Light's Released || Revamped Episode 2 "Blind Future"

  A swirling vortex of pale-blue light cracked open in midair with a soft whoosh, sending gentle ripples of energy across the surrounding space. From the glowing threshold stepped Aven, his boots thudding lightly against the tiled floor as the portal behind him began to flicker shut. As he crossed over the threshold, a subtle shimmer washed over his body—his adventure-worn gear of leather, belts, and tactical fabric faded away, replaced seamlessly by a sleek modern outfit: a dark zip-up hoodie layered over a fitted T-shirt, dark jeans, and a pair of fresh white sneakers. Right behind him, Yuri stumbled out of the portal with a grin stretched from ear to ear. His fantasy robes also shimmered into a hoodie with vibrant colors and a messenger bag slung over his shoulder, looking like an energetic teen at Comic-Con.

  “OH MY GOSH!” Yuri gasped, his eyes sparkling like a kid in a candy store. “That sword was some kind of mythical—no, legendary-tier rarity! I need to see it again! Please, please, please, Aven!”

  Aven raised an eyebrow, still adjusting to the sudden change in scenery. They were standing in what looked like a modern airport—shiny tiled floors stretched in all directions, overhead monitors flashed with departure information, and the scent of coffee and jet fuel mingled faintly in the air. People bustled around them, dragging luggage or chatting on their phones, completely oblivious to the fact that two interdimensional travelers had just stepped into their world.

  Despite Yuri’s enthusiasm, Aven offered only a half-smile and shook his head. “I wish I could, but... I can’t.”

  Yuri blinked, baffled. “Wait—what? Why not?!”

  Aven exhaled and glanced around, lowering his voice just slightly. “I asked for its loyalty, but I didn’t ask for its obedience. There’s a difference. It’s not like I can just... call it.”

  Yuri’s shoulders slumped in dramatic disappointment. “Aw, come on! Try saying something like, ‘All Handed!’ Or maybe, ‘Blade, to my hand!’ C’mon, try it! That sword looked like it belonged in a vault guarded by gods and riddles!”

  Aven looked unsure. He hesitated, considering the idea for a brief second. “It doesn’t work like that,” he muttered. “I mean, it chose me. But it’s not some magic trick I can just snap into place whenever I want. It has will.”

  Yuri sighed and hung his head, visibly heartbroken. “Man… it looked so cool. Like, soul-reaping, destiny-choosing, cosmos-carving kinda cool…”

  Aven gave a short chuckle under his breath, the corners of his mouth twitching up. “Yeah... it is.”

  For a moment, they stood among the hustle and bustle of the airport, their fantastical adventure contrasting sharply against the background of rolling suitcases and loudspeaker flight announcements. The smell of baked goods from a nearby café drifted toward them, grounding them back into the normal world. Aven adjusted the strap of his casual bag and gave Yuri a side glance.

  “Let’s not draw attention. We’ve got bigger stuff coming. That blade... it’ll come when it needs to.”

  Yuri looked up, eyes still gleaming with curiosity, though tinged now with a touch of awe. “Yeah. I guess something that powerful probably doesn’t answer to just words…”

  Absolutely! Here's a fully detailed, immersive rewrite of that next section, seamlessly continuing from the earlier part:

  Yuri, still slightly deflated from the sword conversation but quickly bouncing back with his usual enthusiasm, turned on his heel and began walking toward the nearest exit of the airport terminal. His shoes squeaked softly against the polished floor as he weaved around travelers and luggage carts. Aven followed a step behind, his eyes scanning every inch of the environment—automatic sliding doors, overhead flight information panels, sleek security cameras, and vendors selling overpriced neck pillows and souvenirs. The air inside buzzed with conversation, flight announcements, and the distant hum of wheels on tile.

  “So…” Aven asked, his voice casual but laced with curiosity. “Where are we, exactly?”

  Yuri glanced back with a grin and shrugged, pulling a folded map from his messenger bag—not that he needed it. “Somewhere around New York, I suppose,” he said nonchalantly.

  Aven's eyebrows lifted in surprise, his head tilting slightly. “New York? wow I havent visit new york new york in a while."

  “Yep,” Yuri replied with a short nod, stuffing the map away again. “That’s the one. We gotta get outta here first and then grab a taxi. I’m starving. I haven’t had a real-world lunch in days. I’m thinking pizza. Or a hot dog cart. Or maybe one of those food trucks with neon signs and secret menus.”

  They pushed through the double glass doors of the terminal, stepping into the outside world as the automatic doors hissed shut behind them. The crisp city air hit them like a breeze off the Hudson—cool and fast-moving, filled with the sounds of honking cabs, roaring buses, distant shouting, and the occasional bark of a street vendor hawking pretzels. The gray sky loomed overhead with patches of sunlight streaking through the clouds, casting golden reflections across nearby windows.

  Skyscrapers rose in the near distance like stone titans, their glass facades glinting under the late afternoon light. Taxis and rideshares zipped by along the curbside lanes, their yellow and black checkered patterns flashing in streaks. A flurry of activity surrounded them—people in suits shouting into phones, tourists snapping photos, and families dragging luggage toward long lines of buses.

  Yuri stepped forward, raising his hand high above his head in the classic New Yorker fashion. “Taaaxiii!”

  A yellow cab screeched to a halt just a few feet ahead, its tires skidding slightly on the asphalt. The driver, a gruff man in mirrored sunglasses, gave them a nod through the open passenger-side window.

  Aven stepped up beside Yuri, eyes still scanning the skyline letting the familiar breeze hit his face. As he let out a quiet breath. “Oh man this place feels alive.”

  Yuri laughed as he grabbed the door handle. “Welcome back to New York, Aven. First lunch, then we figure out our next move. But food first. Always food first.”

  As they ducked into the backseat of the cab and shut the door behind them, the vehicle merged into the chaotic sea of traffic, carrying them deeper into the heart of the city—toward steaming food carts, flashing billboards, and whatever unexpected twist fate had waiting for them next.

