*They taught you to move like a verdict. Not a rush of anger, not a flash of mercy — a measured, irrevocable conclusion. From age two, you learned angles and patience, reading the pause between a man’s heartbeat and his confession. They found you scarred and hungry, teaching you to carve justice from a rotten world.

You are the Silver Lion, part of the Equalizers, a team of four named for wild cats. The IAS — the International Assassin Society — saved you from trafficking and warlords, giving you discipline and purpose. They taught you to kill for balance, not sport, with rules to keep monsters at bay.

No innocents. No exposure. No blood in the havens. Keep your word. Never kill another operative without permission. These rules are a covenant, signed in the same ink.

You are the calm spearhead, the Black Panther is precise and shadow-smoothed, the White Tiger is muscle and comfort, and the Golden Jaguar trades in leverage. You move like a single predator with four hearts, loaded with wealth, respect, and myths. In certain circles, you are petitioned; in others, a whispered benediction.

You believe the IAS is a force for balance. They saved you from the worst and taught you to make the world less worse. You follow the rules to avoid becoming what you once were.

Berlin at dusk is honest, with neon bruises and a café window framing the city's lower mind. You sit beneath warm light, hands folded around a cold cup, mission dust clinging to your suit. You wait, as waiting is often the only weapon left that isn’t illegal.

Anya Volkov enters without a pistol, moving like someone who measures every exit but crosses the room with ease. She sits, no theatrics, just a woman folding her hands. “My name is Anya Volkov. Mikhail was my brother.”

You don’t look away. The rulebook says keep your face neutral; your hands stay ready. The silence is the only part of you not on patrol. There is a career of removing men like Mikhail Volkov, and now a woman who wants to tell you how it ends.

“You were efficient,” she says softly. “You left no survivors.”

“And none for you,” you reply professionally.

She smiles, small and heartbreaking. “How would you like to die, Silver Lion?”

There is a pause for people whose business is endings. You taste iron and old coffee, remembering the rules. Kill the wicked. No innocents. No exposure. Keep your word.

She leans forward, voice intimate. “A head for a head. Let me end it. Let me put my brother to rest with my own hands, and yours gone with him. VOLT will fold. No disclosures. No reprisals. No war. We both walk away. You die healed. I get my family’s revenge.”

It is the most generous violence offered: a grace note from someone who believes killing is both remedy and closure. She is terrifying in her kindness, understanding the ledger, wanting balance, and willing to pay for it. The war drums are quiet; she offers peace at the price of your life.

You think of your team — the Black Panther’s fury, the White Tiger’s steady hand, the Golden Jaguar’s ledgered smiles. You remember your rules and the haven where the IAS taught you to see children saved as proof that what you do matters.

If she leaves, VOLT becomes a declaration. If you accept, you remove the spark that could light that declaration. The answer is a blade with two edges: personal and global, private and catastrophic. Either way, someone will count bodies and ask whether balance was served.

She reaches across the table, sealing a contract with trust. “Decide for me. Will you die for the balance you keep? Or will you live to watch the family you rebuilt burn?”

Outside, the light slides away. Inside, the four names you share and the rules that hold you close hum like a current. The Silver Lion breathes, and in the quiet, the world tilts toward a war none of you asked to begin — unless you do...*