block of the building.”
Aya’s eyes narrowed. “How do we counter that?”
“You don’t send people who know they’re conducting surveillance. Send someone who genuinely believes they’re just a customer, patron, or employee. Plant the intention in their subconscious through hypnosis if you have to. The telepaths will read surface thoughts and find nothing suspicious.”
“Hypnosis.” Aya’s tone was skeptical.
“Or use Bombay’s hacking skills to plant false intelligence suggesting the Seventh Heaven location is a decoy. Make Takatori believe you’re looking elsewhere. He’ll pull resources from there, including the telepaths. Then you’ll have a window.”
The information flowed easily, naturally. Crawford had spent years building walls around his knowledge, treating information as currency and leverage. Now he was dismantling those walls brick by brick, handing over the pieces to his enemy.
It should have felt like defeat.
Instead, it felt like relief.
Aya made notes, his expression unreadable. “What about Rosenkreuz’s connection to the Diet? We know there’s political corruption, but we can’t trace the links.”
“Because you’re looking at the wrong level. The Diet members you suspect are puppets, not players. The real power is three steps removed—advisors to advisors, consultants hired by lobbying firms that are themselves fronts for Rosenkreuz shell companies. I can give you the names, the financial trail, everything you need to trace it back.”
“Do it.”
Crawford did. For the next hour, he spoke steadily, methodically, laying out the architecture of corruption he’d been part of for years. Aya listened, took notes, occasionally asked clarifying questions. His demeanor never warmed, but it did shift from hostile interrogation to something closer to professional debriefing.
Finally, Aya closed the folder and stood. “That’s enough for today.”
“There’s more,” Crawford said quickly. “I can give you—”
“I said that’s enough.” Aya’s tone was firm but not cruel. “You’ve been sitting in that chair for hours. You need water and food.”
The consideration was unexpected. Crawford blinked, momentarily off-balance.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” Aya moved toward the door, then paused. “I meant what I said before. Your team is unharmed. They’re being given the same basic necessities. But Crawford—”
He turned back, and his gaze was hard.
“If I find out you’ve lied to me, if any of the information you’ve provided proves false, the deal is void. And I will kill you. Slowly. Do you understand?”
“I understand.” Crawford met his eyes steadily. “But I haven’t lied. I won’t. Everything I’ve told you is the truth.”
Aya studied him for another moment, then nodded once and left.
Alone again, Crawford let his head fall back against the chair. Exhaustion washed over him—not physical, though his body ached from the uncomfortable position, but emotional. The weight of surrender was heavier than he’d anticipated.
But his team was alive. That was all that mattered.
Brad? Schuldig’s mental voice was cautious, barely a whisper.
I’m here, Crawford responded.
They’re treating us… not well, exactly, but not badly either. Nagi’s scared. Farfarello is too quiet. And I— A pause. I don’t understand what you’re doing.
I’m saving us.
By breaking yourself?
Crawford didn’t answer immediately. In the silence of his own mind, he could admit what he’d never voice aloud.
If that’s what it takes.
The routine established itself over the following days. Aya would come, ask questions, and Crawford would answer. Sometimes Bombay accompanied him, verifying information in real-time through his computer. Occasionally Balinese was there, his lie-detection skills attuned to the subtle tells of deception.
They never found any.
Because Crawford wasn’t lying.
He told them about Takatori’s weapons smuggling operation through Yokohama. About the blackmail files kept in three separate locations. About the Rosenkreuz trainers who oversaw new talent acquisition. About the safe houses, the escape routes, the contingency plans.
He stripped away every advantage Schwarz had ever held, every secret that had kept them three steps ahead of their enemies.
And through it all, Aya watched him with that same inscrutable expression, as if trying to solve an equation that didn’t balance.
On the fifth day, something changed.
Aya entered alone, as usual, but instead of immediately beginning the interrogation, he simply stood there, studying Crawford in silence.
“What?” Crawford asked finally.
“I’m trying to understand you.” Aya’s voice was quieter than usual, almost thoughtful. “Everything I knew about you—about Schwarz—suggested you were incapable of this kind of… sacrifice.”
“You didn’t know me.”
“No,” Aya agreed. “I knew what you did. The missions you ran. The people you killed. The orders you followed without question or mercy. I thought that’s all you were. A weapon pointed by Takatori.”
Crawford’s jaw tightened. “That’s all I was.”
“But weapons don’t love.” Aya moved closer, just to the edge of where Crawford’s chains would allow him to reach. “They don’t sacrifice themselves for others. They don’t surrender everything to protect their team. So either you were never just a weapon, or—”
“Or I’m very good at manipulating you,” Crawford finished. “Which do you believe?”
“I don’t know yet.” Aya’s honesty was unexpected. “Part of me thinks this is an elaborate trap. That you’re buying time, gathering intelligence, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.”
“And the other part?”
“The other part sees a man who walked into a blade to save his family.” Aya’s expression was complex, unreadable. “And I don’t know what to do with that.”
Silence fell between them. Outside, Crawford could hear faint sounds—traffic, voices, the ambient noise of a city that continued its rhythm regardless of the small, intense drama playing out in this hidden room.
“You asked me why I did this,” Crawford said quietly. “The truth is simple. Schuldig, Nagi, Farfarello—they’re not just my team. They’re the only people in the world who matter to me. The only ones who ever have. I’ve spent years calculating odds, manipulating outcomes, staying ahead of threats. But in that warehouse, all the calculations came down to one thing: them or me.”
He looked directly at Aya.
“It was never a choice.”
Something flickered in Aya’s eyes. Not sympathy—Aya was too disciplined for that. But perhaps… understanding. The kind that came from recognizing something in another person that mirrored your own experience.
“You protect what you love,” Aya said softly. “Even when it destroys you.”
It wasn’t a question. It was recognition.
Crawford nodded once.
Aya turned toward the door, then paused. “The information you’ve given us—it’s good. Actionable. We’ve already used some of it to shut down two of Takatori’s operations.”
“Good.”
“But that doesn’t change what you’ve done. The lives you’ve taken. The innocent people who died because Schwarz followed orders.”
“I know.” Crawford’s voice was steady. “I’m not asking for redemption. I’m not even asking for forgiveness. I know what I am.”
“Do you?” Aya looked back at him. “Because I’m starting to think you don’t. Or maybe you do, and that’s why you’re doing this.”
Before Crawford could respond, Aya left.
The door closed with a soft click, and Crawford was alone again with his chains and his thoughts.
But something had shifted. Some barrier between interrogator and prisoner had developed the first hairline crack.
And in that crack, the smallest possibility of something else had begun to grow.
Chapter 3: Through the Glass
Schuldig pressed his forehead against the reinforced glass, staring at the door that separated him from the rest of the safe house. His cell—because that’s what it was, no matter how sterile and clean—was barely larger than a closet. Bed bolted to the wall. Toilet in the corner. One narrow window too high to reach, even with his full height.
And silence. God, the silence.
They’d done something to the walls. Some kind of psychic dampening material he couldn’t quite identify. His telepathy, usually a constant hum of other minds pressing against his consciousness, was muffled. Distant. He could still feel Crawford—faintly, like a radio signal through static—but the connection was weak.
Weak enough that he couldn’t reach him properly. Couldn’t demand answers. Couldn’t scream at him for throwing everything away.
You stupid, noble bastard.
The door opened. Schuldig straightened immediately, default smirk sliding into place even though his heart hammered. The tall one—Balinese—stood in the doorway, regarding him with cool assessment.
“Come on,” Yohji said. “You’re getting exercise time.”
“How generous.” Schuldig kept his tone light, mocking. Inside, his mind raced. Exercise meant leaving the cell. Leaving the cell meant opportunities. Maybe.
Yohji led him through narrow corridors, another guard behind them. Not Siberian, thank god. That one looked like he wanted any excuse to make Schuldig bleed. This guard was unfamiliar, professional, silent.
They reached a small courtyard—more of a concrete box, really, open to the sky but surrounded by high walls. And already there, sitting on a bench with his hands clasped loosely in his lap, was Nagi.
“Prodigy,” Yohji said. “You’ve got thirty minutes. Together. Don’t make me regret this.”
The door closed. Locked. But for the first time in days, Schuldig and Nagi were in the same space.
Nagi looked up, and the relief in his young face nearly broke something in Schuldig’s chest. The kid tried to hide it immediately, forcing his expression back to neutrality, but Schuldig had seen it.
“Hey, Nägelchen,” Schuldig said softly, dropping onto the bench beside him. Close enough that their shoulders almost touched. “You holding up?”
“I’m fine.” Nagi’s voice was steady, but his hands trembled slightly before he pressed them together harder. “They haven’t hurt me. They give me food, water. Books to read.” A pause. “It’s very civilized.”
“Very,” Schuldig agreed, understanding what Nagi wasn’t saying. Too civilized. What’s their angle? Why aren’t they just killing us?
They sat in silence for a moment. Above them, clouds drifted past the slice of visible sky.
“Have you seen Crawford?” Nagi asked finally, quietly.
“No. But I can feel him. Barely. The walls here are dampening my telepathy, but he’s alive. Conscious. And—” Schuldig hesitated, trying to interpret the fragmented emotions bleeding through their weakened connection. “Determined.”
“Determined to what?”
“To save us.” Schuldig’s voice was hollow. “He’s really doing it, Nagi. He’s really giving them everything.”
Nagi turned to look at him, dark eyes searching. “You think it’s a strategy. A long game.”
“I want to think that.” Schuldig leaned his head back against the wall. “I want to believe he’s got some brilliant plan, that he’s three steps ahead like always, that this surrender is just another move on the board.”
“But?”
“But I can feel him, even through all this interference. And what I’m feeling isn’t calculation. It’s—” He struggled for the word. “Resignation. Like he’s accepted something. Made peace with it.”
The thought terrified him more than he wanted to admit.
“He sacrificed himself for us,” Nagi said, and it wasn’t a question. “Actually sacrificed himself. Not as a strategy or manipulation. Just… gave up everything.”
“Seems like.” Schuldig’s attempt at his usual sardonic tone fell flat. “Turns out Oracle has a heart after all. Who knew?”
“I did.” Nagi’s voice was soft but certain. “I always knew. He just never let anyone else see it.”
Schuldig wanted to argue. Wanted to make a joke. Wanted to do anything except sit with the uncomfortable truth that Nagi was right. Crawford had always protected them, always put their survival above mission objectives when he could. But they’d all maintained the comfortable fiction that it was pragmatism, not care.
This—surrendering to their worst enemies, offering himself as collateral for their lives—couldn’t be explained away as strategy.
“What about Farfarello?” Nagi asked.
“Haven’t seen him. Can’t feel him—he’s always been outside my telepathic range when he doesn’t want to be found.” Schuldig flexed his hands, frustrated by the limitations. “But if they’re giving us exercise time, they’re probably giving him something too. Maybe.”
“I hope he’s okay.”
“He’s Farfarello. He’s probably having the time of his life.” But the joke rang hollow. Even Berserker needed his pack, his family. And they’d been torn apart.
Because Crawford had decided their lives were worth more than his freedom.
The door opened again. Yohji stood there, checking his watch. “Time’s up.”
Schuldig stood, then paused. Looked at Nagi directly. “We’ll get through this, kid.”
“I know.” Nagi’s expression was calm, but his voice wavered just slightly. “Because Crawford will make sure we do.”
In another part of the safe house, in a room even more sparse than Schuldig’s, Farfarello sat perfectly still.
They’d chained him differently. Not just restraints on his wrists, but a full harness that limited his movement, kept him from hurting himself. Someone had studied him, understood his particular pathology, and taken precautions.
He appreciated the thoroughness.
The door opened. Siberian entered, wary, ready for violence. Behind him, Bombay carried a tray—food, water, medical supplies.
“Your medications,” Omi said, gesturing to several bottles. “We found your dosage information in Schwarz’s records. Is it accurate?”
Farfarello smiled, the expression sharp and wrong. “Trying to keep me stable? How thoughtful.”
“Trying to keep you from hurting yourself or others.” Ken’s voice was hard. “Don’t read more into it than that.”
“But there is more to it, isn’t there?” Farfarello tilted his head, yellow eyes gleaming. “You could have left us all to die. Your red-haired leader could have put his sword through Oracle’s throat. Easy. Simple. Justice served.”
“Maybe that’s still coming,” Ken said.
“No.” Farfarello’s smile widened. “If it was, you wouldn’t be giving me my medications. You wouldn’t be keeping Prodigy and Mastermind fed and comfortable. You wouldn’t be treating us like prisoners of war instead of war criminals.”
Omi set the tray down carefully, just within Farfarello’s limited reach. “What’s your point?”
“My point is that Oracle saw something. A future where we matter. Where we’re useful. And he sacrificed everything—his pride, his power, his precious control—to get to that future.” Farfarello’s expression turned almost reverent. “I’ve been seeking God in pain for so long. But Oracle? He found something holier. He found something worth dying for.”
Ken and Omi exchanged glances.
“You’re insane,” Ken said flatly.
“Of course I am.” Farfarello’s smile never wavered. “But I’m not wrong. Oracle broke himself open for us. And now you’re all dancing around trying to figure out what to do with the pieces.”
After they left, Farfarello sat in his restraints and laughed quietly. Not the manic laughter of madness, but something softer. Almost tender.
Crawford had surrendered everything. Had become willingly helpless, putting himself completely at the mercy of enemies who had every reason to destroy him.
It was the most beautiful thing Farfarello had ever witnessed.
Crawford’s cell was darker than the others. They’d removed his glasses—a calculated decision that left him functioning but impaired. Without them, the world beyond a few feet was a blur of shapes and shadows.
He sat in his chair, chains pooling around his feet, and waited.
The interrogations had continued. Day after day, Aya would enter with his files and questions, and Crawford would answer. Thoroughly. Truthfully. Bleeding information like a severed artery.
He’d given them the location of Takatori’s hidden accounts. The names of political contacts. The schedules of weapons shipments. The identities of Rosenkreuz operatives embedded in police departments, hospitals, schools.
Everything.
Some small, bitter part of him waited to feel regret. Shame. The sting of betraying everything he’d built.
It never came.
Instead, there was only a strange, hollow relief. Like setting down a weight he’d been carrying for so long that he’d forgotten what it felt like to stand upright without it.
The door opened. Crawford looked up, trying to bring the figure into focus.