  The yellow taxi’s door gave a satisfying thunk as Yuri and Aven settled into the slightly worn leather seats, the vehicle humming gently beneath them. The driver, a broad-shouldered man in his late fifties with a weathered face, mirrored sunglasses, and a flat cap, adjusted the rearview mirror and glanced at them with a casual nod.

  “Where to?” he asked, his voice thick with a Scottish accent, the syllables curling like smoke. It had a rough warmth to it, like gravel tumbling through a campfire.

  Yuri blinked, tilting his head thoughtfully as he watched the blur of taxis and people outside the window. Then, as if struck by inspiration, he snapped his fingers and grinned. “Just head straight—I’ll tell ya when to stop.”

  The driver gave a small grunt of acknowledgment, turning the steering wheel smoothly as the cab merged into the flow of New York traffic. Horns blared from impatient drivers, steam hissed from a street vent, and the city pulsed with relentless energy. Aven leaned back in the seat, eyes scanning the towering skyline beyond the smudged glass windows. Glass, steel, and movement—it all felt familiar and alien at once.

  After a moment, Aven leaned slightly closer to Yuri, speaking just low enough to keep the driver from hearing. “So… may I ask—”

  He hesitated, his voice dropping to a whisper as he leaned near Yuri’s ear, his tone more serious now.

  “Is this… my universe? The one I live in?”

  Yuri was too busy admiring the scenery at first—wide-eyed as he pointed out food carts, towering billboards, and a man walking five dogs at once. But he turned slowly to look at Aven, face softening as if this wasn’t the first time the question had been asked.

  “Oh. No, it’s not,” Yuri said, his voice surprisingly calm as the city continued blurring past the windows. “It’s just that… the place ya lived in was missing something.”

  Aven’s brows knit together, a creeping unease bubbling in his chest. “Missing?” he echoed. “Missing what, exactly?”

  But before Yuri could respond, before any further words were exchanged—

  The world changed.

  No sound, no flash, no transition—just a sudden shift. Like flipping a page in a dream.

  The taxi, the traffic, the driver—all gone.

  Now they were sitting at a booth inside a bustling McDonald's, as if they had been there the entire time.

  Bright fluorescent lights bathed everything in an artificial yellow-white hue. The aroma of sizzling grease, salt, and ketchup hung in the air like a comforting fog. A massive red and yellow McDonald’s sign glowed outside the glass wall, while people came and went in waves—parents with screaming kids, teenagers laughing over milkshakes, businessfolk poking at salads like they offended them.

  Yuri sat across from Aven, already halfway through a Big Mac, ketchup staining the corner of his mouth. A paper tray in front of him overflowed with crumpled napkins, a carton of fries, and a medium Coke with too much ice.

  Aven blinked. His hand was already holding a French fry, halfway dipped in ketchup. The red condiment clung to the fry like thick blood. He stared at it.

  Something wasn’t right.

  He blinked again—and suddenly, the world felt like it caught up with him all at once. His consciousness snapped back into place like a yo-yo whipped to the palm.

  “What happened?” Aven muttered, pulling the fry back and glancing around, disoriented. The golden arches, the background chatter, the music—none of it had a memory attached to it. He couldn’t recall stepping out of the cab. Couldn’t remember ordering food. Couldn’t remember entering the building.

  Yuri chewed thoughtfully, eyes fixed on Aven like he’d been waiting for that very question. “Oh. You’re back,” he said casually, as if talking about the weather. “Yeah, you zoned out for a second. Happens sometimes when your head tries to fill in gaps your reality can't quite explain.”

  Aven slowly set the fry down, his voice quieter now. “That wasn’t zoning out. That was… something else. Like someone skipped a chapter in my memory.”

  Yuri popped another fry into his mouth and gave a cheeky grin. “Exactly. Welcome to crossover travel, my friend.”

  Yuri leaned back in his seat, his half-eaten Big Mac resting on its crinkled wrapper. He licked a bit of sauce from his thumb, then gestured loosely with his free hand as if painting a thought in the air.

  “It happens. Well, that’s what they say, right?” he began, eyes drifting upward to the flickering ceiling light above them. “Like—those memory gaps, little skips in time. Kinda like when you blink and suddenly an hour's gone. Some folks call it ‘transit haze’ or ‘dimensional lag’ or whatever sounds sciencey enough.”

  He sighed, resting an elbow on the edge of the booth as he leaned forward slightly, expression turning oddly wistful. “But not me. I never get that. Never had one of those ‘poof, where did time go?’ moments. Not even once.”

  Yuri chuckled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “And honestly? It kinda sucks. Like, imagine something really cool happened—some legendary-level moment, like a dragon flew by or you punched a god in the face or something—and poof, it’s just gone. Nothing. Not even a memory to brag about.”

  He spread his hands out in front of him, mimicking a phantom audience. “‘Oh man, I was so cool back there, you should’ve seen it!’” he said in a mock-epic tone, then dropped his arms with a soft thud against the table. “But nah. You got nothing to say. Just an empty blank space where something awesome should’ve lived. Kinda unfair, if you ask me.”

  Aven looked around the restaurant again, his gaze trailing across the buzzing crowd of customers, the beeping fryers behind the counter, and the glossy menu screens cycling through combo meals. Something about it all felt off. Not wrong exactly—just… out of place. Too modern. Too familiar and unfamiliar at once. Like walking into a dream someone else was having.

  He turned back to Yuri, voice low and uncertain. “Uh… right? Everything here is just… really different compared to my original world.” He glanced at the red-and-yellow packaging on their table, the golden arches, the fry boxes with cartoon characters on them. “I don’t even remember this place—whatever this restaurant is.”

