The 3 Gentlemen

Far beyond the dense forest, across the rolling hills and unseen mountains, a sprawling city loomed on the horizon. It was a futuristic metropolis, towering with sleek, metallic skyscrapers, their neon lights piercing through the smog-laden sky. Holographic advertisements flickered across the night, casting eerie reflections off the steel surfaces. Massive factories lined the city's outskirts, their chimneys billowing thick, toxic smoke into the already polluted atmosphere. The structures were jagged, angular, and towering—steel and glass monstrosities that stood in defiance of nature. The hum of machinery was relentless, echoing across the vast expanse between the city and the wilderness. The faint glow of the city's lights barely reached here, casting an otherworldly aura in the distance, a stark contrast to the untamed wilds that surrounded it.

Yet, as far away as the city was, its influence seemed almost ghostly in the forest. Deep within this vast sea of trees, where civilization was an afterthought, stood an old house. In stark contrast to the sleek cityscape, the house was ancient, older even than the forest itself, or so it seemed.

Inside, the house mirrored its exterior: old, broken furniture cluttered the halls and various rooms. Most of the decorations were once expensive, admired by both commoners and the wealthy alike, but now they were mere relics of a long-past era. At the back of the house, a door led to a porch where three chairs were lined up side by side. In front of each seat, individual tables were positioned, and atop those tables lay three revolvers. The first two seats were already occupied by two gentlemen dressed in white robes.

The first man wore a pair of Windsor glasses, adding to his charismatic and charming appearance. A neat row of short white hair lined his jaw, complementing his neanimorphic face. His blue eyes gleamed like sapphires, expertly mined and carefully crafted to fit his sockets. His hands were marked with scars and cuts, evidence of a life spent in less-than-moral pursuits.

To the right of him sat a man with the biggest smile on his face. Between the two, he seemed the happiest. His long white hair covered his eyes, revealing only his almost foolishly wide grin. Both of his hands gripped the ends of the armrests so tightly that his fingers had turned from pale to red. His foolish smile revealed white teeth that seemed to glisten in the reflection of the water.

It had been more than an hour since they have been waiting. "It seems he is running a little late," said the first man, his voice deep yet calming. The man next to him nodded in agreement, still smiling. "So, while we wait, why don't we entertain ourselves with our stories?" the first man suggested, turning toward the second.

"Indeed," replied the second man as he met the first man's gaze. As he did, his long, milky hair shifted, revealing the eyes beneath.

"Martin. And you?" the second man asked, lifting his hand and pointing at the first.

"Jacob. Jacob de Labroria," replied the first man. Martin's expression changed slightly, the name sounding familiar to him. He had heard it before, but where was the question.

"You probably know me as the man responsible for wiping the Emrik nation off this planet," Jacob responded, almost proudly.

"Ah, now I remember who you are. It seems your reputation precedes you," Martin said, surprised. Jacob’s gaze lingered on Martin, cautiously awaiting the reason for his arrival. After a moment of silence, Martin finally spoke.

"Compared to you, I’m just a cog in the system—rusty and now being tossed aside, replaced by a newer one." Martin’s tone was peculiar, his voice rising with emphasis on the word "cog" before softening into a near-whisper when he said "replaced."

Jacob knew all too well what Martin was—a former leader used as a pawn in the war between the continent’s ruling nations. This wasn’t Jacob's first time seeing a once-powerful figure fall from grace. However, unlike others who often carried an air of bitterness and regret, Martin was different. He seemed almost happy—too happy. His curiosity piqued, Jacob asked, "Why are you so content, even after being cast down the ladder?"

"I never wanted to climb that ladder," Martin replied. "I was forced to by my peers, by those I once held dear." The word "dear" was laced with sorrow, though the smile on his face never wavered. He continued, "Back then, I climbed to please others. I turned myself into a clown, performing for their amusement, and in doing so, I lost sight of who I truly was. I became what others wanted me to be, not what I desired to become. So, the reason I smile now is because, in my final moments, I have finally broken free from those shackles. I will die on my terms, guided only by my own hands and mind." Martin’s face lit up as he spoke.

"Ah, a wonderful story with an even more wonderful conclusion," Jacob said. "Unfortunately for you, my tale is far less noble. I didn’t kill for revenge or out of righteousness during the war. No, my only motivation was curiosity—curiosity to see the faces of those who caused harm when they were met with fear themselves." Jacob turned to the vast trees surrounding them. "And most of all, I don’t regret any of it," he added, a small smile creeping across his face.

Martin remained silent, lost in thought. What Jacob had done could be seen as righteous by someone who didn’t truly know him. But were his actions righteous, or were they evil? Did intentions really matter? If an act that began and ended with wicked intent still produced a positive outcome for the world, would it matter to those who benefitted from it?