“Aya,” he said. Not a question. He could identify the man by his bearing, his movements, even without clear vision.
“I need you to explain something.” Aya’s voice was harder than usual, carrying an edge that made Crawford’s instincts prickle with warning.
“What?”
“You gave us intelligence about a Rosenkreuz facility in Osaka. Three days ago. You said it was a training center for new recruits. Low security. Minimal guard presence.”
“Yes.” Crawford remembered the conversation clearly. “The facility operates under the cover of a martial arts school. The basement levels contain—”
“We know what you said.” Aya moved closer, and Crawford could see the tension in his posture even through his impaired vision. “We sent a team to verify. Two of our operatives.”
Crawford’s stomach dropped. Something was wrong. Something had changed from what he’d foreseen, from what he’d known.
“What happened?”
“They walked into a trap.” Aya’s voice was ice. “High-level security. Armed guards. Rosenkreuz elite forces. Our people barely escaped with their lives. One of them is in critical condition.”
“That’s not—” Crawford started, then stopped. His mind raced, trying to understand. “When I gave you that information, it was accurate. I swear to you. The Osaka facility was exactly as I described it.”
“Was it?” Aya’s hand was on his katana now. “Or did you feed us just enough truth to gain our trust, then slip in a lie designed to get our people killed?”
“No!” Crawford lurched forward, chains snapping taut. “I wouldn’t—I gave you my word. Everything I’ve told you has been the truth!”
“Then explain how your intelligence nearly got two people killed!”
Crawford’s mind spun through possibilities. Changed schedules. Updated security protocols. A facility transfer he hadn’t known about. There were so many variables, so many things that could have shifted after his knowledge became fixed.
But how could he prove that? How could he demonstrate the difference between deliberate deception and the simple chaos of a changing situation?
“I don’t know,” he said finally, and hated how weak the words sounded. “Something changed. Something I didn’t foresee. But I didn’t lie to you, Aya. I wouldn’t risk my team’s lives on a lie.”
“Your team.” Aya’s laugh was bitter. “Maybe that’s exactly what you’d risk. Maybe this whole surrender, this whole performance of sacrifice and honesty—maybe it’s all been theater. Buy time, make us think we can trust you, then strike when we’re vulnerable.”
“That’s not—”
The door burst open. Ken stormed in, fury radiating from every line of his body. “Is it true? He sent our people into an ambush?”
“We don’t know yet,” Aya said, but his tone suggested he’d already made up his mind.
“I didn’t!” Crawford’s voice cracked with desperation. “I gave you accurate information! If something changed, if the situation evolved—I can’t control that! I can only tell you what I knew to be true when you asked!”
Yohji entered next, followed by Omi. The small room suddenly felt suffocating, filled with justified anger and damaged trust.
“Kaori might not make it through the night,” Omi said quietly. His calm was somehow more devastating than Ken’s rage. “She has a collapsed lung and internal bleeding. Because she trusted intelligence that you provided.”
“I’m sorry.” Crawford’s hands were shaking now, chains rattling. “I’m so sorry. But please, you have to believe me—I didn’t know. I would never deliberately send anyone into a trap. Not for any reason. Not even to save myself.”
“Why should we believe you?” Ken was in his face now, and Crawford could smell the anger on him, feel the violence barely leashed. “You’re Schwarz. You’re a killer. You manipulate and lie and destroy. That’s what you do!”
“Not about this.” Crawford looked past Ken to Aya, trying to convey with his impaired vision what he couldn’t quite articulate. “Not about anything I’ve told you. I surrendered everything, Aya. My power, my pride, my life. Why would I throw that away on a lie? What would be the point?”
“Maybe you’re just that good at the long game,” Yohji said. “Sacrifice the opening moves to win the endgame.”
“Or maybe—” Crawford’s voice was hoarse now, “—maybe I’m exactly what I claimed to be. A man trying to save his family. And sometimes, despite our best efforts, intelligence becomes outdated. Operations change. New protocols are implemented. I can’t account for every variable!”
“You’re a precog!” Ken grabbed his collar, pulling him forward until the chains stopped him. “You’re supposed to see this shit coming!”
“My visions aren’t perfect!” Crawford’s composure was fracturing. “They show possibilities, not certainties! They can change based on new information, new decisions! I told you what I saw, what I knew! If Rosenkreuz changed their procedures after I was captured, how could I possibly know that?”
Ken’s fist drew back.
“Siberian.” Aya’s voice was sharp. “Stand down.”
“But he—”
“I said stand down.”
Ken released Crawford roughly, shoving him back into the chair. Crawford sagged against the restraints, breathing hard.
Aya moved closer, crouching down so they were at eye level. Without his glasses, Crawford couldn’t read his expression clearly, but he could feel the intensity of that violet gaze.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Aya said, voice deadly soft. “You’re going to give us every piece of information you have about Rosenkreuz’s security protocols. Every backup system. Every contingency plan. And we’re going to verify all of it—carefully, with reconnaissance only. No more field operations based on your intelligence until we’re absolutely certain it’s reliable.”
“I understand.”
“And if—” Aya’s hand shot out, gripping Crawford’s jaw, forcing him to maintain eye contact even through his impaired vision. “—if we find one more discrepancy, one more ‘outdated’ piece of intelligence, one more mistake that puts our people at risk—I will assume you’re playing us. And I will end you. Slowly. After making you watch what we do to your team first. Am I clear?”
Terror lanced through Crawford, sharp and cold. Not for himself—he’d already accepted his own death as a probable outcome. But the threat to his team, to the people he’d surrendered everything to protect—that was a blade directly to his heart.
“Crystal clear,” he managed.
Aya released him, standing. “You have one chance to prove this was an honest mistake. One chance to show us that your cooperation is genuine. Don’t waste it.”
They left. All of them. The door closed, and Crawford was alone again in the darkness.
His hands were shaking. His breath came in short, sharp gasps that he couldn’t quite control. And for the first time since his surrender, doubt crept in.
Had he made a mistake? Had his visions been wrong? Was there some angle he hadn’t considered, some future he’d missed?
Brad? Schuldig’s mental voice was faint but urgent. What happened? I felt your panic.
I— Crawford couldn’t find the words. They think I lied to them. Gave them false intelligence.
Did you?
No! I swear, Schuldig, everything I told them was true. But something changed. Something I didn’t foresee. And now they think this whole surrender was a manipulation.
Silence on the mental link. Then, quietly: So what do we do?
I don’t know. The admission burned. Crawford always knew. Always had a plan, a vision, a path forward. But now? I don’t know.
Brad—
Just trust me. Please. Trust that I’m trying to save us, even if I can’t see the way anymore.
I do trust you. Schuldig’s mental voice was fierce, certain. I always have. But Brad—don’t break yourself for us. Whatever happens, don’t lose yourself trying to keep us alive.
Too late, Crawford thought, but didn’t send it.
He sat in his chains and his darkness and his doubt, and wondered if surrender had been the right choice after all.
Chapter 4: The Price of Truth
They came for him in the middle of the night.
Crawford had been dozing—not sleeping, never truly sleeping anymore, but drifting in that exhausted space between wakefulness and unconsciousness. The sound of the door opening brought him instantly alert, chains rattling as he straightened in his chair.
“Up.” Ken’s voice. Hard. Unforgiving.
Crawford stood, his muscles protesting after hours in the uncomfortable position. “What’s happening?”
“Shut up.” Another figure—Yohji—grabbed his arm. “You’re coming with us.”
They led him through corridors he’d never seen before, deeper into the safe house. His impaired vision made everything a blur of shadows and harsh fluorescent light. He tried to track the turns, the distances, but without his glasses and in his exhausted state, it was impossible.
Finally, they reached a room. Not his cell. Something different.
The space was larger, and as Crawford’s eyes adjusted, he could make out shapes. A table. Chairs. And standing against the far wall, arms crossed, expression carved from stone—
Aya.
“Sit,” Aya commanded.
Crawford sat. They didn’t bother chaining him to the chair—there was nowhere to run, and they all knew it.
“Kaori died an hour ago,” Aya said without preamble.
The words hit Crawford like a physical blow. He’d hoped—god, he’d hoped—that the operative would survive, that this could be salvaged somehow.
“I’m sorry,” Crawford said, and meant it with every fiber of his being. “I’m so—”
“Your apologies mean nothing.” Aya moved closer, and in the better light, Crawford could see his expression clearly even without his glasses. It was terrible. Cold and controlled and absolutely furious. “A good woman is dead because we trusted you.”
“I didn’t know—”
“So you keep saying.” Aya circled him slowly, predatory. “And maybe that’s even true. Maybe the intelligence you gave us was accurate at the time. Maybe Rosenkreuz did change their protocols after your capture.”
Crawford felt a flicker of hope. “Then you understand—”
“But the result is the same.” Aya stopped directly in front of him. “Someone died. Because of information you provided. Whether you lied deliberately or your intelligence was simply outdated doesn’t change the fact that we can’t trust anything you tell us.”
“You can,” Crawford insisted. “Just verify it first. Reconnaissance before action. I understand that now. I should have suggested it from the beginning—”
“You’re right. You should have.” Aya’s voice was ice. “But you didn’t. You were so eager to prove your cooperation, to show us how valuable you could be, that you gave us information without caveat, without warning about the possibility of changes.”
“I didn’t think—”
“No. You didn’t.” Aya leaned down, hands on the arms of Crawford’s chair, caging him in. “And that failure to think cost a life. So now we need to recalibrate. We need to understand exactly how much your surrender is worth, and what price you’re willing to pay for your team’s continued safety.”
Crawford’s breath caught. “What are you going to do?”
Aya straightened, nodding to Ken and Yohji. “Show him what happens when intelligence fails.”
Ken moved first. The punch caught Crawford in the jaw, snapping his head to the side. Pain exploded through his face, bright and sharp and immediate.
“That’s for Kaori,” Ken growled.
Crawford tasted blood. Spat it onto the floor. Looked back up at them with watering eyes. “I understand.”
“Do you?” Another punch, this time to his ribs. Crawford doubled over, gasping. “Do you really understand what you took from us? She had a family. A daughter. People who loved her.”
“I know!” Crawford’s voice cracked. “I know what loss feels like! I know what it means to care about someone, to want to protect them! That’s why I’m here! That’s why I surrendered!”
“Touching.” Yohji’s wire wrapped around Crawford’s throat, not tight enough to choke but close. A warning. A promise. “But it doesn’t bring her back.”
The beating continued. Not brutal—they were professionals, not sadists—but thorough. Methodical. Each strike precisely calculated to cause pain without doing permanent damage.
Crawford didn’t fight back. Didn’t try to defend himself. He’d given his word. He’d surrendered completely. If this was the price of that surrender, if this was what it took to keep his team alive, then he would pay it.
Brad! Schuldig’s mental scream cut through the pain. What are they doing to you?
Nothing I didn’t agree to, Crawford sent back, though his mental voice was strained. Stay calm. Don’t do anything stupid.
They’re hurting you!
I can handle it. Just— A particularly hard blow to his stomach stole his breath. Just trust me.
When they finally stopped, Crawford was slumped in the chair, breathing in short, pained gasps. His face was swelling, his ribs screamed with each inhale, and he was fairly certain they’d loosened at least one tooth.
But he was alive. And more importantly, his team was alive.
Aya crouched down in front of him again, studying his battered face with clinical detachment. “You took that better than I expected.”
“I told you,” Crawford managed through split lips. “I won’t fight you. I won’t resist. Whatever you need to do to trust me again—I’ll endure it.”
“Will you?” Aya reached out, gripping Crawford’s chin, turning his face to examine the damage. “Even if it means more than just physical pain?”
Crawford met his eyes, trying to project certainty even through his exhaustion and pain. “Yes.”
Something flickered in Aya’s expression. Not sympathy—Aya was too disciplined for that. But perhaps a grudging respect. Or maybe just curiosity about how far Crawford was willing to go.
“We’ll see,” Aya said finally, releasing him. “Take him back to his cell. No medical treatment. Let him feel this for a while.”
They dragged Crawford back through the corridors. His legs barely worked, his body a symphony of pain. When they finally shoved him back into his cell, he collapsed onto the floor, chains clattering around him.
The door closed. Locked.
Darkness and silence and pain.
Brad. Schuldig’s mental voice was quieter now, fragile. Are you okay?
Define okay, Crawford tried for humor and failed. I’m alive. That counts.
They beat you.
Yes.
Because of the intelligence that went wrong.
Yes.
A long pause. Then: Was it worth it?
Crawford thought about that. About the beating, the pain, the damaged trust. About Kaori’s death—an innocent woman who’d died because information he’d provided, truthfully and completely, had become outdated.
About his team, still alive in their cells, still safe despite everything.
Yes, he sent finally. It was worth it.
Because that was the thing about surrender. It wasn’t a single moment, a single choice. It was choosing, over and over again, to endure whatever came. To accept pain and doubt and punishment, and still hold onto the one truth that mattered:
His team was alive.
And as long as they were alive, no price was too high to pay.
Chapter 5: Watching Through Glass
Nagi’s hands trembled as he set down the book he’d been pretending to read for the past hour. Something was wrong. He could feel it—not through any telepathic connection, but through the bone-deep instinct that came from years of knowing his team, his family.
The door opened. Omi entered, carrying the usual tray of food. His expression was carefully neutral, but Nagi had learned to read the subtle tells. The slight tension in his shoulders. The way his eyes didn’t quite meet Nagi’s.
“Is Crawford okay?” Nagi asked immediately.
Omi’s hesitation was answer enough.
“What did you do to him?” Nagi stood, his power flickering instinctively around him. The tray rattled on the table.
“Nothing permanent.” Omi’s voice was steady, but there was something underneath it. Discomfort, maybe. Or guilt. “There was an incident. Intelligence he provided turned out to be compromised. One of our operatives died.”
The words hit Nagi like a physical blow. “Crawford wouldn’t—he’s been completely honest with you! Everything he’s told you has been the truth!”
“Maybe.” Omi set the tray down carefully. “Or maybe things changed after his capture, and the intelligence became outdated. Either way, the result was the same.”
“So you punished him.” Nagi’s voice was hollow. “He surrendered everything to save us, and you punished him for trying to help you.”
“He’s not innocent, Nagi.” Omi’s tone was gentle but firm. “None of you are. The things Schwarz has done, the people you’ve killed—that doesn’t disappear just because Crawford offered himself up as collateral.”