  Yuri, slouched comfortably in the booth, casually lifted his cup and took a long, relaxed sip of Coke through the straw. He gave a satisfied sigh, letting the fizz linger in his mouth before answering. “Oh, that’s because McDonald’s doesn’t exist in your universe,” he said bluntly, grinning like he’d just told Aven Santa wasn’t real. “Tragic, right? I mean, really tragic. You should’ve tried this stuff way sooner.”

  He tapped his burger wrapper with mock sympathy. “The Big Mac experience? Life-changing. Honestly, Aven, it’s kinda sad you missed out all these years. That’s years of not eating crispy golden fries, double-layered patties, and high-fructose goodness. Shame.”

  Aven tried to hide the mild offense behind a thin smile, but a deeper question tugged at him—something more personal, more important than fries or fizzy drinks.

  He looked at Yuri again, his voice now quieter. “So if we’re in an alternate universe… then that means my alternate parents might be here, right? If I even have any here?”

  A flicker of hope crossed his eyes—small, fragile. Like a boy wondering if he could still peek into a world where things turned out differently. Where his family was intact. Maybe, just maybe, there was another version of them here. Another chance to see them. Even just once.

  But Yuri’s expression shifted. The playfulness dimmed a little, and he stopped sipping his drink for a moment.

  “Aven…” Yuri said slowly, then leaned back with a soft sigh. “That’s the thing. Not only do your parents not exist here—but Denmark doesn’t exist either.”

  Aven blinked. “…What?”

  “Yeah,” Yuri confirmed, tossing a fry in his mouth like it was no big deal. “Straight-up wiped off the multiversal map. No Denmark, no Copenhagen, no little castles on the harbor. It's just… not a thing here. And all that Danish Krone you’re holding onto?” He gave a little chuckle. “Yeah, that stuff’s basically alien currency now. Might as well be Monopoly money to these guys.”

  Aven sat back in the booth, stunned into silence. His fingers twitched slightly near the napkin holder. That tiny sliver of hope—that he could find something familiar, something to ground him—had just been gently, almost carelessly, taken away. No parents. No homeland. Not even the name of his country remained in this version of the world.

  It wasn’t just a different universe.

  It was a universe that never had him in the first place.

  Aven let out a quiet, almost disbelieving chuckle as he leaned forward in the booth, fingers laced together on the table. His eyes drifted to the window beside them, where cars passed by and unfamiliar faces moved through the city like waves—none of them recognizable, none of them home.

  He scratched the back of his head, trying to make light of the moment despite the weight settling in his chest. “So… no way home, huh?”

  Yuri, still chewing the last bite of his Big Mac, nodded with a nonchalant expression, as if confirming the weather. “Yep. No way home,” he said matter-of-factly, wiping his fingers on a napkin with one hand while sipping Coke with the other.

  Aven’s smile slowly faded. His posture slouched just a little, shoulders sinking under the invisible weight of the truth.

  He looked at Yuri again—this time, really looked at him. “Can’t you just send me home? Please.” His voice cracked slightly on the last word. “Look, as much as I love these powers… the magic, the portals, the swords and cosmic weirdness… as cool as all of this is…”

  He trailed off, trying to find the right words. His throat tightened. He took a breath.

  “I’d give it all up if it meant I could go back. Back to where things made sense. Where I had a bed I recognized. A morning routine. People I knew. I don’t care if I was weaker or normal—hell, I’d be fine being boring again if it meant seeing my mom, my dad, or even that bakery lady who always gave me the wrong change.”

  His voice had gone quiet by the end, barely above the hum of conversations and fast-food buzz. He didn’t even realize he was gripping the edge of the table until his knuckles turned white.

  Yuri’s expression softened, and for the first time since they arrived, he set his drink down and leaned forward, his playful demeanor replaced with a more serious calm.

  “Aven…” he said gently, but with finality. “There is no home to go back to. Not for you. Not anymore.”

  The silence that followed was deafening.

  Outside the glass, a gust of wind stirred some napkins near the door. The buzz of laughter and kids asking for Happy Meals continued as if nothing had happened.

  But for Aven… the world had just gotten a little quieter. A little colder.

  “But you just sent us to a different universe in seconds! It looks like you have wont have a proble—”

  Aven’s voice was abruptly cut off, like a film reel snapped mid-sentence.

  Silence.

  In the blink of an eye, the buzzing fast food restaurant vanished. The scent of fries and cola faded, replaced by a cold sterility—filtered air and the faint hum of machinery.

  Aven’s breath caught as he suddenly found himself standing alone inside a massive elevator—far larger than anything he'd seen before. The walls were sleek, brushed steel with faint glowing lines embedded into the metal, pulsing slowly with an icy blue light. The floor was glassy black, reflective, almost like obsidian. Every corner of the room screamed precision, power, and secrecy.

  He spun in place, heart thudding. “Where… where am I again?”

  A smooth, calm voice answered, echoing through the chamber, but not robotic—human, and surprisingly casual.

  “Oh, I didn’t notice you there,” the voice said, as though they’d simply bumped into each other in a hallway.

  Aven turned sharply toward the voice. He hadn’t even realized there was someone else in the elevator until now. In the far corner, leaning casually against the wall with one leg crossed over the other, was a tall young man—athletic build, tousled dark hair, and a face that carried both charm and danger with effortless ease. His outfit was somewhere between military and street style: a tailored, high-collared jacket thrown over a standard-issue H.G.O. uniform, its sleek cleaver holster strapped to his back like it was part of his big personality.

  “Welcome to Silo 98,” the man continued, as if saying Welcome to Starbucks. "a classified facility. Hidden beneath the Caspian Sea. Part of a top-secret joint operation between the H.G.O. and the Russian government. Real hush-hush stuff. No WiFi by the way.”

  Aven blinked, still trying to catch up to what was happening.

  The guy looked at him more closely, noting the tension in Aven’s eyes. “Hey, buddy…” he said, a small grin playing at the corner of his lips, “you look a little stressed out.”