As if sensing Martin’s inner debate, Jacob spoke again, "In today’s world, where power can change anything, intentions become the only real truth. With a mere wave of a hand, lies can be turned into truths, and the voices of common men can be silenced. Intentions are the only thing that remains authentic. You may not always see it, but intentions are the truth. And the truth will always be the truth because it exists as the truth."

Martin raised an eyebrow and asked, "What’s the point of truth if it’s never revealed?"

Jacob’s smile grew broader, and the air around him shifted, becoming almost excited. "Well, the first question we need to ask is—do people even care about the truth?"

"What do you mean?" Martin asked, a hint of skepticism in his voice.

"If you give a poor person food and shelter, do they care about how you obtained it? Or do they care about why you’re giving it to them?"

"That’s true," Martin conceded, "but why even mention truth if it’s never going to matter?"

"Exactly," Jacob responded. "The truth won’t matter if the outcome outweighs everything else. No one questions the intentions of someone who donates money to charity. People fill in the gaps with their own assumptions. They don’t care how the wealth was acquired, only that it was given away. That is, until the cracks start to appear, and the falsehoods become clearer.”

“The people of this era seem desperate to escape from it,” Martin said, his voice carrying a heavy weight of realization. “Especially the common folk, who barely have enough to survive. Instead of facing reality and striving harder, they invest what little money and time they have into recreational technologies that offer them nothing but temporary pleasure.”

Martin’s face, at that moment, reflected admiration and respect for the man seated next to him. It wasn’t because Jacob was righteous, but because he had a deep understanding of the world’s current condition. Since his youth, Martin had been drawn to philosophy and abstract thinking, but society had always dismissed such pursuits as worthless. The memory of those days made his stomach churn. He despised the person he used to be, wishing he could bury that version of himself deep underground, far away from anyone’s discovery. Yet, Martin wasn’t the kind to run from reality. He had learned to confront it, no matter how painful.

Outside, the wind was growing stronger by the second. The sky darkened, and the air became thick with the smell of rain. Moments later, the downpour began, heavy and fast, pelting the porch’s roof in rapid succession. Rainwater soon found its way inside, soaking everything, including Jacob and Martin. Neither of them moved, not because they didn’t want to, but because they couldn’t. The slightest movement outside of their chair would earn them both a bullet to the head from the sniper hidden in the distant hills.

Behind them, the sound of crushing wood echoed through the house as another presence entered the room.

“Took you long enough,” Jacob said, not bothering to look back.

“Apologies,” a calm voice replied. “Had to say goodbye to the kids.” The man stepped forward and took his seat.

Curious, Martin glanced at the newcomer and nearly lost his composure. “Is it really you, Sir Brik? How… Why are you here with us?” Martin’s voice trembled in disbelief, his face pale with shock.

Brik nodded solemnly. “Yes, it’s me. And as Jacob likely guessed, I’m here because of my own choices—nothing more, nothing less.” Brik calmly lifted the revolver and placed the barrel against his forehead.

“No… none of this was your fault,” Martin stammered. “It was the corrupt officials—”

“The ones I chose to empower, Sir Martin,” Brik interrupted, his voice laced with regret. His eyes gleamed with a deep sadness as he pressed the revolver harder against his head, leaving a red mark on his pale skin. His expression was desperate—he had no desire to keep living. He wanted only to atone for his sins.

In the next moment, Jacob silently put the barrel of his own gun into his mouth. Martin was about to urge them both to stop when he noticed a red laser dot on his forehead—the sniper had him locked in.

“Damn it… so annoying,” Martin muttered under his breath before placing his own revolver to the side of his head.

“I, the breaker of the first code, atone for my sin,” Jacob declared just before pulling the trigger. His gun fired, and his body slumped lifelessly to the floor.

“I, the breaker of the sixty-fourth code, atone for my sin,” Martin said, his voice calm as his own gun went off. The bullet tore through his skull, passing straight into Jacob’s, their blood and brains splattering across the room.

Brik, shaking, raised his revolver one last time. “I, the sinner, atone for my sin—for breaking the universal law of trust.”

But before he could fire, a shot rang out from the mountains, piercing his skull cleanly. Brik’s lifeless body collapsed next to the others, leaving the room in eerie silence. One after another, men entered the old house, their footsteps echoing off the worn floorboards. They moved with practiced precision, carefully lifting the bodies from where they lay and wrapping them in thick, refined white cloth. There were six in total—five elite soldiers and one general, who quietly gave orders as they worked. Once the bodies were prepared, they were placed inside a massive steel vehicle. Despite its heavy, almost archaic appearance, the machine seemed to move as if by miracle, rumbling toward the distant city.

As the soldiers left, a second group arrived, this one composed of trained cleaners rather than combat elites. They worked with ruthless efficiency, scrubbing and wiping away every trace of the grim scene that had unfolded moments before. Amazingly, despite the fragility of the old wood, not a single plank gave way under their touch. In a matter of minutes, the house had been cleaned of all evidence, and the cleaners disappeared just as quickly as they had come.

Now, the old house stood alone once more, as if nothing had happened.