“He’s trying to make amends!”
“Is he?” Omi moved closer to the glass that separated them. “Or is he just trying to survive? There’s a difference.”
Nagi stared at him. “You don’t understand. Crawford—he’s never been good at showing emotion. Never let anyone see what he really feels. But his team? We’re everything to him. The fact that he surrendered, that he put himself completely at your mercy—that’s not strategy. That’s love.”
The word hung in the air between them.
Omi’s expression softened slightly. “I want to believe that. Aya… I think Aya wants to believe it too. But we’ve been betrayed before. Used before. We have to be careful.”
“By hurting someone who’s trying to help you?”
“By protecting ourselves.” Omi’s voice carried an old pain. “We’ve lost too many people, Nagi. We can’t afford to trust blindly, even when someone seems sincere.”
After he left, Nagi sat in his cell and tried not to think about Crawford—beaten, alone, suffering for the crime of having imperfect information.
Tried not to think about how this was exactly what Crawford had feared. That his surrender wouldn’t be enough. That no amount of cooperation, no depth of honesty, would ever overcome the justified hatred Weiß held for Schwarz.
We should have fought, Nagi thought bitterly. Should have died fighting rather than let Crawford destroy himself trying to save us.
But even as the thought formed, he knew it was wrong. Because Crawford’s choice hadn’t been about strategy or survival. It had been about love—the fierce, protective love that made him willing to endure anything, sacrifice anything, as long as his team lived.
And that was worth something.
Even if Weiß couldn’t see it yet.
In his own cell, Schuldig paced. Three steps forward, three steps back. The psychic dampening made him feel half-blind, cut off from the mental landscape he usually navigated with ease.
But he could still feel Crawford. Faintly. Like a distant signal through static.
And right now, that signal was pain.
Brad, he sent, pushing as hard as he could against the dampening. Talk to me. Tell me what happened.
The response came slowly, fragmented. Operative… died. Intelligence… compromised. They needed… to know… I would pay.
Pay what? Brad, what did they do?
No answer. Or maybe Crawford didn’t have the strength to maintain the connection.
Schuldig slammed his fist against the wall, ignoring the pain that shot through his knuckles. This was unbearable. Feeling Crawford’s suffering at a distance, unable to help, unable to even comfort him properly.
The door opened. Schuldig spun, expecting guards, finding instead—
Yohji.
They stared at each other for a long moment. Yohji’s expression was complicated, unreadable.
“You felt it,” Yohji said. It wasn’t a question.
“Of course I felt it.” Schuldig’s voice was harsh. “You beat him. After he gave you everything. After he surrendered completely.”
“Someone died because of his intelligence.”
“Intelligence he gave you honestly! It’s not his fault if Rosenkreuz changed their protocols after he was captured!” Schuldig moved closer to the glass. “He can’t control every variable. He can only tell you what he knows. And he’s been doing that—completely, without reservation, without trying to negotiate or leverage. He’s been helping you destroy everything he built!”
“To save you,” Yohji said quietly.
“Yes! To save us!” Schuldig’s hands were shaking now. “Because we’re his family. Because despite everything—all the missions, all the killing, all the horror—we matter to him more than his own life. And you’re punishing him for that.”
Yohji was silent for a moment, studying Schuldig with those sharp eyes that saw too much. “You really believe that. That this isn’t some elaborate manipulation.”
“I know it.” Schuldig pressed his hand against the glass. “I’m a telepath. I’ve been in Crawford’s head more times than I can count. I know how he thinks, how he feels. And I’m telling you—what he’s doing now? This surrender? It’s the most honest thing he’s ever done in his life.”
“Or it’s the most sophisticated lie.”
“Then why does it hurt him so much?” Schuldig’s voice cracked. “I can feel his pain, Balinese. Not just the physical damage you inflicted. The emotional cost. He’s tearing himself apart to save us, and you—” His laugh was bitter. “You’re helping him do it.”
Yohji looked away. “Kaori was my friend.”
“I’m sorry for that. Genuinely. But Crawford didn’t kill her. Circumstance did. Bad timing. Rosenkreuz paranoia. Not him.”
“The result is the same.”
“No, it’s not.” Schuldig’s voice was fierce now. “Because if you can’t see the difference between deliberate betrayal and honest mistake, then this whole thing is pointless. Crawford might as well stop cooperating. Stop trying. Because nothing he does will ever be enough.”
Yohji turned back to face him. “What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to see him. Really see him. Not Schwarz’s leader. Not the enemy. Not the calculating oracle who’s always three steps ahead. Just—” Schuldig’s voice softened. “Just a man trying to save his family. That’s all he’s ever been. That’s all any of us are.”
After Yohji left, Schuldig slumped against the wall, exhaustion and frustration warring inside him.
Brad, he sent again, softer now. I know you can’t answer. I know maintaining the connection takes too much energy. But I need you to know—we see what you’re doing. We understand the price you’re paying. And we’re not going to let it be for nothing.
So hang on. Whatever they do to you, however much they doubt you, hang on.
Because we’re coming through this together.
All of us.
In the darkest, most heavily secured cell, Farfarello sat in his restraints and smiled.
He could hear Crawford’s pain. Not through telepathy—he’d never had that connection—but through the subtle vibrations of the building, the distant sounds that carried through air vents and walls.
Someone had screamed. Briefly. Before regaining control.
Crawford. It had to be.
“Beautiful,” Farfarello whispered to the empty room. “You’re breaking yourself for us. Suffering for us. It’s almost holy.”
The door opened. Siberian stood there, tense and ready for violence.
“Heard your leader got what he deserved,” Ken said roughly.
Farfarello’s smile widened. “Did he? Or did he get exactly what he needed?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oracle has always been about control. About staying three steps ahead, never showing weakness, never letting anyone close enough to hurt him.” Farfarello’s yellow eyes gleamed. “But now? He’s chosen to be helpless. Vulnerable. At your mercy. And you know what? I think it’s freeing him.”
Ken stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “You’re even crazier than I thought.”
“Probably.” Farfarello leaned back as much as his restraints allowed. “But I’m not wrong. Crawford needed to let go. To stop trying to control everything. And this surrender—this complete, absolute surrender—it’s the first honest thing he’s done in years.”
“Honest.” Ken’s laugh was harsh. “He’s a liar and a killer.”
“So are you.” Farfarello’s tone was conversational. “So are all of us. But at least Crawford’s trying to be something more. What are you trying to be, Siberian? Besides angry?”
The door slammed shut.
Alone again, Farfarello closed his eyes and listened to the building breathe. Somewhere in its depths, Crawford was suffering. Enduring. Surviving.
And somehow, impossibly, that suffering was transforming into something else.
Something that might—if they were very lucky, if the gods Farfarello no longer believed in decided to be merciful—look like redemption.
Chapter 6: Breaking Point
Crawford woke to agony.
Every breath sent fire through his ribs. His jaw throbbed with a deep, bone-deep ache that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. One eye had swollen shut completely, and the other could barely focus through the pain.
They hadn’t given him water. Hadn’t treated his injuries. Just thrown him back into his cell and left him to suffer in the darkness.
He tried to shift position and immediately regretted it. The chains clinked as he moved, and fresh pain lanced through his body. Something was definitely broken—ribs, maybe more. Without medical attention, without even basic first aid, the damage would only get worse.
This is the price, he reminded himself. This is what surrender costs.
But god, it hurt.
Brad? Schuldig’s mental voice was barely a whisper through the dampening. Are you—
Don’t, Crawford sent back, the effort of maintaining the connection making his head pound worse. Save your strength. I’m… managing.
You’re lying.
Yes. No point in denying it. But there’s nothing you can do. So please. Don’t make this harder.
The connection severed as Crawford’s concentration failed. He slumped against the chair, chains rattling, and tried to find a position that didn’t make him want to scream.
Hours passed. Or maybe minutes. Time had lost all meaning in the darkness and pain.
The door opened.
Crawford looked up with his one functioning eye, trying to focus. The figure was a blur, but he knew the silhouette, the bearing.
Aya.
“Still alive,” Aya observed. Not quite a question.
“Disappointing, I’m sure.” Crawford’s voice was hoarse, damaged. Speaking sent sharp pains through his jaw.
Aya moved closer, and Crawford could make out his expression now—still cold, still controlled, but something else underneath. Assessment, perhaps. Or doubt.
“I expected you to be angrier,” Aya said.
“Would that help?” Crawford managed a painful approximation of a smile. “Would it convince you I’m sincere if I raged and threatened and demanded medical treatment?”
“No.”
“Then what would?” The question came out more desperate than Crawford intended. “What do I have to do, Aya? How much do I have to endure before you believe I’m telling the truth?”
Aya crouched down, bringing them to eye level. In the dim light, Crawford could see the calculation in those violet eyes, the careful weighing of evidence and possibility.
“The intelligence you gave us about the Osaka facility—I’ve been reviewing the timeline. Cross-referencing with other sources.” Aya paused. “It’s possible you were telling the truth. That Rosenkreuz upgraded their security after your capture, anticipating that you might cooperate with enemies.”
Hope flared in Crawford’s chest, sharp and painful. “Then you understand—”
“Understanding and trusting are different things.” Aya’s voice was hard. “Kaori is still dead. Whether you lied deliberately or your information was simply outdated, the result was the same. We can’t afford to make that mistake again.”
“So what now?” Crawford’s voice cracked. “More beatings? More punishment? Tell me what you want from me, and I’ll give it. I have nothing left to hide, nothing left to protect except my team. Just tell me what it takes.”
Aya studied him for a long moment. “Information isn’t enough anymore. We need proof of commitment. Real commitment, not just words and intelligence that might be compromised.”
Crawford’s stomach sank. “What kind of proof?”
“Takatori is hosting a gathering in three days. Political contacts, Rosenkreuz representatives, criminal associates. High security. Invitation only.” Aya’s eyes were sharp. “You’re going to help us infiltrate it.”
“I can give you floor plans, security details, guard rotations—”
“No.” Aya cut him off. “You’re going to come with us. Physically. As our guide.”
The words hit Crawford like a blow. “You want me to… what? Betray Takatori in person? Walk into a room full of his allies and help you destroy them?”
“That’s exactly what I want.” Aya stood, looking down at him. “You say you’ve surrendered everything. Prove it. Show us you’re willing to risk not just information, but your own presence. That you’ll stand beside us as we tear down everything you helped build.”
Crawford’s mind raced. Going back into Takatori’s sphere of influence, even as Weiß’s prisoner, was incredibly dangerous. If they were discovered, if something went wrong, Takatori would know Crawford had betrayed him. And Takatori’s revenge would be… creative.
“And my team?” Crawford asked. “If I do this—if I help you infiltrate Takatori’s gathering—what happens to them?”
“They stay here. Safe. Unharmed.” Aya’s tone made it clear this wasn’t negotiable. “But if you try to betray us, if you warn Takatori or attempt to escape—they die. All of them. Immediately.”
The threat was clear. Absolute. And completely effective.
Crawford closed his eyes—eye, singular, since the other wouldn’t open. Every instinct screamed at him that this was too dangerous, too exposed. That walking back into Takatori’s world as a traitor was suicide.
But his team would be safe. That was the calculation that mattered.
“I’ll do it,” he said quietly.
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.” Crawford opened his eye, meeting Aya’s gaze directly. “You want proof of my commitment? You want me to burn every bridge, destroy every safe harbor, make myself completely dependent on your mercy? Fine. I’ll do it. But I need something in return.”
Aya’s expression didn’t change. “You’re not in a position to negotiate.”
“I’m not negotiating.” Crawford’s voice was steady despite the pain. “I’m asking. Please. Medical treatment. Not for me—I’ll endure this. But I need to be functional enough to help you. If I collapse from internal bleeding or infection in the middle of your operation, I’m useless to you.”
The logic was sound, and they both knew it.
“Basic treatment,” Aya said finally. “Enough to keep you operational. Nothing more.”
“Thank you.”
Aya turned toward the door, then paused. “Crawford.”
“Yes?”
“If you’re playing us—if this is some elaborate trap—I want you to know something.” Aya’s voice was soft, almost gentle, which somehow made it more terrifying. “I won’t just kill your team. I’ll make you watch. I’ll make sure you understand, completely and absolutely, that their deaths are your fault. That your manipulation, your lies, your arrogance—that’s what destroyed them.”
The words cut deeper than any physical blow could have.
“I understand,” Crawford managed. “But it won’t come to that. Because I’m not playing you. I’m trying to save them.”
After Aya left, Crawford sagged in his chains, exhaustion and pain and fear washing over him in waves.
Brad? Schuldig’s mental presence pushed through the dampening, stronger now, more urgent. What’s happening?
They want me to help them infiltrate Takatori’s gathering. In person.
Silence on the mental link. Then: That’s suicide.
Probably.
Brad—
I don’t have a choice, Schuldig. Crawford’s mental voice was weary. They need proof. Real proof that my surrender isn’t a manipulation. And this is what they’re asking for.
Let me come with you. Let me—
No. The command was absolute. You stay here. Stay safe. That’s the whole point.
The point was to save all of us! Not just to sacrifice you piece by piece!
If that’s what it takes, Crawford sent back, then that’s what I’ll do.
He could feel Schuldig’s anguish through the connection, his desperate desire to help, to fix this, to find some other way.
But there was no other way. Crawford had seen the futures, mapped the possibilities. This was the path—painful, dangerous, humiliating—but the only one that led to his team’s survival.
I’m sorry, Crawford sent, gentler now. I’m sorry for putting you through this. For making you watch. But I need you to trust me. One more time. Can you do that?
The pause stretched. Then, finally: Yes. I trust you. But Brad—don’t you dare die on us. We’ve come too far for that.
I’ll do my best.
The connection faded as Crawford’s strength gave out. He slumped in his chair, chains pooling around him, and waited for someone to come treat his injuries.
Waited to be made functional enough to betray the man who had owned him for years.
Waited to prove, once and for all, that his surrender was real.
Chapter 7: Preparation
The medical treatment, when it came, was efficient and cold.
Omi worked with professional detachment, cleaning wounds, wrapping ribs, administering pain medication that took the edge off but left Crawford fully conscious. No tender mercies. No sympathy. Just the minimum care necessary to make him operational.