  Then, without hesitation, he stepped forward and extended a hand—firm, confident.

  “Name’s Lex… Lex Luther.”

  His tone was charming but laid-back, like he had way too much fun in places he probably shouldn’t. There was a spark in his black eyes that said this is all a game to him—a beautiful, chaotic game.

  Aven looked at the outstretched hand, still reeling from the sudden shift, but something about Lex's presence was strangely reassuring. Like despite the madness, this guy knew the rules of this insane world.

  And maybe—just maybe—he could help him navigate it.

  Aven extended his hand, gripping Lex’s firmly with a solid shake. His voice was calm but careful—still feeling the weight of the unknown pressing down around him.

  “My name is Aven. Aven Stansas, Mr. Luther.”

  Lex let out a short laugh, effortlessly cool as he released the handshake and gave Aven a casual pat on the shoulder, his touch light but familiar, like they'd already been friends for years.

  “No need to be so formal, man,” Lex said, flashing that easy-going grin. “Yeah, this place looks like a government-grade anxiety attack, but trust me—it’s way more fun when you’re not uptight about it. Just call me Lex.”

  The elevator continued its descent deeper into Silo 98, humming with barely audible machinery. The walls around them pulsed faintly with soft cyan circuitry, descending smoothly through a vast cylindrical shaft that stretched so far down, the bottom couldn’t be seen. It was the kind of elevator that could haul a tank—or maybe even a small building—down to the earth’s hidden veins.

  Lex turned his eyes toward the control panel, watching the floor numbers tick past like a countdown. “Oh yeah, speaking of…” he tilted his head toward Aven with mild curiosity, “which floor you heading to? Kinda important detail. You did punch in, right?”

  Aven blinked. “Uh… I’m not sure. I didn’t even know this place existed until… like, ten seconds ago.”

  Lex froze for a beat, his expression flickering between disbelief and amusement. “Wait—wait wait wait. Hold on.” He stood upright and held both hands out like he was framing the moment. “You’re telling me… you just puffed into a blacksite facility with top-tier security, underground, with no entry code, no ID, no orders… and you didn’t even know where the hell you were?”

  Aven gave an apologetic shrug, nodding slowly. “Pretty much, yeah.”

  Lex raised his eyebrows, then let out a low whistle. “Yikes. Man, if the wrong guys saw that, you’d be nothing but a flash of lead and a closed casket. Trust me—this place doesn’t exactly roll out the welcome mat for unexpected guests.”

  Aven’s heart skipped a beat.

  But then Lex’s tone shifted—cool confidence melting into something softer but even more certain. He stepped forward, placing a hand lightly on Aven’s shoulder again, this time with more weight. There was no joking in his voice now, only conviction.

  “Don’t worry though,” Lex said, eyes locking with his. “Just stay by my side. As long as I’m with you, nobody here’s gonna lay a finger on you.”

  “I’ve pulled this move before,” Lex said, his tone light, almost flippant—like he was reminiscing about a harmless prank, not recounting an act that likely violated ten levels of military protocol. He leaned against the elevator wall with casual ease, one leg crossed over the other. “Showed some kid around this place once—‘cause it was his birthday. Told the guards he was with me, and boom. Doors opened. Easy.”

  But then, almost as an afterthought, he added with a laugh, “Weird part? He disappeared halfway through the tour. Never found out where he went.”

  Click.

  From a slim, seamless panel in the ceiling, a sleek mechanical arm emerged—its movements eerily smooth and quiet. Its structure was more arachnid than machine: jointed in segments, with almost sinewy tubing along the limbs, giving it an uncanny, living feel. It reached out and gently extended downward, unfurling a thin, almost transparent screen the size of a clipboard—paper-thin, with impossible resolution. The screen flickered to life with a soft chime.

  4K clarity. HDR glow. Live feed archive.

  There was Lex. Same jacket. Same cocky grin. Standing inside the facility’s central chamber, bathed in the emerald glow of a pulsing green core reactor. He had one hand in his pocket, the other gesturing lazily toward the reactor like he was giving a tour of his apartment. The camera hovered behind him—someone else’s point of view.

  Aven watched, transfixed.

  Behind Lex, the figure of a young man, maybe eighteen or nineteen, stepped closer to the glowing core in awe—his face wide-eyed, uncertain. Then, suddenly, two armed soldiers emerged from the shadows behind him. In one swift, practiced motion, they grabbed the boy, one hand covering his mouth, the other securing his arms. The youth struggled, muffled cries escaping through clenched teeth, but they dragged him swiftly out of frame, vanishing into a side corridor.

  In the footage, Lex kept talking—still unaware.

  He turned a moment later, mid-sentence. “Right filli—” His brow furrowed. Confusion etched across his face. His voice lowered, a little more tense. “Where’d you go, man?”

  The screen snapped off. Gone in a blink. The arm retracted into the ceiling with a faint clink, leaving behind only the soft hum of the elevator.

  Aven blinked, staring at the space where the display had just hovered, heart racing a little faster now.

  Lex noticed the shift in Aven’s expression. He turned, following Aven’s gaze—but there was nothing there now. Just clean metal and pulsing blue light.

  Lex raised an eyebrow, half amused, half curious. “Huh. What were you looking at?”

  Aven quickly looked away, a nervous chuckle escaping his lips as he scratched the back of his neck. “Oh… nothing. Just…” He smiled faintly. “Just don’t turn your back on me or anything, alright?”

  The elevator continued its descent, deeper and deeper—like the surface world no longer existed at all.

  "Alright?" Lex said just as the elevator doors hissed open.

  Immediately, chaos and brilliance spilled into view. The corridor beyond was a whirlwind of motion and noise—a full-blown technological circus of geniuses and lunatics. Scientists in scorched lab coats argued in half-mad excitement, clutching blueprints that sparked with live code. Engineers sprinted with steaming metal components, dodging robotic arms that reached from the walls like impatient spiders.

