The clash of metal filled the night air. Flames consumed buildings in the distance, casting long, flickering shadows across the muddy ground.

Amid the chaos, a man—Declan—emerged from the mist. His eyes were hard, devoid of any guilt as he stared at his daughter standing among trembling civilians.

"Still think they deserve saving?" he said, his voice low, almost a growl.

His daughter stayed silent, her body tense, her hand gripping a weapon.

Declan approached, unhurried, as if certain the world—and his daughter—could never truly escape him.

"I didn't raise you for mercy," he said. "I shaped you to destroy. Just like me."

He stopped only a few steps away. His gaze seemed to pierce through her skin, searching for any cracks in her resolve.

"You think choosing another path makes you strong?" he whispered. "It's weakness. And weakness must be broken."

The wind carried the scent of blood. Beneath the dim light, Declan raised his weapon, presenting it without hesitation.

"Choose," he said. "Stand with me... or against a world that never wanted you."

The night froze. And the world seemed to hold its breath, waiting for her answer.