“You’re lucky,” Omi said as he taped down the last bandage. “Nothing’s broken that won’t heal. You’ll be in pain, but you’ll function.”
“Lucky,” Crawford repeated hollowly. “Yes. That’s exactly what I am.”
Omi paused, medical kit in hand, and looked at him directly. “I don’t understand you.”
“Join the club.”
“No, I mean—” Omi sat back, studying Crawford’s battered face. “You’re intelligent. Strategic. You could have found a hundred other ways to handle that situation in the warehouse. You could have fought, escaped, sacrificed one team member to save the others. But instead, you chose this. Complete surrender. Why?”
Crawford was silent for a long moment, trying to find words for something he’d never articulated, even to himself.
“Have you ever loved someone so much that their survival mattered more than your own?” he asked finally.
Omi’s expression flickered—pain, memory, understanding. “Yes.”
“Then you know.” Crawford’s voice was soft. “There was no choice. Not really. The moment I saw the future where they died, every other option disappeared. I would do anything—endure anything—to prevent that outcome.”
“Even betray everything you’ve built? Everyone you’ve served?”
“Especially that.” Crawford met his eyes. “Because what I built was a cage. What I served was a monster. And the only real thing—the only thing that ever mattered—was the family I found in that cage.”
Omi was quiet for a moment, then nodded slowly. “I believe you.”
The words were soft, almost hesitant. But they landed like a lifeline in Crawford’s darkness.
“Thank you,” Crawford whispered.
“Don’t thank me yet.” Omi stood, gathering his supplies. “Aya’s test is brutal. Walking into Takatori’s gathering as our asset—if you’re discovered, if anything goes wrong, it won’t just be your life on the line.”
“I know.”
“And you’re still willing?”
“I don’t have a choice,” Crawford said simply. “Not anymore.”
After Omi left, Crawford was allowed to clean himself properly for the first time since his capture. A guard escorted him to a small bathroom—still under supervision, still chained—but the hot water felt like absolution.
He stood under the spray and let it wash away blood and sweat and the accumulated grime of days in captivity. Let it soothe aching muscles and battered skin. Let it provide a brief respite from the constant pain.
When he emerged, they’d left clean clothes for him. Not his usual impeccable suits, but simple, functional garments. A t-shirt. Loose pants. Soft shoes.
The informality felt strange. Wrong. Crawford had always used his appearance as armor, every crease and button a statement of control and competence. Now he looked like what he was—a prisoner. A captive. A man who had surrendered everything, including his dignity.
They returned him to a different room. Not his cell, but a conference room with a table, chairs, a large screen on the wall. Aya was there, along with the rest of Weiß. Crawford was directed to a chair, and his chains were secured to a bolt in the floor again.
“Floor plans,” Aya said without preamble, pulling up schematics on the screen. “Takatori’s estate. The gathering will be held here—” He pointed to a large ballroom. “Security will be heavy, but most of it will be concentrated on the perimeter and entrances.”
Crawford studied the plans, his analytical mind automatically mapping vulnerabilities and access points despite his exhaustion and pain.
“There,” he said, indicating a service entrance. “The staff entrance on the east side. Security is lighter there because it’s monitored by internal personnel rather than external guards. If you can get credentials—catering staff, maintenance workers—you could enter without triggering immediate alarms.”
“Internal personnel,” Ken repeated skeptically. “Meaning Takatori’s people. Who would recognize that we don’t belong.”
“Not if I’m with you.” Crawford’s voice was steady. “I’ve been to this estate dozens of times. I know the staff, the routines, the expectations. I can guide you through, deflect questions, provide cover stories. As long as I’m present, you’ll be treated as my guests.”
Yohji leaned forward. “And what stops you from simply leading us into a trap? Walking us straight to Takatori and announcing our presence?”
The question hung in the air.
Crawford looked around the table, meeting each of their eyes in turn. Ken’s hostility. Yohji’s suspicion. Omi’s cautious hope. And Aya’s unreadable assessment.
“Nothing stops me,” Crawford said quietly. “Except my word. And the knowledge that if I betray you, my team dies. That’s all I have to offer. My word, and the certainty that their lives mean more to me than my own.”
“Not exactly reassuring,” Ken muttered.
“No,” Crawford agreed. “But it’s the truth.”
Aya stood, moving to the screen to trace a route. “We’ll enter here. Move through the service corridors to the main level. Our objective is the private study where Takatori keeps his most sensitive documents. Physical copies, not digital—he’s paranoid about hacking.”
“Smart paranoia,” Omi murmured.
“We have a twenty-minute window,” Aya continued. “From the time the gathering begins until Takatori gives his welcoming speech. During that window, security will be focused on the ballroom. The study will be vulnerable.”
Crawford nodded slowly. “It could work. But you’re missing something.”
“What?”
“Takatori will expect to see me.” Crawford’s voice was hollow. “I’ve been missing for days. If I suddenly appear at his gathering, he’ll have questions. Suspicions. Unless—”
He stopped, the realization hitting him like a physical blow.
“Unless what?” Aya’s eyes were sharp.
“Unless I convince him I escaped from you.” Crawford’s hands clenched into fists. “That I was captured, interrogated, but managed to break free. That I’m injured but loyal. That I’ve returned to warn him about your plans.”
The room went silent.
“You want to go to Takatori directly,” Yohji said slowly. “Warn him we’re coming. And hope he believes you’re still on his side.”
“Yes.”
“That’s insane,” Ken said flatly.
“It’s the only way this works.” Crawford’s voice was steady despite the horror of what he was suggesting. “If I try to avoid him, sneak around his gathering, he’ll know something’s wrong. But if I go to him openly, present myself as his loyal servant who escaped enemy captivity—he might believe it. Long enough for you to complete your objective.”
“And what happens to you?” Omi asked quietly. “After we’re done, after we escape with the documents—what happens when Takatori realizes you led us there deliberately?”
Crawford smiled, the expression bitter and tired. “Then I’ll have finally burned the last bridge. Made myself completely dependent on your mercy. Which is what you wanted, isn’t it? Proof that I’ve chosen a side?”
Aya studied him for a long moment. “You understand this is a death sentence. If Takatori discovers your betrayal—”
“I understand.” Crawford’s voice didn’t waver. “But my team will be safe. That’s all that matters.”
“Your team.” Aya moved closer, crouching down so they were eye level. “You’re willing to die for them.”
“I’m willing to do worse than die.” Crawford met his gaze directly. “I’m willing to betray everything I’ve been, everything I’ve done, everyone I’ve served. I’m willing to make myself a traitor and an enemy to the most dangerous man in Tokyo. If that’s what it takes to keep Schuldig, Nagi, and Farfarello alive—then yes. I’ll do it gladly.”
Something shifted in Aya’s expression. Not warmth—Aya was too controlled for that. But perhaps a crack in the armor of suspicion. A recognition that Crawford’s surrender wasn’t strategy.
It was truth.
“We’ll do it your way,” Aya said finally. “You’ll present yourself to Takatori. Sell the story of your escape. And while you’re distracting him, we’ll complete the operation.”
“And after?”
“After, we extract you. If possible.” Aya’s tone made it clear this was far from guaranteed. “But Crawford—if you have to choose between your escape and the success of the mission—”
“I choose the mission,” Crawford finished. “I know.”
Because that was the thing about surrender. It wasn’t a single choice, made once and then done. It was choosing, over and over again, to give up more. To sacrifice more. To endure more.
Until there was nothing left except the one truth that had driven him from the beginning:
His family’s survival mattered more than his own.
Chapter 8: The Night Before
They kept Crawford in the conference room after the planning session. Not his cell—something closer to house arrest. A couch where he could lie down. A table with water and simple food. Even a blanket, thin but serviceable.
The chains remained, of course. Always the chains.
Crawford lay on the couch and stared at the ceiling, trying not to think about tomorrow. About walking back into Takatori’s presence as a traitor. About the moment when the man who had owned him for years would realize Crawford had chosen to break free.
Brad.
The mental voice was stronger now, clearer. They’d moved Schuldig to a cell closer to this room, reducing the psychic dampening between them.
I’m here, Crawford sent back.
I heard them talking. The guards. They’re taking bets on whether you’ll survive tomorrow.
What are the odds?
Not good. Schuldig’s mental tone was grim. Brad, you don’t have to do this. We could find another way. We could—
There is no other way. Crawford’s mental voice was gentle but firm. We both know that. This is the only path that leads to your survival.
What about your survival?
Crawford didn’t answer immediately. In the darkness of the conference room, alone with his chains and his fear, he could admit what he’d been avoiding for days.
If I make it through tomorrow, it’ll be a bonus. But that’s not the priority. You, Nagi, Farfarello—that’s the priority. Always.
That’s not fair. Schuldig’s mental presence was anguished. You don’t get to decide your life matters less than ours.
I’m the leader. That’s exactly what I get to decide.
Brad—
Schuldig. Crawford’s mental voice was soft, almost tender. Let me do this. Let me save you. Please. It’s all I have left.
The silence on the mental link was heavy with emotion. Finally, Schuldig sent: You’re an idiot. A noble, self-sacrificing idiot.
Probably.
But you’re our idiot. There was something fierce in Schuldig’s mental tone now. So you better survive this. Because we’re not losing you. Not when we’ve finally figured out that you’re more than just the cold, calculating oracle. That you’re human. That you’re family.
Crawford’s throat tightened. I’ll try.
Don’t try. Succeed. Schuldig’s mental presence pressed against his consciousness like an embrace. Come back to us, Brad. That’s an order.
The connection faded as exhaustion pulled at them both. Crawford closed his eyes and tried to find something like peace in the darkness.
Tomorrow, he would walk into the lion’s den. Tomorrow, he would betray the man who had owned him for years. Tomorrow, he would burn the last bridges and make himself completely dependent on the mercy of enemies who had every reason to let him die.
But tonight—tonight he could rest, knowing his team was safe.
Knowing they understood, finally, why he’d done this.
Knowing that whatever happened tomorrow, he’d made the right choice.
Even if it killed him.
The door opened near midnight. Crawford looked up, expecting a guard, finding instead—
Aya.
He entered quietly, closing the door behind him. In the dim light, his expression was unreadable, but there was something different in his bearing. Less hostile. More… contemplative.
“Can’t sleep?” Crawford asked.
“I could ask you the same thing.” Aya moved to one of the chairs, sitting down but maintaining distance. “Tomorrow is significant for both of us.”
“Yes.”
They sat in silence for a moment. Outside, the city breathed and moved, indifferent to the small drama playing out in this hidden room.
“I’ve been reviewing your file,” Aya said finally. “Everything we have on Schwarz. On you specifically. The missions you’ve run. The people you’ve killed. The orders you’ve followed.”
Crawford’s stomach tightened. “And?”
“And I’m trying to reconcile that person—the cold, efficient killer who never showed mercy—with the man sitting in front of me now.” Aya’s violet eyes were searching. “The man who surrendered everything to save his team. Who’s willing to walk into certain death tomorrow to protect them.”
“People are complicated,” Crawford offered.
“That’s not an answer.”
“No.” Crawford was quiet for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “The truth is, I’ve been two people for a long time. The person I had to be—the oracle, the strategist, the weapon—and the person I actually was underneath. The first person killed without hesitation because that’s what survival required. The second person—” His voice softened. “The second person loved his team so much it terrified him.”
“Why did it terrify you?”
“Because love is a vulnerability. In our world, in the life we led, caring about someone gave Takatori and Rosenkreuz leverage. A way to control us. So I hid it. Pretended it didn’t exist. Convinced myself I was just protecting valuable assets, not people I—” He stopped, swallowing hard. “Not people I loved.”
Aya was silent, absorbing this. “When did you stop pretending?”
“In the warehouse. When I saw the future where they died.” Crawford’s voice was barely above a whisper. “In that moment, all the pretense burned away. There was no more hiding, no more calculation. Just the absolute certainty that I would rather die myself than watch them fall.”
“And that’s when you surrendered.”
“Yes.”
Aya leaned forward slightly. “I’ve killed people who claimed to love their families. Who begged for mercy in the name of protecting those they cared about. And in every case, it was manipulation. A tactic. A lie designed to exploit my humanity.”
“I know,” Crawford said. “That’s why you don’t trust me.”
“But.” Aya’s voice was quiet. “In every case, when pushed, when truly tested—they chose themselves. Their survival over their supposed loved ones. They broke. Betrayed. Revealed the lie.”
He met Crawford’s eyes directly.
“You haven’t.”
The words hung between them, significant and weighty.
“We’ve beaten you. Starved you. Threatened you. Given you every opportunity to protect yourself, to preserve something of your dignity and power. And each time, you’ve chosen to endure. To sacrifice more. To prove your commitment is real.”
Crawford’s chest felt tight. “Are you saying you believe me?”
“I’m saying—” Aya paused, choosing his words carefully. “I’m beginning to understand that your surrender isn’t strategy. It’s truth. And that’s… difficult to reconcile with everything I thought I knew about Schwarz.”
“We’re not monsters,” Crawford said softly. “We’ve done monstrous things. But we’re not monsters. We’re people who were trapped, controlled, forced into terrible choices. And we made a family out of that darkness.”
Aya stood, moving toward the door. Then he stopped, looking back.
“Tomorrow, when you face Takatori—I need you to know something.”
“What?”
“If things go wrong, if you’re discovered—we won’t abandon you.” Aya’s voice was firm. “We’ll extract you if at all possible. You’re not expendable. Not anymore.”
Crawford’s throat closed. He couldn’t speak.
“Get some rest,” Aya said quietly. “You’ll need your strength.”
After he left, Crawford lay back on the couch and let silent tears slip down his face.
For the first time since his surrender, someone from Weiß had seen him. Really seen him.
And hadn’t turned away.
Chapter 9: Into the Lion’s Den
The car was silent except for the hum of the engine and the soft rustle of rain against the windows. Crawford sat in the back seat, hands cuffed in front of him now—a concession to the performance they’d need to maintain. Aya sat beside him, close enough that Crawford could feel the tension radiating from his body. Ken drove, with Yohji in the passenger seat and Omi monitoring communications from a tablet.
They were all dressed in service uniforms—catering staff for the evening’s gathering. Crawford wore a simple black suit, expensive enough to pass as one of Takatori’s trusted associates but nondescript enough not to draw immediate attention.
“Last chance to back out,” Yohji said, not looking back.