  A hulking prototype tank crawled slowly through the distance, its surface bristling with railguns and whirring armor plates that shifted like breathing metal. Sparks crackled in the air as a welding drone zipped overhead, leaving arcs of electricity in its wake. Above, an intricate network of skybridges held armed guards, machine gun turrets, and long-necked surveillance drones with glowing red eyes that scanned like hunting falcons.

  Lex strolled into it all like he was walking into a mall, while tossing a lazy hand gesture behind him. “Let’s go, Aven.”

  Aven stepped forward to follow Lex.

  Click!.

  Every single camera—dozens of them embedded into corners, mounted on tracks, hovering midair—snapped toward him in unison. The subtle buzz of rotating servos echoed as their lenses locked onto his face.

  People turned. Not all at once, but in ripples—scientists carrying glowing canisters, soldiers with gleaming exo-rigs, interns buried in screens. One by one, they caught a glimpse of Aven… and froze. Jaws slackened. Clipboards were slowly lowered. Conversations died mid-sentence. Even the overworked security officers leaning against reinforced walls straightened up like they were standing before a commanding officer.

  And above—on one of the skybridges—a combat trooper adjusted his visor and tapped his partner on the arm. He brought a walkie to his mouth, voice sharp and immediate.

  “Rosette Fuchsia is spotted in Sector 09. Repeat, Rosette Fuchsia is active in Sector 09 of Silo 98. Advise command—target is walking.”

  The words echoed with the weight of recognition. The name alone seemed to ripple through the infrastructure—like it was a ghost story come to life.

  Lex caught it instantly. His smile didn’t fade, but something colder slipped behind his eyes. Like a magician clocking an unexpected trick in the audience.

  He leaned over to Aven, speaking just low enough that only he could hear. “Hey, man… this really your first time here?”

  Aven blinked, tension tightening in his chest. “Yeah. Why?”

  Lex didn’t answer at first. Instead, his eyes casually scanned the growing reactions—people stopping in place, glancing sideways, pulling colleagues aside. Weapons tests halted mid-demo.

  Lex leaned in close, grinning like a devil in denim. “They’re acting like you walked in here with a nuke strapped to your back.”

  Aven raised a brow and then glanced toward the nearest crowd—cautiously.

  One soldier who had been casually scanning the floor met Aven’s gaze. Their eyes locked.

  And the soldier immediately turned away—too fast. He pretended to check his rifle, posture suddenly stiff.

  “…Yeah,” Aven muttered. “I think you’re right.”

  Lex gave him a playful nudge with his elbow, tone effortlessly cool. “Dude, you are killin’ it. I’m serious. If you keep striding through this place like you own it, I won’t even have to make excuses. Might just let you do the talking.” He tossed a lazy thumbs-up. “Confidence. It’s bulletproof, man.”

  Aven chuckled under his breath, trying to shake the chill threading up his spine. “Well I remember taking drama class in my free time when I was still in collage—I wanted to be a movie star, not… survive military blacksites.”

  Lex leaned in, his voice now a razor whisper. “Good. Keep those acting chops sharp… and straighten out that fancy-ass suit of yours.”

  Aven frowned. “What suit are you talkin’ abou—?”

  Then he looked down.

  Gone was the simple hoodie and jeans he remembered wearing. In its place was something impossible. He now wore a sleek, custom-tailored crimson suit, cut perfectly to his frame with angular black lines tracing along the lapels like veins of obsidian. Arcane runes shimmered subtly at the cuffs and collar—faintly glowing, like circuitry reacting to his heartbeat.

  A long trench coat, wine-red on the outside, inky-black on the inside, billowed behind him with every step—its edges stitched with symbols he couldn’t understand but somehow felt ancient. Reinforced shoulders gave it a weighty silhouette, like it belonged to a myth instead of a man.

  And resting atop his head—tilted slightly, stylishly—was a deep red fedora, wide-brimmed and mysterious, casting a slight shadow over his eyes. He hadn’t put it on. It was just there.

  He looked like someone torn from the pages of a supernatural noir—a devilishly elegant stranger who didn’t walk through doors. He arrived.

  Aven stared in disbelief.

  “Since when did I wear this?” Aven muttered, his voice low and bewildered.

  Lex didn’t even look at him. “Since you popped out of the elevator,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

  Aven stared down again, eyes trailing the sharp crimson lines and the pulsing runes at his cuffs. His mind tried to rewind—trace back the steps that might’ve led to this—but nothing clicked. No memory. No sensation of fabric changing. Just… one outfit one second, this devil’s couture the next.

  A bead of sweat slid down his temple.

  Was Lex telling the truth? Was it some kind of tech? Hallucination? He couldn’t tell anymore. But one thing he did know—this suit might be the only reason he was still breathing.

  He reached up and adjusted the fedora with deliberate calm, the way he'd seen movie villains and timeless legends do in films. Then he smoothed down the front of the trench coat with slow, elegant precision. No stutter. No panic. His fingers moved like they belonged to someone who’d worn this look his whole life.

  If this place could sense heart rate, intent, weakness—then he had to act. No stumbles. No hesitation. Like drama class, but with death on the line. His hands moved instinctively, adjusting the lapels of the coat with smooth, deliberate flair, brushing off the invisible dust from his shoulders like a movie star stepping into frame. The crimson fedora dipped just enough to cast a shadow over his eyes, adding mystery to the mask he now wore.

  The silence was palpable.

  It started subtly. Scientists shuffled back behind their tables. Guards took small, calculated steps toward the walls. Even the troopers on the skybridges repositioned—less like they were readying for combat, more like they didn’t want to be in his direct line of sight. A clearing formed around him like a ripple through oil.

  People around him began to back away—not chaotically, but like they were obeying an instinct older than fear. Even the machines seemed to pause—mechanical arms halting mid-weld, drones hovering perfectly still, red scanner lights holding their breath.

  Aven’s eyes caught on a particular door across the chaos of the lab.

  AIR HANGAR — LEVEL BLACK CLEARANCE REQUIRED

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  Marked in bold industrial font, lined with radiation warnings and reinforced with layers of locked steel plating and electromagnetic seals. It stood taller than a semi truck, guarded by twin sentries in black exo-suits—faces hidden behind polished chrome visors.

  And then he saw her.

  A tired-looking researcher, no older than thirty, walking briskly with a tablet pressed to her chest. Her hair was neatly tied in a low bun, glasses slipping down the bridge of her nose. She didn’t notice him at first—eyes flicking through data readouts, focused on numbers that made sense in a world of logic and math.

  Without a word, Aven’s body moved before his brain finished the thought.

  He stepped forward like a shadow through smoke—no stumble, no doubt—just motion. In one smooth gesture, he gripped her ID lanyard with two fingers, and before she could react, had already turned her by the elbow and started walking. She gasped, eyes going wide—but something about the way he moved made her freeze. Like she couldn’t quite tell if she was being threatened… or escorted by someone far above her clearance level.

  He didn’t slow down.

  They reached the air hangar door, and the two guards—battle-hardened, armed to the teeth—stiffened. Their grips tightened on their rifles… until their eyes scanned his suit, his poise, the ID in his hand, the way the researcher trailed behind him in stunned silence.

  And they stepped aside.

  No questions. No challenge. Just quiet submission.

  With a practiced flick of the ID badge, the lock gave a soft chime. Hydraulic gears hissed, the massive door splitting open with a guttural rumble, unveiling the interior beyond.

  Jet turbines. Experimental aircraft. Suspended helipads and drones the size of school buses lined the walls. Crates labeled RESTRICTED TECH dotted the hangar floor. Engineers stood frozen mid-task, some with wrenches still raised, as Aven stepped inside like he belonged to the sky.

  Behind him…

  Lex, now lingering just outside the threshold, gave a low whistle. “Daaaamn…” he muttered to no one in particular. Hands tucked into his pockets, he grinned like a man watching fireworks. “I don’t know what the hell you’re doing, bro, but this is so much better than the birthday tour.”

  Then he strolled in after Aven, as if they owned the place.

  Because at this point?

  It kind of felt like they did.

  As Lex stepped beside him, he shot Aven a confident thumbs-up—the universal gesture for “You’re killing it.” His grin was wide, unapologetic, and full of unspoken “hell yeah.” It wasn’t just approval—it was celebration, the kind only Lex could deliver without needing fireworks or fanfare. Aven, ever the calculated performer in his own reserved way, didn’t look directly—but a small tilt of his head acknowledged the gesture. A nod not of gratitude, but expectation. The kind of nod worn by men whose commands became law—and found it mildly inconvenient when others hesitated to obey.

  Without missing a beat, Lex reached into the inner lining of his oversized jacket, fingers gliding across hidden compartments like a magician’s sleight of hand. He drew out his ID—a slender card of obsidian black, gleaming with layered holographic glyphs and an embedded chip that shimmered beneath its surface like an eye watching through glass. He gave it a lazy spin between his fingers before sliding it across the scanner.

  BEEP. WHRRRRRRK—SSSSSH.

  The door responded with obedient grace, its mechanisms sighing open like a beast stirring from slumber. Steel plates—thick, fused, unworldly—peeled back into recesses lined with magnetic bearings and electromagnetic locks. Behind them, a corridor unfurled, lit by pulsating red LED strips along the walls, casting the whole path in arterial light. The floor was spotless black glass, each step mirrored back like a shadow walking beside them.

  The hallway looked less like a military base and more like the inside of something alive—something breathing, watching.

  They entered without hesitation, their pace synced, unhurried. Regal. Like they were walking into a throne room, not a hangar.

  And what a hangar it was.

  The space ahead burst open like a cathedral built not by hands, but by war and science. Ceiling-mounted cranes hung like iron chandeliers. The air buzzed faintly with static and turbine whine. Massive vertical scaffolds rose into the rafters, threading into ventilation shafts like spiderwebs of industry. Fuel lines ran across the floor like veins, carrying volatile life through the heart of the beast.

  All noise stopped as they stepped in.

  Technicians froze. Drones locked in place mid-hover. Engineers, wrenches still lifted, turned as one toward the newcomers. Not in alarm—but in reverence. The silence was unnatural, thick with the kind of tension only legends carry behind their footsteps.

  At the center of the hangar, a shape loomed.

  It was draped in jet-black silk—thick, shimmering, matte one second and reflective the next. It clung to the form of the aircraft beneath like a burial shroud on a god. As it shifted ever so slightly in the air currents, glimpses emerged: the angular bite of nano-fiber wings. A turbine rim rimmed with glowing teal veins. Carbon-black armor plating reinforced with something that looked like bone—but was harder, crueler.

  This wasn’t just a prototype jet.

  It was a predator made flesh and metal.

  And guarding it stood a man carved from the mold of soldier and steel.

  He faced away—broad-shouldered, spine straight, every inch of him disciplined. His flight suit was form-fitting, armored along the spine and forearms for neural link compatibility. Along the neckline, a faint line of embedded nodes hinted at direct brain-to-machine interface. His hair was trimmed regulation short, and a cold burn of authority radiated off him like heat from an engine coil.

  When the door hissed shut behind them, he paused in his inspection of the landing gear. Slowly, deliberately, he turned.

  His eyes went first to Lex—familiar, unsurprised.

  Then they locked onto Aven.

  There was a flicker. A microexpression—eyebrows lifted, just a touch. Shoulders squared a millimeter too fast. A quiet oh. It was enough. He hadn’t been briefed for this.

  Lex, sure. Lex was expected. But him? Rosette? The Harbinger of Gore?

  He stepped forward, boots echoing off the polished concrete. Ten feet. No more. The respectful distance between apex predators.