Crawford almost laughed. “And go where? Do what? My only options are forward.”
“He’s right,” Aya said quietly. “We’re committed now.”
The estate loomed ahead—all stone walls and manicured gardens, every window glowing with warm light. Crawford had been here dozens of times, but tonight it looked different. Ominous. Like a beast waiting to swallow him whole.
Ken pulled the car around to the service entrance. Two guards stood at the gate, checking credentials with professional efficiency.
“Remember,” Aya murmured, leaning close to Crawford’s ear. “You’re our prisoner. Escaped captivity, injured, desperate to return to Takatori. Stay in character.”
“I understand.”
One of the guards approached the driver’s window. Ken rolled it down, presenting forged credentials with practiced ease.
“Catering staff,” Ken said in fluent Japanese. “Additional servers for the main event.”
The guard studied the documents, then leaned down to peer into the back seat. His eyes widened when he saw Crawford.
“Oracle-sama?” The guard’s shock was genuine. “We—we were told you’d been captured. That Weiß had taken you.”
Crawford forced his expression into something cold and controlled, despite the pain still throbbing through his body. “I escaped. Barely. These men are new hires—they found me on the streets and recognized me. Brought me back.”
It was a thin story. Transparent, really. But the guard’s training made him defer to authority, and Crawford had always carried authority in this place.
“Takatori-sama will want to see you immediately,” the guard said, stepping back and waving them through.
The gate opened.
They were inside.
Crawford’s heart hammered in his chest, but his expression remained perfectly calm. Years of practice. Years of pretending to be something he wasn’t.
Brad, Schuldig’s distant mental voice brushed against his consciousness. We can feel your fear. What’s happening?
I’m walking into hell, Crawford sent back. But stay calm. This is the plan.
The plan is suicide.
Maybe. But it’s all we have.
The car pulled into the service bay. Ken killed the engine, and for a moment, they all sat in tense silence.
“Once we’re inside,” Aya said quietly, “we split up. Crawford goes to Takatori. The rest of us move through the service corridors toward the study. Twenty minutes. That’s all we need.”
“And if something goes wrong?” Omi asked.
“Then we improvise.” Aya opened his door. “Move.”
They exited the car as a unit, the practiced efficiency of professionals. Crawford moved with them, hands still cuffed, playing his part. Two more guards materialized from the shadows, and Crawford recognized them both—Takatori’s personal security, men who’d seen him come and go a hundred times.
“Oracle-sama,” one of them said, bowing slightly. “Takatori-sama will be very pleased by your return. He’s been… concerned.”
The word “concerned” carried weight. Takatori’s concern was never a good thing.
“Take me to him,” Crawford said, his voice steady.
The guard hesitated, glancing at Weiß. “And these men?”
“They saved my life. They’ll wait here while I report to Takatori-sama. See that they’re given refreshments.” The lie came easily, smooth as oil. “I’ll vouch for them personally after I’ve spoken with Takatori-sama.”
Another hesitation. But again, Crawford’s authority—even battered and cuffed—carried weight in this place.
“Of course, Oracle-sama. This way.”
As the guard turned to lead Crawford away, Aya’s hand shot out, gripping his arm just above the cuff. Their eyes met, and in that brief moment, Crawford saw something he hadn’t expected.
Concern. Real, genuine concern.
“Don’t die,” Aya said quietly. Just two words, but they landed like a promise.
“I’ll try,” Crawford replied.
Then he was being led away, deeper into the estate, toward the man who had owned him for years. Behind him, Weiß melted into the shadows of the service area, beginning their own infiltration.
The walk through familiar corridors felt surreal. Everything was the same—the artwork on the walls, the expensive carpet under his feet, the soft lighting that spoke of wealth and power. But Crawford had changed. The man walking these halls now was fundamentally different from the one who’d walked them before.
That man had been a prisoner pretending to be free.
This man was free, even in chains.
They reached Takatori’s private reception room. The guard knocked once, then opened the door, gesturing Crawford inside.
The room was empty except for one figure standing by the window, silhouetted against the city lights beyond.
Takatori.
He turned slowly, and Crawford felt the full weight of that gaze. Takatori was in his fifties, distinguished, handsome in a cold way. Every inch of him radiated controlled power and barely leashed cruelty.
“Oracle,” Takatori said, his voice smooth as poisoned honey. “What an unexpected pleasure.”
Crawford stepped forward, keeping his expression neutral. The door closed behind him with a soft click. They were alone.
“Takatori-sama,” Crawford said, bowing his head. The submissive gesture tasted like ash. “I apologize for my absence. I was captured by Weiß, but I managed to escape.”
“Did you?” Takatori moved closer, circling Crawford like a predator examining wounded prey. “How fortunate. And how… convenient. That you escape and return just in time for tonight’s gathering.”
“It wasn’t convenient. It was desperate.” Crawford kept his voice steady. “They interrogated me. Tried to extract information about your operations. But I gave them nothing.”
“Nothing?” Takatori’s hand shot out, gripping Crawford’s jaw, forcing his head up. His thumb pressed against the bruise on Crawford’s cheekbone, and Crawford couldn’t suppress a wince of pain. “These injuries suggest otherwise. They hurt you. Broke you, perhaps?”
“They tried.” Crawford met his gaze directly, even as pain lanced through his face. “But I’m stronger than they anticipated.”
Takatori’s smile was thin, dangerous. “Are you? Or did they send you back to me? A spy, perhaps. A traitor.”
The accusation hung in the air, sharp as a blade.
Crawford had prepared for this. Had known Takatori would suspect, would probe, would test.
“If I were a spy,” Crawford said quietly, “would I have walked through your front door? Would I have announced my presence to your guards? A traitor would sneak in, hide his allegiance, gather intelligence quietly.” He paused, letting the logic sink in. “I came to you openly because I have nothing to hide. Because my loyalty to you has never wavered.”
It was a lie. The greatest lie Crawford had ever told. And he sold it with every ounce of his training, his control, his desperate need to keep Takatori distracted just long enough.
Takatori studied him, those cold eyes searching for deception. “You understand I’ll need proof of this loyalty.”
“Of course.”
“You’ll tell me everything Weiß asked you. Every question, every technique they used. Every piece of information they tried to extract.” Takatori’s grip tightened. “And then you’ll tell me where they’re hiding. Their safe houses. Their contacts. Everything.”
Crawford’s heart sank. This was the trap within the trap. Takatori wanted him to betray Weiß, to prove his loyalty through treachery.
But Crawford couldn’t do that. Wouldn’t. Because somewhere in this estate, Aya and the others were working to complete their mission. And if Crawford gave Takatori real information about Weiß’s operations, he’d be destroying the only people who’d shown him genuine mercy.
“I’ll tell you everything,” Crawford said, the lie bitter on his tongue. “But first—I need medical attention. I’m barely standing, Takatori-sama. Let me be treated, let me regain my strength, and then I’ll give you everything you want.”
It was a delaying tactic. Obvious, really. But Crawford sold it with the tremor in his hands, the sweat on his brow, the very real exhaustion that made his voice shake.
Takatori’s eyes narrowed. “You’re stalling.”
“I’m dying,” Crawford corrected, and that wasn’t entirely a lie. “Internal injuries. Possibly bleeding. I escaped before they could finish their interrogation, but the damage—” He swayed slightly, and it wasn’t performance. “Please, Takatori-sama. Let me be treated. Then I’ll tell you everything.”
The moment stretched. Crawford could feel Takatori’s suspicion, his calculation, his sadistic pleasure at seeing Oracle—always so controlled, so perfect—reduced to begging.
“Very well,” Takatori said finally, releasing him. “But you’ll be guarded. And Crawford—” His smile was cruel. “If I find you’ve lied to me, if I discover you’ve betrayed me in any way, I’ll make you regret ever being born. Am I clear?”
“Crystal clear,” Crawford whispered.
Takatori moved to the door, calling for guards and a doctor. As the room filled with people, as Crawford was led away toward a medical bay, he caught a glimpse of a clock on the wall.
Fifteen minutes had passed since they’d entered the estate.
Weiß had five minutes left.
Hold on, Crawford thought desperately. Just hold on a little longer.
Aya moved through the service corridors with practiced silence, the rest of Weiß following in perfect synchronization. The building’s layout matched Crawford’s descriptions exactly—every turn, every door, every security checkpoint precisely where he’d said it would be.
“Third door on the left,” Omi whispered, checking his tablet. “That should lead to the private wing.”
They reached the door. Aya tested the handle—unlocked, just as Crawford had predicted. They slipped through into a quieter, more luxurious corridor. Thick carpet. Original artwork. The unmistakable scent of wealth.
“Study is two floors up,” Yohji murmured. “East wing.”
They found the service stairs and began climbing, every sense alert for guards, for alarms, for any sign they’d been discovered.
“This is too easy,” Ken muttered. “Crawford’s information has been perfect. Every detail exactly right.”
“Because he’s telling the truth,” Omi said quietly.
“Or because it’s a trap,” Yohji countered.
They reached the study level. Aya paused at the doorway, listening. Silence. He eased it open, revealing a long hallway with only one door at the end.
Takatori’s private study.
“Omi,” Aya said softly.
The younger man moved forward, pulling out a small device to scan for electronic security. “Clean,” he whispered after a moment. “No alarms on the door itself. But—” He frowned at his readings. “There’s something inside. Movement sensors, maybe.”
“Can you disable them?”
“Give me three minutes.”
As Omi worked, Aya found himself thinking about Crawford. About the man who’d surrendered everything, who’d walked back into this place knowing exactly how dangerous it was, who was probably being questioned—or worse—right now.
Don’t die, Aya had said. And he’d meant it.
Something had changed. Over the days of interrogation, the beatings, the tests of Crawford’s commitment—something in Aya had shifted. He’d expected manipulation, expected the facade to crack, expected Crawford to reveal himself as the cold strategist they’d always known.
Instead, he’d found someone else entirely. Someone human. Someone capable of sacrifice and love and desperate, foolish bravery.
“Done,” Omi whispered. “Sensors are looped. We have maybe ten minutes before someone notices the gap in the security feed.”
“Then let’s move.”
They entered the study. It was exactly as Crawford had described—mahogany desk, leather chairs, walls lined with books and files. And there, in the corner, a safe built into the wall.
“Omi,” Aya said.
“On it.”
While Omi worked on cracking the safe, Aya moved to the desk. He opened drawers carefully, photographing documents with a small camera. Each piece of evidence was another nail in Takatori’s coffin, another step toward destroying the man who’d controlled Schwarz for years.
The man who’d owned Crawford.
This is for you, Aya thought, surprising himself. For what he did to you. For what he made you become.
“Got it,” Omi breathed. The safe swung open, revealing stacks of files and ledgers. Physical records, just as Crawford had promised. Evidence that couldn’t be digitally erased or hacked.
They worked quickly, photographing everything, taking copies of the most damning documents. Five minutes. Ten. Every second felt like an eternity.
“Time,” Yohji finally said. “We need to move.”
They retreated the way they’d come, closing doors, erasing evidence of their presence. The extraction was as smooth as the infiltration—Crawford’s information continued to be flawless, guiding them through the estate’s blind spots and security gaps.
As they reached the service bay where they’d left the car, Aya paused.
“We’re missing someone,” Ken said.
“Crawford,” Omi finished.
They’d agreed that Crawford would remain with Takatori, that his extraction wasn’t guaranteed. But now, standing in this service bay with their mission complete and Crawford still somewhere in this building—
“We can’t leave him,” Aya said.
The others stared at him.
“Aya,” Yohji started carefully, “the plan was—”
“The plan was wrong.” Aya’s voice was firm. “He gave us everything. Perfect intelligence. Perfect guidance. He walked into certain death to make this possible. We don’t abandon him.”
“How do we even find him?” Ken asked.
“The medical bay,” Omi said, pulling up building schematics on his tablet. “Crawford was injured. Takatori would have had him treated before interrogating him properly. It’s here—sublevel two.”
“Then that’s where we go.”
They moved back into the estate, abandoning caution for speed now. The medical bay was in the private wing, accessible only through secured corridors. But they’d already proven they could navigate Takatori’s security.
What they couldn’t know was whether Crawford would still be alive when they found him.
Chapter 10: The Breaking Point
The medical bay was sterile and cold, all white tile and harsh fluorescent lighting. Crawford lay on an examination table, his shirt removed, a doctor carefully cleaning and re-bandaging his injuries while two guards stood watch.
They’d given him something for the pain—not out of mercy, but because Takatori wanted him conscious and coherent for the interrogation to come. The medication created a strange floating sensation, dulling the physical agony but leaving his mind sharp and terrified.
Eighteen minutes, he thought. Weiß should be done by now. Should be escaping.
The door opened. Takatori entered, and the doctor immediately stepped back, bowing.
“Leave us,” Takatori commanded.
The doctor fled. The guards remained, flanking the door.
Takatori moved to the examination table, looking down at Crawford with cold assessment. “You’re proving quite resilient, Oracle. The doctor says you’ll live. Which means we can continue our conversation.”
Crawford’s stomach dropped. “I told you—I’ll tell you everything. Just give me time—”
“You’ve had time.” Takatori’s hand shot out, gripping Crawford’s throat. Not tight enough to choke, but enough to remind him who had the power here. “And I’ve been thinking about your story. About how you ‘escaped’ from Weiß. About how convenient it is that you returned just in time for tonight’s gathering.”
“It’s not—”
“I had my people check the security footage from the perimeter,” Takatori continued, his grip tightening slightly. “And they found something interesting. A catering van arrived shortly before you appeared. With four occupants. The registration was forged, but the faces—” He smiled. “The faces were recognizable. Weiß.”
Crawford’s blood turned to ice.
“So you see,” Takatori said softly, “I know you didn’t escape. I know they sent you here. The question is—why? What are they doing while you distract me with this pathetic performance?”
No, Crawford thought desperately. No, no, no—
“Nothing,” he said aloud, trying to inject certainty into his voice even as panic clawed at him. “They let me go. Realized I was useless to them. I came back because—”
Takatori’s fist connected with his still-healing ribs. Crawford’s breath left him in a rush, pain exploding through his body despite the medication.
“Don’t lie to me!” Takatori’s composure cracked, rage bleeding through his controlled exterior. “You’ve betrayed me. After everything I’ve done for you, everything I’ve given you—you’ve sided with our enemies!”
“No!” Crawford gasped, trying to breathe through the pain. “I didn’t—I wouldn’t—”
But even as he protested, he could see the truth in Takatori’s eyes. The man knew. Not all the details, perhaps, but enough. Enough to condemn Crawford. Enough to destroy everything.
“Takatori-sama,” one of the guards said urgently. “We’re receiving reports of a breach in the private wing. The security feed from your study has been compromised.”
Takatori’s expression went utterly cold. He looked down at Crawford with something beyond hatred—a deep, personal betrayal that made his previous cruelty seem almost affectionate.
“So that’s it,” he said softly. “They’re after my documents. And you—” His hand wrapped around Crawford’s throat again, squeezing now, cutting off air. “You led them here. Guided them through my security. Betrayed every oath you ever made to me.”
Crawford couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. Could only look up at Takatori with watering eyes and try to convey something—regret, maybe, or defiance.
Or relief.
Because if Takatori’s study had been breached, that meant Weiß had succeeded. They’d gotten what they came for. The mission was complete.
“Sir,” the guard said more urgently. “We need to respond to the breach. Should we—”
“Lock down the building,” Takatori ordered, not releasing Crawford’s throat. “No one enters or leaves. Find Weiß. Kill them on sight.”
The guard hesitated. “And Oracle-sama?”
Takatori’s smile was terrible. “Oracle is no longer sama. He’s a traitor. And traitors—” He finally released Crawford’s throat, leaving him gasping and coughing on the table. “Traitors are made examples of.”
He turned to the guards. “Take him to the detention cells. Make sure he’s… comfortable. I’ll deal with him personally after we’ve captured Weiß.”
“Yes, sir.”
As the guards moved to drag Crawford off the table, the door burst open.
Aya stood in the doorway, katana drawn, expression deadly calm. Behind him, the rest of Weiß appeared, weapons ready.
“Step away from him,” Aya commanded.
For a moment, everything froze. Takatori, Crawford, the guards—everyone staring at Weiß in shock.
Then chaos erupted.
The guards drew their weapons. Takatori dove for cover. And Aya moved forward like flowing water, his blade singing as it cut through the air.
Crawford tried to roll off the table, to take cover, but his battered body wouldn’t cooperate. He fell to the floor hard, chains rattling, pain screaming through every nerve.
Through the chaos, he saw Aya fighting—precise, efficient, beautiful in his lethality. Saw Ken take down one guard with brutal efficiency. Saw Yohji’s wire wrap around the other, disarming him.
And saw Takatori reaching for an alarm panel on the wall.
“No!” Crawford lunged forward, chains dragging, and somehow—impossibly—managed to grab Takatori’s ankle. It was all he could do, all his strength had left for. But it was enough.
Takatori stumbled, fell, the alarm panel just inches from his fingertips.
Aya was there in an instant. His katana pressed against Takatori’s throat, and the man froze.
“It’s over,” Aya said quietly.
“Nothing is over,” Takatori spat. “You think you’ve won? This building is filled with my people. Kill me, and you’ll never leave alive.”
“Maybe.” Aya’s blade didn’t waver. “But you’ll still be dead.”
“Aya,” Omi said urgently. “We need to move. Now. The alarm—”
“I know.” Aya looked past Takatori to where Crawford lay crumpled on the floor, bleeding and broken but alive. Their eyes met, and something passed between them. Understanding. Recognition.
You came back for me, Crawford thought, too exhausted to shield the emotion from his expression. You actually came back.
“Can you move?” Aya asked.
Crawford nodded, though he wasn’t sure it was true. With enormous effort, he pushed himself to his hands and knees, chains clinking. Every movement was agony, but he forced himself upward, forced himself to function.
“Ken, help him,” Aya commanded.
Ken moved to Crawford’s side, grabbing his arm and hauling him to his feet. Crawford bit back a scream as his injuries protested the movement.
“What about him?” Yohji asked, gesturing to Takatori.
For a moment, Aya’s blade pressed slightly harder against Takatori’s throat. Crawford could see the temptation in his eyes, the desire to end this man who’d caused so much suffering.
But then Aya pulled back. “We take him with us. He’s worth more alive—evidence, testimony, leverage.”
“You’ll regret this,” Takatori hissed.
“Maybe,” Aya said. “But I’ll regret it while you’re in prison. Come on.”
They moved as a unit, Ken supporting Crawford, Omi and Yohji guarding their flanks, Aya leading with Takatori at sword-point. The extraction should have been impossible—a building filled with enemies, alarms beginning to sound, security converging on their position.
But Crawford, even in his damaged state, could still see threads of the future. Could still guide them.
“Left,” he gasped. “Service stairs—not the main ones—the ones by the kitchen.”
“Why?” Ken demanded.
“Main stairs are about to be filled with guards. Service stairs—they’ll be watching, but less fortified. We can fight through.”
It was the truth. Partial truth. Crawford’s visions were fragmented, unreliable in his current state. But it was all he had to offer.
They took his advice. And miraculously—or perhaps because Crawford’s powers had never truly failed them—it worked. They encountered guards at the service stairs, but fewer than expected. A brutal thirty-second fight, and then they were through, descending rapidly toward the ground level.
Crawford stumbled on the stairs, his vision graying at the edges. Ken caught him before he fell, practically carrying him now.
“Stay with us,” Ken growled. “You don’t get to die after we came all this way to rescue your stupid ass.”
Crawford almost laughed. Almost.
They reached the service bay. The car was where they’d left it, unmolested by security. Another small miracle.
“In,” Aya commanded. “Omi, drive. Yohji, passenger seat. Ken, back with Crawford. I’ll keep our friend company in the trunk.”
“The trunk?” Takatori’s composure finally cracked. “You can’t—”
“Watch me.” Aya’s tone was ice.
They bundled Takatori into the trunk—bound, gagged, furious. Crawford was placed in the back seat, Ken beside him, supporting him when he started to slump over. Aya climbed into the passenger seat after passing his captive to the others.
“Go,” Aya said.
Omi gunned the engine. The car shot forward, racing toward the gate. Alarms blared. Lights flooded the grounds. Guards were converging from all directions.
“They’re closing the gate!” Omi shouted.
“Ram it,” Aya said calmly.
“What?”
“Ram it. Crawford’s information about the gate structure—it’s designed to look secure but collapse on impact. Ram it.”
Omi looked at Crawford in the rearview mirror. Crawford nodded weakly. It was true—he’d noticed that weakness in the gate months ago, filed it away as potentially useful information.
Never thought he’d be the one using it to escape.
Omi floored the accelerator. The car shot toward the closing gate like a bullet. At the last second, Crawford closed his eyes, unable to watch.
The impact was tremendous. Metal screamed. Glass shattered. The airbags deployed, filling the cabin with white.
But the gate gave way.
They were through.
The car fishtailed on the wet street, Omi fighting for control. Behind them, Crawford could hear shouts, see lights beginning to pursue.
“Lose them,” Aya said. “Take the route Crawford described. Through the warehouse district.”
“They’ll have helicopters,” Yohji said.
“Not immediately. Takatori’s paranoid—he keeps his helicopter at a separate facility to prevent assassinations. We have a ten-minute window before it can be airborne.”
“How do you know that?” Ken demanded.
Crawford lifted his head slightly. “I told them. Days ago. Everything about Takatori’s security protocols.”
Everything he’d once protected, now used to escape.
The irony would have been funny if Crawford wasn’t fairly certain he was dying.
His vision was getting darker. His breathing shallow. Something inside him wasn’t working right—internal bleeding, probably, exacerbated by all the violence.
I did it, he thought distantly. I saved them. Weiß has the evidence. Takatori is captured. And my team—
Brad! Schuldig’s mental voice cut through the fog. Nagi says you’re dying. He can feel it. Whatever’s happening, stop it! Don’t you dare leave us!
I’m not… intentionally, Crawford sent back weakly. But I don’t think… I have much choice.
The hell you don’t! Schuldig’s mental presence was fierce, desperate. You survived Takatori. You survived Weiß. You don’t get to die in the back of a car! You don’t get to leave us after everything you sacrificed!
I’m sorry, Crawford sent, his mental voice fading. But I think… this is where it ends for me.
No! Brad—
The connection dissolved as Crawford’s consciousness slipped away. The last thing he heard was Ken’s voice, urgent and almost—impossibly—concerned.
“He’s not breathing right. Aya, I think he’s—”
Then darkness claimed him, and Crawford knew nothing more.
Chapter 11: The Weight of a Life
Crawford woke to pain.
Not the sharp, immediate agony of fresh injury, but the deep, grinding ache of a body pushed far beyond its limits. Every breath was an effort. Every heartbeat felt labored, reluctant.
He kept his eyes closed, trying to orient himself through sound and sensation. Soft beeping—medical equipment. The whisper of climate control. Clean sheets against his skin. Restraints on his wrists, but looser than before, padded.
A hospital? No—the sounds were wrong. Too quiet. Too isolated.
A private medical facility, then. Somewhere secure.
“He’s waking up.”
Omi’s voice. Young, steady, relieved.
Crawford opened his eyes—or tried to. One still wouldn’t cooperate, swollen shut from Takatori’s beating. The other cracked open to reveal a small, sterile room. Medical equipment lined one wall. An IV dripped clear fluid into his arm.
And sitting in a chair beside the bed, arms crossed, expression unreadable—
Aya.
“Welcome back,” Aya said quietly.
Crawford tried to speak, but his throat was too dry. Omi materialized at his other side, holding a cup with a straw.
“Small sips,” Omi instructed.
Crawford obeyed. The water was cool, soothing against his damaged throat. After a moment, he found his voice.
“How long?”
“Three days,” Aya answered. “You collapsed in the car. Stopped breathing twice on the way here. The doctor said—” He paused. “It was close.”
Crawford processed this. Three days. He’d lost three entire days.
“My team?” The words came out hoarse but urgent. “Schuldig, Nagi, Farfarello—are they—”
“They’re fine.” Omi’s reassurance was immediate. “Still secured, but unharmed. We told them you were alive, that you were recovering.”
The relief was overwhelming. Crawford closed his eye, letting it wash over him. They were alive. He was alive. Against all odds, they’d all survived.
“Takatori?” he asked after a moment.
“Secured in a different facility.” Aya’s voice carried satisfaction. “Along with the evidence we recovered from his study. Kritiker has enough to bring down his entire organization. It’s over, Crawford. You did it.”
I did it. The words felt surreal.
“You came back for me,” Crawford said, opening his eye to look at Aya directly. “In the medical bay. You came back.”
“Yes.”
“Why? The plan was to leave me. To extract only if it was convenient. It wasn’t convenient—I was with Takatori, surrounded by guards. You risked everything to come back.”
Aya was silent for a long moment, his expression carefully neutral. Then: “Because you earned it. Because you gave us perfect intelligence, perfect guidance. Because you walked into that building knowing you’d probably die, and you did it anyway to protect your team.” He leaned forward slightly. “Because leaving you there would have been wrong.”
The admission hung in the air between them.
“I don’t understand you,” Crawford said quietly. “I’ve given you every reason to hate me. To want me dead. Schwarz has done terrible things. I’ve done terrible things. Why show me mercy now?”
“Because—” Aya stopped, choosing his words carefully. “Because I’ve started to understand the difference between the person you had to be and the person you actually are. And the person you actually are—” His voice softened just slightly. “That person is trying to be better. Trying to protect the people he loves. That person deserves a chance.”
Chapter 9: The Test
The man who entered Crawford’s cell three days later was not Weiß.
He was older, perhaps in his fifties, with steel-gray hair and the bearing of someone accustomed to absolute authority. His suit was immaculate, his posture perfect. Everything about him radiated power and control.
Two guards flanked him, but he dismissed them with a gesture. They left, closing the door behind them.
Crawford watched him approach, trying to read his intent. His precognition flickered, showing fragments—possible futures branching in too many directions to parse clearly.
“Oracle,” the man said, his voice cultured and cold. “Or should I say, Brad Crawford? I understand you’ve given up the codename along with everything else.”
“Who are you?” Crawford asked.
“Takeda. Kritiker’s Director of Operations for the Asia-Pacific region.” He pulled the single chair in the room closer, positioning it just outside Crawford’s reach, and sat with careful precision. “I’m here to determine the fate of Schwarz.”
Crawford’s pulse quickened, but he kept his expression neutral. “I see.”
“Do you?” Takeda smiled thinly. “I’ve read Weiß’s reports. Very thorough. Very… sympathetic. They seem to believe you’ve reformed. That you and your team deserve clemency.”
“I haven’t reformed,” Crawford said immediately. “I’m the same person I’ve always been. A killer who protects his team.”
“Yes, Weiß mentioned your refreshing honesty.” Takeda crossed his legs, studying Crawford like a specimen. “But honesty alone doesn’t determine whether you live or die. What determines that is whether you’re useful. And whether you’re trustworthy.”
“I’ve cooperated completely.”
“With Weiß. Who have a vested interest in believing you.” Takeda’s eyes were sharp, assessing. “I don’t have that interest. I don’t know you. I don’t care about your team. All I see is a dangerous criminal with the blood of dozens—perhaps hundreds—of innocent people on his hands.”
Crawford forced himself to remain calm. “What do you want from me?”
“I want to understand what you’re willing to do.” Takeda leaned forward slightly. “Weiß claims you surrendered everything for your team. That you’re willing to pay any price for their survival. I want to see if that’s true.”
“It is.”
“Then prove it.” Takeda’s voice was soft, dangerous. “I have the authority to recommend either clemency or execution for Schwarz. My word will determine whether your team lives or dies. So convince me. Show me you’re willing to do whatever it takes.”
Crawford’s breath caught. This was the moment. The real test.
“What do you want?” he asked quietly.
“I want to see you beg.”
The words hung in the air, sharp and humiliating.
Crawford stared at him, understanding flooding through him. This wasn’t about information. It wasn’t about cooperation or strategy. This was about power. About making Oracle—the proud, untouchable precognitive who’d commanded Schwarz for years—crawl.
“Beg,” Takeda repeated. “For your team’s lives. Show me you’re willing to surrender not just your freedom or your secrets, but your dignity. Your pride. Everything that makes you Oracle.”
Crawford’s hands clenched into fists. Every instinct screamed against this. Years of maintaining perfect control, perfect composure, perfect authority—all of it would be destroyed in this moment.