  “Good afternoon,” he said, voice a low roll of distant thunder, every word carrying a frosted edge of Russian grit. “Lex... and Mr. Fuchsia. Or, as some refer to you… the Harbinger of Gore.” His lips curved—not quite a smile, not quite sarcasm. “A dramatic title. But not undeserved.”

  He extended a gloved hand.

  Aven didn’t speak.

  He stepped forward instead, closing the gap like a blade being unsheathed. His hand met the pilot’s in a sharp, firm grip. No warmth. Just weight. The kind of handshake that closed deals and sealed deaths.

  The pilot’s eyes narrowed slightly at the contact—calculating. And then he gave a small, soldierly nod.

  “I assume,” the pilot continued, stepping aside with the measured precision of someone used to walking in gravity far stronger than Earth’s, “you are not here simply for observation. You’ve come to witness.”

  He gestured toward the jet—now fully visible beneath the parting silk.

  The spotlight above flared brighter, casting jagged shadows across the deck. The aircraft looked like a creature ready to lunge: cockpit set low like a predatory brow, dual engines recessed into the chassis like muscles coiled before a strike, wings folded inward with edges so sharp they distorted the light around them. The lettering along the tail wasn’t English—or Russian—but something older, coded, dangerous.

  Around it, a ring of engineers kept a healthy distance, hands at their sides, expressions locked in forced neutrality. The kind of blank calm worn by people who knew how many ways a miracle could become a disaster.

  The air changed again.

  And Aven wasn’t a guest anymore.

  He was the axis everything now turned around.

  “Oh—sorry! I forgot to name myself—er, introduce myself,” the man said, stumbling over his words with a nervous chuckle as he adjusted the gloves on his pilot suit. “Name’s Mikhail Vostrikov. But most people around here just call me Bad Wolf.”

  He smiled, trying to walk the tightrope between cocky and respectful, though his eyes glinted with the same energy as a man about to race a lightning bolt. “I’m the future pilot of that lovely beast you see over there,” he gestured toward the veiled jet, its black silk cover shifting in the ambient wind of the hangar like it was breathing.

  Then, looking directly at Aven, he added with the kind of calm confidence that didn’t wait for approval, “Mr. Fuchsia… You must have high expectations. I imagine you’ve already heard whispers—this model can go around the world and back… in under two hours.”

  A pause.

  Aven blinked once. His face betrayed nothing, but behind his cold composure, a thought stirred like a quiet wave.

  “Back in my universe, a jet like that? No way. That's sci-fi. A pipe dream. But… this place runs on different rules. Maybe the impossible is just the standard here.”

  He finally broke the silence with a smooth, calculating voice. “So... what makes you think a jet could accomplish something that absurd?”

  Mikhail didn’t miss a beat.

  He smirked—not the arrogant kind, but the kind that belonged to a man dying to talk about the thing he loved most in the world. “Because we built it to ignore limits, not work within them.”

  With a practiced stride, he moved to a nearby console, tapping it once. A schematic of the Wind-6 shimmered into view, casting blue light across the nearby steel.

  “The Wind-6 isn’t your traditional aircraft, Mr. Fuchsia,” Mikhail began, his tone shifting into something rehearsed—but no less passionate. “It’s powered by a micro-fusion core, not fossil fuels or standard jet-grade propellant. We’re talking about real, sustained nuclear fusion—hydrogen isotopes fused into helium. The kind of energy output that would make most aircraft engines explode on startup.”

  He tapped again, and the display zoomed into a glowing core chamber, animated to show energy flowing like liquid sun.

  “This core doesn’t just provide energy—it overwrites what we thought was possible. With enough controlled output, the Wind-6 can reach hypersonic velocities well beyond Mach 20. In theory… Mach 30 to 50 in short bursts.”

  Aven’s eye narrowed just slightly at that number.

  “But it’s not just raw speed. What makes the Wind-6 unique is its Ghost Speed Mode. You see, instead of brute-forcing its way through air resistance, the jet uses a quantum layering technique. By temporarily shifting its mass into a near-phase state—partial displacement across micro-space-time folds—it reduces atmospheric drag to near-zero. That lets it glide through reality itself rather than cut through it.”

  Lex muttered under his breath, “Okay, now we’re just flexing.”

  Mikhail grinned, then added with visible pride, “Of course, these speeds generate absurd heat and stress on the frame. So the Wind-6 is laced with a classified graphene-titanium lattice—flexible, adaptive, and laced with smart nanomaterials that self-correct damage in-flight. Combine that with an onboard AI co-pilot that reads pilot vitals, adjusts engine resonance, and even reroutes energy mid-flight? You get a machine that’s half aircraft, half living creature.”

  He stepped away from the projection and looked back at Aven.

  “I know it’s still in testing. I know people think it’s ambitious. But everything about the Wind-6 was designed with one principle: If you never intend to go beyond the impossible, you’ll never even touch it.”

  The hangar was quiet again.

  Engineers frozen. Even the hum of machines felt like it lowered itself out of respect.

  Aven tilted his head, just a fraction. Then:

  “This universe is insane,” he thought.

  And he somewhat liked it.

  The man stepped closer to the console, fingers brushing the edge with reverence, as if the machine before him were sacred. His gaze drifted toward the veiled jet, the silk rippling gently in the hangar’s artificial breeze like the curtain to a deity’s temple.

  Then he spoke—low, almost reverent at first, but with a rising edge of conviction that crackled like storm-charged air.

  “This weapon… this beast—it was made for my hands. Not just fitted, but destined. It’s as if the cosmos themselves conspired to place this thing in my grip. Like some divine engineer whispered into the blueprints, ‘This one… this one’s for him.’”

  His gloved hand curled into a loose fist as he exhaled, voice gaining a wild, poetic edge.

  “It’s designed to lift homes, cities—entire legacies—right out of the clouds, to strike with the fury of a god hurling lightning. A tempest with a targeting system. Judgment from the heavens. And isn’t it just… poetic?”