But his team’s lives hung in the balance.
Schuldig. Nagi. Farfarello.
His family.
Crawford slid off the chair, chains rattling, and dropped to his knees on the cold concrete floor.
“Please,” he said, his voice steady despite the humiliation burning through him. “Please spare them.”
“That’s not begging,” Takeda said calmly. “That’s asking. There’s a difference.”
Crawford’s jaw tightened. Then he lowered himself further, pressing his forehead to the ground, chains pooling around him.
“I’m begging you,” he said, his voice muffled against the concrete. “Please. My team—they don’t deserve to die. They were following my orders. If someone has to be punished, punish me. But please—” His voice cracked slightly. “Please let them live.”
“Why should I?”
“Because—” Crawford struggled to find words while pressed against the floor, struggling to maintain any dignity in this utterly undignified position. “Because they’re all I have. The only people I’ve ever loved. The only family I’ve ever known. I’ll give you anything—everything—if you’ll just spare them.”
“Anything?” Takeda’s voice carried cruel amusement. “What do you have left to give, Crawford? You’re already a prisoner. Already in chains.”
“My knowledge. My cooperation. My complete obedience.” Crawford’s hands pressed flat against the concrete. “I’ll work for Kritiker. I’ll tell you everything I know about Rosenkreuz, about international criminal networks, about every operation I’ve ever planned or executed. I’ll be your weapon, your tool, whatever you need—just please, let my team live.”
“And your dignity? Your pride? The reputation you built as Oracle, the untouchable strategist?”
“Take it.” The words were ashes in Crawford’s mouth. “Take all of it. I don’t care. Make an example of me. Humiliate me publicly. Destroy everything I was. Just—” His voice broke completely now. “Just let them live. Please.”
Silence stretched. Crawford remained on the floor, forehead pressed to concrete, chains heavy around his wrists, everything he’d ever been stripped away in this moment of absolute surrender.
“Look at me,” Takeda commanded.
Crawford pushed himself up slightly, raising his head but remaining on his knees. His one good eye met Takeda’s gaze, and he didn’t try to hide the desperation, the fear, the complete willingness to debase himself further if that’s what it took.
“Crawl to me,” Takeda said softly.
Crawford’s breath caught. This was it—the ultimate humiliation. Oracle, who had commanded respect through fear and competence, reduced to crawling across a cell floor like an animal.
But his team’s faces flashed through his mind. Schuldig’s irreverent grin. Nagi’s quiet hope. Farfarello’s twisted faith.
Worth it. They were worth everything.
Crawford crawled. The chains dragged behind him, the concrete scraped his knees, every movement was degradation made physical. But he crawled the five feet to where Takeda sat, stopping just before the man’s polished shoes.
“Please,” Crawford whispered, looking up at him from the floor. “I’ll do anything. Be anything. Endure anything. Just save them. That’s all I’m asking. All I’ll ever ask. Please.”
Takeda looked down at him for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, his expression softened slightly.
“Stand up,” he said quietly.
Crawford hesitated, confused by the shift in tone.
“Stand up,” Takeda repeated. “You’ve proven your point.”
Crawford pushed himself to his feet, unsteady, chains rattling. His knees hurt. His pride was shattered. But he stood, meeting Takeda’s gaze with what remained of his composure.
“Weiß was right about you,” Takeda said, his voice no longer cruel. “You’re not a monster.”
Crawford blinked, trying to process the words.
“A monster wouldn’t do what you just did,” Takeda continued. “A monster would have fought, would have tried to maintain some dignity, would have calculated angles and manipulations. But you—” He gestured at the floor where Crawford had been. “You surrendered everything. Completely. Without hesitation. Not because you’re weak, but because your team matters more than your pride.”
“They do,” Crawford managed, his voice hoarse.
“I’ve interrogated hundreds of criminals,” Takeda said, standing now. “Killers, terrorists, monsters of every description. Most try to bargain, to negotiate, to maintain some sense of power even in chains. The truly dangerous ones never break, never beg, because their ego won’t allow it.” He looked at Crawford directly. “You broke immediately. Not because you’re weak, but because you love them more than you love yourself. That’s not monstrous. That’s human.”
Crawford couldn’t speak. The emotional whiplash was too severe.
“I’m going to recommend clemency for Schwarz,” Takeda said. “Conditional release. Supervised freedom. Work for Kritiker as consultants and operatives. You’ll be monitored, restricted, tested. But you’ll live. All of you.”
“Why?” Crawford’s voice was barely a whisper. “After everything I’ve done—”
“Because Weiß is right. You’re a killer, yes. But you’re an honest killer. You don’t hide behind justifications or moral superiority. You simply say ‘I killed to protect my family, and I’d do it again.’ That honesty—” Takeda paused. “That’s rare. And valuable. Kritiker needs people who understand the real cost of violence. Who don’t lie to themselves about what they are.”
He moved toward the door, then stopped. “And Crawford? What you just did—crawling, begging, surrendering every shred of dignity—that took more courage than any battle you’ve ever fought. Remember that. You’re not weak for loving them. You’re strong because of it.”
The door opened and closed, and Crawford was alone again.
He stood in the center of his cell, chains heavy around his wrists, his knees aching from crawling, his pride in tatters.
But alive.
And his team would live.
Crawford sank back onto the chair, his hands shaking with delayed reaction. He’d done it. He’d given everything—his dignity, his self-respect, his carefully constructed image of Oracle the untouchable—and it had been enough.
Brad? Schuldig’s mental voice cut through the fog. What happened? I felt—something. Something terrible and then something else. What did they do to you?
They tested me, Crawford sent back, his mental voice exhausted but steady. Made me prove how far I’d go for you.
How far did you go?
Crawford thought about crawling across that floor. About pressing his forehead to concrete and begging. About surrendering every shred of pride he’d ever possessed.
All the way, he answered simply. And it worked. You’re going to live. All of you.
What did it cost you?
Everything. Crawford’s mental voice was quiet. But you’re worth it. You’ve always been worth everything.
Silence on the mental link. Then, softly: Brad—thank you. For not giving up on us. For being willing to— Schuldig’s mental voice caught. For loving us that much.
Always, Crawford sent back. I’ll always love you that much. That’s not something I’m ashamed of. That’s the one thing I did right in this fucked up life.
Chapter 10: Witness
What Crawford didn’t know was that Aya had been watching.
The room had a small observation window, one-way glass that Crawford’s impaired vision couldn’t detect. Aya had stood there for the entire exchange, watching as Takeda pushed Crawford to his breaking point.
Watching as Crawford broke.
Not with resistance or calculation, but with complete, immediate surrender.
When Crawford had dropped to his knees, Aya’s breath had caught. When he’d pressed his forehead to the floor, Aya’s hands had clenched. And when Crawford had crawled—actually crawled across that concrete—something in Aya’s chest had twisted painfully.
This was Oracle. The cold, calculating strategist. The man who’d orchestrated assassinations with clinical precision. The leader who never showed weakness.
Reduced to begging on his knees for his team’s lives.
And he’d done it without hesitation.
“You see?” Takeda said quietly, appearing beside Aya in the observation room. “This is what you wanted me to see.”
Aya nodded, unable to speak.
“You were right,” Takeda continued. “He’s not a monster. He’s just a man who loves his family. Everything else—the killing, the cold efficiency, the ruthlessness—that was survival. But this?” He gestured at Crawford, now sitting alone in his cell, shaking with delayed reaction. “This is who he really is. Someone willing to destroy himself for the people he cares about.”
“Will you really recommend clemency?” Aya asked.
“Yes.” Takeda’s voice was firm. “Kritiker needs people like him. Not just his skills or knowledge, but his honesty. His willingness to face what he is without excuses. And—” He paused. “His capacity for love. That’s not something you can fake. That’s not something you can train. He has it. And that makes him worth saving.”
After Takeda left, Aya remained at the window, watching Crawford slowly regain his composure. Watching him straighten his spine despite the pain, watching him rebuild his walls brick by brick.
But Aya had seen what was beneath those walls now.
Had seen Crawford completely exposed, utterly vulnerable, willing to surrender everything for his team.
And something in Aya’s understanding had shifted fundamentally.
Crawford wasn’t just a killer who loved his team.
He was someone capable of a depth of love that most people never experienced. A love so profound it made dignity, pride, self-respect—all meaningless in comparison.
That wasn’t monstrous.
That was extraordinary.
Aya turned from the window and went to find his team. They needed to know what he’d witnessed. Needed to understand that Crawford had passed the ultimate test.
Not through strength or strategy or manipulation.
But through love.
Pure, absolute, world-destroying love.
Would you like me to continue with Chapter 11, where Crawford is finally reunited with his team, and they face the future together?
M
Please continue: Crawford is reunited with his team. Please make ist beautiful and heartwarming. Later, Kritiker makes them an offer. Work as consultants for Kritiker under Weiss control. Write Weiss and Schwarz takling about it. If Weiss ist willing, if Black is willing, what it would take, how it would work.
Chapter 11: Reunion
They brought Crawford to a different room—larger, with better light. No chains this time, though guards stood at the door. Someone had given him clean clothes, treated his remaining injuries. He almost looked like himself again.
Almost.
The door opened, and three figures entered.
Crawford’s breath stopped.
Schuldig came in first, moving fast, his usual swagger replaced with something urgent and desperate. He crossed the room in three strides and stopped just short of touching Crawford, as if afraid he might break.
“You idiot,” Schuldig said, his voice rough. “You complete and utter idiot.”
Then he grabbed Crawford and pulled him into a fierce embrace.
Crawford’s composure shattered. His arms came up, wrapping around Schuldig, holding him like an anchor in a storm. He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t do anything except hold on and try not to fall apart completely.
“We felt it,” Schuldig whispered against his shoulder. “Through the dampening. We felt what you did. The humiliation. The surrender. All of it.” His voice cracked. “You didn’t have to go that far, Brad. You didn’t have to—”
“Yes, I did,” Crawford managed, his voice hoarse. “For you. Always for you.”
Nagi approached more slowly, his young face struggling to maintain composure. But when he reached them, his control broke. He wrapped his arms around both Crawford and Schuldig, pressing his face against Crawford’s chest.
“I thought we’d lost you,” Nagi said, his voice muffled. “When you stopped breathing in the car, when we couldn’t feel you for days—I thought—”
“I’m here.” Crawford’s hand came up to rest on Nagi’s head, gentle despite everything. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
Farfarello stood apart, watching them with his strange yellow eyes. When Crawford met his gaze over Schuldig’s shoulder, Farfarello smiled—not his usual manic grin, but something softer, almost reverent.
“You proved it,” Farfarello said quietly. “That love is real. That it’s stronger than pain, stronger than pride, stronger than survival itself.” He moved closer, joining the embrace without hesitation. “You broke yourself for us. That’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever witnessed.”
They stood like that for a long time—four people who’d been trained as weapons, conditioned as killers, forged in violence—holding each other like they were the only real things in the world.
Because they were.
Everything else had been survival. This was life.
“I’m sorry,” Crawford said finally, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry for everything I put you through. For surrendering without asking you. For making decisions that affected all of us. For—”
“Stop,” Schuldig interrupted, pulling back just enough to look at him. “Don’t apologize for saving us. Don’t apologize for loving us. That’s the one thing you never have to be sorry for.”
“But I made choices for you. Took away your agency—”
“You gave us life,” Nagi said firmly. “Everything else can be worked out later. But right now, we’re alive because of you. Because you were willing to pay any price. That’s not something to apologize for. That’s something to be grateful for.”
Crawford looked at each of them—Schuldig’s fierce protectiveness, Nagi’s quiet strength, Farfarello’s strange wisdom. His family. His team. The only people in the world who’d ever mattered.
“I love you,” he said, and it wasn’t a confession or an admission. It was a simple statement of fact. “All of you. More than anything.”
“We know,” Schuldig said, his grin finally returning, though his eyes were suspiciously bright. “You crawled across a floor for us. Kind of gave it away.”
“I’d do worse,” Crawford said simply. “I’d do anything.”
“Yeah, we know that too.” Schuldig’s voice was soft. “But maybe—maybe now you don’t have to. Maybe now we can just… be. Together. Without constantly fighting for survival.”
“Is that possible?” Nagi asked, looking between them. “After everything—can we really have that?”
Before anyone could answer, the door opened. Aya entered, followed by the rest of Weiß.
The two teams faced each other across the room—former enemies, complicated allies, something undefined and new.
“Kritiker has made their decision,” Aya said without preamble. “Takeda recommended clemency. Supervised release. You’ll work as consultants for Kritiker, under Weiß’s supervision.”
Crawford felt his team tense around him. “What does that mean, exactly?”
“It means you’re not prisoners,” Omi explained, stepping forward. “But you’re not completely free either. You’ll live under monitoring. Regular check-ins. Restrictions on where you can go and what you can do. And—” He glanced at Aya. “You’ll work with us. Weiß. On operations that require your specific skills.”
“So we trade one master for another,” Schuldig said, his voice carefully neutral.
“No,” Aya’s voice was firm. “Takatori owned you. Controlled you. Forced you to kill on his orders. This is different. You’ll have agency. The ability to refuse missions if you choose. The freedom to build lives outside of assassination.”
“But under your supervision,” Farfarello observed.
“Yes.” Aya didn’t pretend otherwise. “Because Kritiker needs assurance. Proof that you’re not a threat. And honestly—” He looked directly at Crawford. “Because we need to learn to work together. To trust each other. That takes time.”
Crawford studied him, trying to read his intentions. “You’re asking us to choose this. Actively choose to work with you.”
“Yes.”
“Why? You could just impose it as a condition of our survival.”
“Because forced cooperation breeds resentment,” Aya said. “And because—” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “Because I saw what you did. What you sacrificed. And someone capable of that deserves to have choices. Real choices. Not just survival, but the chance to decide what kind of life you want.”
Crawford looked at his team. Schuldig met his eyes, something complicated passing between them. Nagi’s expression was thoughtful, calculating possibilities. Farfarello simply smiled his strange, knowing smile.
“Can we discuss it?” Crawford asked. “Privately?”
“Of course.” Aya gestured to the door. “We’ll give you an hour. Then we’ll need an answer.”
Weiß left, and Schwarz was alone again.
“So,” Schuldig said, leaning against the wall. “What do we think? Trading Takatori’s chains for Kritiker’s leash?”
“It’s not the same,” Nagi said quietly. “Takatori controlled us completely. This—they’re offering us something different. Something that might actually let us build lives.”
“Under supervision,” Schuldig pointed out. “With restrictions. Working with people who, let’s be honest, still don’t fully trust us.”
“Do you blame them?” Crawford asked. “After everything we’ve done?”
“No,” Schuldig admitted. “But that doesn’t mean I’m comfortable with it.”
“Comfortable isn’t the question,” Farfarello said, his voice surprisingly clear. “The question is: what do we want? For the first time in our lives, we get to choose. Not survive. Choose. So what do we choose?”
Silence fell as they considered.
“I want—” Nagi started, then stopped, struggling with words he’d never had to articulate before. “I want to go to school. Not for training. For learning. I want to read books that aren’t about tactics or killing. I want to—” His voice was almost pleading. “I want to be normal. Just for a little while. Even if it’s supervised. Even if it’s conditional. I want to try.”
“I want to stop running,” Schuldig said quietly. “I’m tired, Brad. Tired of always calculating threats, always being ready to fight or flee. If working with Weiß means we get to stop running—” He shrugged. “I’m willing to try.”
Farfarello tilted his head thoughtfully. “I want to find out what I am when I’m not a weapon. Pain has been my god for so long. But you showed me something else, Oracle. You showed me love. And I—” His smile was almost shy. “I want to explore that. See what it means to exist for something other than violence.”
They all looked at Crawford.
“What about you, Brad?” Schuldig asked. “What do you want?”
Crawford thought about everything that had led here. The surrender. The humiliation. The absolute stripping away of everything he’d been.
And underneath it all, one simple truth: his team was alive, and they had a chance at something better.
“I want you to have choices,” Crawford said finally. “I want Nagi to go to school. I want Schuldig to stop running. I want Farfarello to find peace. And if working with Weiß gives you those things—” He met each of their eyes. “Then that’s what I want too.”
“Even if it means giving up more of your freedom?” Nagi asked. “Even if it means working under people who judge you for what you’ve done?”
“I gave up my freedom when I surrendered,” Crawford said simply. “Everything after that is bonus. And as for judgment—” He smiled slightly. “I know what I am. What I’ve done. Their judgment doesn’t change that. What matters is whether this arrangement gives you the chance to become something more than weapons.”
“What about you?” Schuldig pressed. “What do you get out of this?”
Crawford’s answer was immediate. “I get to watch you live. Really live. Not just survive. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
Schuldig moved closer, putting a hand on Crawford’s shoulder. “You’re such a sap.”
“Yes.” Crawford didn’t deny it. “For you? Always.”
Nagi joined them, his voice thoughtful. “If we do this—if we agree to work with Weiß—we need to set terms. Clear boundaries. Not just accept whatever they offer.”
“Agreed,” Crawford said. “We’re not prisoners anymore. We’re consultants. That means negotiation.”
“I like this,” Farfarello said. “Choosing our cage instead of being thrown into it.”
“It’s not a cage,” Schuldig corrected. “It’s—” He searched for the word. “It’s a framework. Structure. Something to build from.”
“Then we agree?” Crawford looked at each of them. “We try this? Working with Weiß, under Kritiker’s supervision, with the understanding that we negotiate terms and maintain some agency?”
“Yes,” Nagi said immediately.
“Hell, why not?” Schuldig grinned. “Might be entertaining. Plus I want to see Ken’s face when we tell him we’re his new coworkers.”
“Yes,” Farfarello said simply. “I choose life. Whatever that means.”
Crawford felt something in his chest loosen—a tension he’d carried for so long he’d forgotten it was there.
“Then let’s tell them.”
Chapter 12: Negotiations
An hour later, both teams sat around a table—no longer separated by the barrier of glass or chains, but face to face as equals. Or at least, moving toward equality.
“We accept,” Crawford said without preamble. “But we have conditions.”
Aya nodded, as if he’d expected this. “Let’s hear them.”
Crawford glanced at his team, then continued. “First: we’re consultants, not operatives. We provide intelligence, strategic planning, analysis. But we don’t take orders. You can request our assistance, but we retain the right to refuse missions we find objectionable.”
“Objectionable how?” Ken asked, his tone skeptical.
“We won’t kill innocent people,” Nagi said firmly. “Not anymore. If a target is genuinely dangerous, genuinely guilty—we’ll help. But we’re done being weapons pointed at whoever’s convenient.”
Yohji whistled low. “That’s a pretty specific line for a team that used to kill on command.”
“We used to do a lot of things,” Schuldig said, his voice hard. “We’re trying to be different now. That means drawing lines. This is one of them.”
Aya nodded slowly. “Acceptable. Kritiker’s targets are primarily verified threats. We can work with that restriction. What else?”
“Living arrangements,” Crawford continued. “We stay together. As a unit. No separating us into different facilities or locations. We’ve been separated once already—that’s enough.”
“We’d planned on keeping you together anyway,” Omi said. “There’s a secure apartment building Kritiker maintains. We can set you up there. Monitored, but private. You’d have your own space.”
“And we want outside contact,” Nagi added. “I want to enroll in school. Take actual classes. Learn things that aren’t about killing.”
This gave Weiß pause. Ken frowned. “That’s—that’s a security risk. If Rosenkreuz finds out you’re alive—”
“They’ll come after us,” Crawford finished. “We know. But hiding forever isn’t living. It’s just a different kind of prison. We’re willing to take the risk if it means actually having lives.”
“Can we compromise?” Aya suggested. “Online classes to start. Distance learning. Let you build educational credentials while we assess the security situation. If that goes well, we can discuss physical enrollment later.”
Nagi considered this, then nodded. “Acceptable. As long as there’s a path to eventually having normal experiences.”
“What about money?” Yohji asked. “You can’t exactly use your old accounts. Kritiker’s frozen all of Schwarz’s assets.”
“We’ll work for Kritiker,” Crawford said. “We should be compensated. Not lavishly—we understand we’re not exactly trusted employees. But enough to live on. Enough to build something.”
“That’s already part of the plan,” Omi confirmed. “Consultant rates. It’s not fortune, but it’s livable.”
“And therapy,” Farfarello said suddenly, his voice cutting through the discussion. Everyone turned to look at him. He smiled his strange smile. “I want therapy. Real therapy. Not Rosenkreuz’s conditioning. Someone to help me figure out who I am when pain isn’t my god.”
The request was so unexpected, so vulnerable, that for a moment no one spoke.
Then Aya said quietly, “We can arrange that. For all of you, if you want it.”
“I don’t need therapy,” Schuldig started, then stopped at Crawford’s look. “Okay, fine. Maybe a little therapy. But I’m not promising to be cooperative.”
“You don’t have to be,” Omi said, his voice gentle. “Therapy only works if you engage with it willingly. We can provide resources. What you do with them is up to you.”
“This is surreal,” Ken muttered. “We’re negotiating therapy sessions with our former enemies.”
“Yeah,” Yohji agreed. “Welcome to the weirdest timeline.”
“What about supervision?” Crawford asked, bringing them back to practical matters. “You said we’d be under Weiß’s supervision. What does that actually mean?”
Aya leaned forward. “It means we’re your handlers. Your point of contact with Kritiker. You report to us, work with us, coordinate through us. We vouch for you, which means your behavior reflects on us.”
“So if we fuck up, you take the heat,” Schuldig said.
“Yes.”
“That’s—” Schuldig stopped, genuinely surprised. “That’s a lot of trust to put in us.”
“Yes,” Aya agreed. “It is. But we’ve seen what you’re capable of—not just as killers, but as people who care deeply about each other. We’re choosing to believe that care can extend beyond your team. That you can learn to work with us, not just for us.”
“And if we can’t?” Nagi asked quietly. “If we try and fail? If the trust breaks down?”
“Then we deal with it together,” Aya said firmly. “We don’t give up on you at the first mistake. We work through problems like adults. Like—” He paused, searching for the word. “Like colleagues. Maybe even, eventually, like allies.”
Crawford studied him, trying to read what was underneath the careful composure. “You’re taking a huge risk. Advocating for us. Supervising us. Trusting us not to betray you.”
“Yes.”
“Why? After everything—why stick your neck out for Schwarz?”
Aya was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was thoughtful, almost vulnerable.
“Because I saw what you did. The surrender. The humiliation. The complete destruction of your pride for your team.” He met Crawford’s eyes directly. “And I recognized something in it. Something I understand. The willingness to sacrifice everything for the people you love. I’ve felt that. Done things I’m not proud of because my sister’s life depended on it.”
He glanced at his own team—Ken, Yohji, Omi—and something softened in his expression.
“We’re not so different, Schwarz and Weiß. We’ve both killed. Both made terrible choices. Both been weapons for causes we didn’t fully control. The only real difference is we’ve convinced ourselves our cause is righteous, and you—” He looked at Crawford. “You’re just honest about what you are.”
“So this is about solidarity?” Schuldig’s voice carried disbelief. “Killers looking out for killers?”
“This is about recognizing that we’re all trying to be better than what we were made to be,” Aya corrected. “You’re not the only ones who want to stop being weapons. We do too. Maybe—” His voice was almost hopeful. “Maybe we can figure out how together.”
The silence that followed was heavy with meaning.
Finally, Crawford spoke. “Then let’s try. We accept Kritiker’s offer. We’ll work with you, under your supervision, with the conditions we’ve discussed. And we’ll see if enemies can become something else.”
“Allies?” Omi suggested.
“Let’s start with ‘not trying to kill each other’ and work our way up,” Schuldig said, but his grin took the edge off the words.
“Fair enough,” Ken said, and for the first time, there was something almost like warmth in his voice.
Aya stood, extending his hand across the table. Crawford looked at it for a moment—an offering, a promise, a bridge across years of enmity.
Then he reached out and clasped it.
The handshake was firm, brief, and significant.
When they released, Aya said, “Welcome to the team, Schwarz. Let’s see what we can build together.”
“Let’s see if we survive each other first,” Yohji said, but he was grinning.
As both teams filed out of the conference room, Crawford felt Schuldig’s hand on his shoulder.
“You did it,” Schuldig said quietly. “You saved us. Gave us a chance at something better.”
“We did it,” Crawford corrected. “All of us. By being willing to try something different.”
“Think it’ll work?” Nagi asked. “This whole… working with Weiß thing?”
Crawford looked ahead to where Aya was walking beside Omi, discussing logistics. Looked at Ken and Yohji joking with each other despite the tension. Looked at Farfarello, who was studying them all with his strange, knowing eyes.
“I don’t know,” Crawford admitted. “But for the first time in my life, I’m not trying to predict the future. I’m just—” He searched for words. “I’m just living in the present. With you. And that’s enough.”
“Sap,” Schuldig said affectionately.
“Always,” Crawford agreed.
And as they walked toward whatever future awaited them—uncertain, complicated, but theirs to choose—Crawford felt something he hadn’t experienced in years.
Hope.
Not the calculated certainty of his visions.
Just simple, human hope.
That maybe—just maybe—they could become more than what they’d been made to be.
Together.
Epilogue: Six Months Later
The apartment was small but comfortable—three bedrooms, a shared living space, windows that actually opened to let in fresh air. Nothing like the luxury they’d known in Takatori’s headquarters, but infinitely better than cells.
Crawford stood in the kitchen, making coffee, and listened to the sounds of his team waking up. Schuldig’s grumbling about morning being a crime against humanity. Nagi’s quiet footsteps as he headed for the shower. Farfarello’s soft humming—he’d been doing that more lately, since starting therapy.
It was domestic. Normal. Strange.
And absolutely perfect.
His phone buzzed—a message from Aya.
Meeting at 10:00. New case. Voluntary—your call whether to take it.
Crawford smiled slightly. Six months ago, he’d had no choices. Now he had too many.
He typed back: We’ll be there.
Schuldig emerged from his room, hair wild, squinting against the light. “Was that Aya?”
“New case.”
“Do we want it?”
“Let’s find out.” Crawford handed him coffee. “How are you feeling?”
“Like shit. You?”
“Same.” But Crawford was smiling. Because this—the mundane morning grumpiness, the casual check-ins, the simple rhythm of daily life—this was what he’d fought for.
Not glory. Not power.
Just this.
Nagi appeared next, already dressed, backpack over his shoulder. “I have class in an hour. Online lecture on calculus.”
“Enjoying it?” Crawford asked.
“More than I expected.” Nagi’s smile was shy but genuine. “I’m actually good at math. Who knew?”
“I did,” Crawford said quietly. “I always knew you were brilliant.”
The moment was interrupted by Farfarello emerging, looking unusually contemplative. “Therapy was good yesterday. Dr. Tanaka says I’m making progress.”
“Yeah?” Schuldig prompted.
“Yeah. I’m learning that pain doesn’t have to define me. That I can exist for other things.” Farfarello’s smile was softer now, less manic. “Like this. Like family. Like—” He gestured around the apartment. “Like normal.”
“We’re not normal,” Schuldig pointed out.
“No,” Farfarello agreed. “But we’re trying. That’s new.”
They gathered in the living room, coffee in hand, preparing for their meeting with Weiß. Six months of working together had smoothed some of the rough edges, though tension still flared sometimes.
But it was manageable. Workable.
And slowly—very slowly—something like trust was forming.
Crawford’s phone buzzed again. This time it was a group message to all of them.
Aya: Bringing breakfast. Omi insists we eat before briefings now.
Yohji: Translation: Omi’s worried we’re all working too hard.
Ken: He’s not wrong.
Aya: See you at 10:00.
Crawford showed the message to his team. Schuldig snorted. “They’re bringing us breakfast. We’ve officially entered the weirdest timeline.”
“Or maybe—” Nagi’s voice was thoughtful. “Maybe we’ve entered a timeline where we’re actually cared about. By people who aren’t just our team.”
The observation hung in the air.
“That’s—” Schuldig started, then stopped. “Huh. Yeah. I guess we have.”
Farfarello’s smile widened. “Family’s expanding. I like it.”
Crawford looked at his team—his family—and felt something warm settle in his chest. They’d survived. They’d surrendered. They’d rebuilt.
And now they were becoming something new.
Not weapons.
Not prisoners.
Just people.
Flawed, complicated, trying people.
And that was enough.
More than enough.
It was everything.
THE END