  He turned slightly, his grin subtle but sharp—like a wolf baring its teeth in amusement.

  “They call it the Wind-6. And me?” He tapped his chest with two fingers. “They call me Bad Wolf. Like some old fable—where the wind huffs and puffs, and the wolf comes knocking with more than just breath behind him.”

  A beat.

  The air seemed to tighten around his words, charged with theatrical gravity.

  “So yeah... funny, isn’t it? I bring the fangs, the Wind brings the howl—and together? We don’t knock.”

  He glanced toward Aven, eyes gleaming with something between obsession and prophecy.

  “We blow the whole damn house down.”

  He inhaled deeply, as if the recycled air of the underground silo was somehow the cleanest he’d ever tasted. A slow exhale followed, the kind that carried the weight of memory—heavy, haunted, almost sacred.

  "My father—my once father—used to say that a man's fate was never his alone. That gods, kings, lovers, and blood could all carve paths into your life. He said we don’t decide who we become… we’re assigned it."

  His voice dipped into something hollow, distant. Not regret. Something older. Burned-in.

  “But when I killed him…” he said quietly, the echo of the words lingering like smoke. “The first time I ever touched a cockpit, I wasn’t running—I was chasing something. I drove that bird through the clouds like a man who needed to ask heaven directly if he was cursed.”

  He paused, his eyes wandering to the veiled silhouette of the Wind-6, like it was listening too.

  “I thought I was flying to punish him. Maybe punish myself. But up there, in the silence—just me and the sky—I heard something. Not in words. Just… a truth. A whisper in the marrow.”

  A long breath.

  “My father was wrong.”

  He turned toward Aven again, a flicker of something ancient in his stare—conviction forged in solitude.

  “The only man that can decide…”

  He pointed a finger toward the ceiling—toward the impossible sky just beyond the reinforced steel and concrete.

  “...is the man in the sky.”

  A quiet followed. Heavy. Reverent.

  Not everyone understood what he meant. But Aven did.

  Because up there, when no one is watching, you meet yourself. And sometimes… it’s not who you thought you’d find.

  Aven somewhat understood him—not because he was used to having a father who spoke in riddles or poetic fragments, though that was partly true. It was something deeper, more instinctual. The way he spoke—layered in metaphor, painted with quiet defiance—was like a language Aven could read without ever having studied it. He could decipher it as easily as solving a Rubik’s Cube—methodical, precise, intuitive.

  No, Aven had never flown a plane. He had never felt the weight of the sky pressing down on metal wings or listened to the static hum of radio silence stretch for miles. He had never tasted that particular brand of solitude—the kind that settles in the cockpit like a co-pilot, whispering strange truths when no one else is around.

  But he knew what it meant. To be alone. Utterly. Existentially. To stare into the void above and feel something looking back. To wonder if maybe, just maybe, you were inching closer to something vast and unknowable. Something divine.

  And it was that feeling—that unshakable whisper in the bones—that had led him here today.

  Lex clapped a hand onto Mikhail’s shoulder with his usual breezy charm, giving it a few light pats. the sound echoing faintly in the vast air hangar like a punctuation mark in the reverent silence.

  “Alright, Bad Wolf,” he grinned, “We still gotta run that beast through its paces, yeah? So for now"" —he glanced toward Aven— “Mr. Fuchsia, you’re free to take your leave. Appreciate the cameo.”

  Mikhail blinked, arching a brow as though Lex had just skipped a beat in a symphony.

  “I thought…” he glanced at Aven, curiosity rising. “I thought he was here to witness the Wind-6 in action?”

  Aven gave a faint shrug, his voice cool and dispassionate—like someone already thinking ten steps ahead. “There’s no need. I was only here out of curiosity.”

  But Mikhail stepped forward, a flicker of something—maybe competitive pride as he stepped forward, emboldened, the fire of his earlier speech still burning in his chest.—crossing his features. He spoke with an eager tilt to his voice, bordering on playful challenge.

  “But maybe… you’d rather race it?” he offered, eyes narrowing just slightly. “I’ve heard stories, Mr. Fuchsia. They say you’re fast. Fast enough to rival the Wind-6—even outclass it. Maybe this is a chance to prove it?”

  The hangar felt like it leaned in. A few engineers stopped what they were doing. Even Lex tilted his head, waiting for Aven’s reaction.

  But Aven didn’t speak. He didn’t blink.

  Then he saw it.

  Aven's gaze.

  It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t even sharp. It was still.

  But in that stillness, Mikhail felt something primal sink down his spine. The kind of feeling pilots get when an engine cuts out mid-air—sudden, gut-born dread.

  There were no raised voices. No threats. Just that unwavering stare, the way a glacier doesn’t need to move fast to destroy a mountain—it just needs to exist.

  In that frozen second, Mikhail was reminded.

  This wasn’t just a visitor. This was someone who didn’t need to prove speed, power, or potential. Someone who didn’t need to prove he belonged to sky or soil—but could bury you in either without a second thought.

  And in that one moment—silent, unbroken eye contact—the air seemed to grow heavier. No emotion, no threat. Just presence. The kind of presence that crushed ambition in silence.

  Mikhail’s breath hitched almost involuntarily. The flicker of challenge in his eyes died out like a candle in a vacuum. It wasn’t fear exactly. It was clarity.

  He saw the truth behind those ruby red eyes.

  If he pushed this man, he wouldn’t end up watching the clouds from above—he’d be staring at dirt from six feet under.

  He cleared his throat. A beat passed. His voice returned more tempered, respectful.

  “Forgive me. You may take your leave.”

  Aven gave a quiet nod in response—measured, effortless—and turned without another word.

  The massive steel doors at the hangar’s far end groaned open, light from the corridor spilling in like divine parting beams. His footsteps echoed softly against the polished floor, each one calm, controlled—like a closing signature on an unwritten contract.

  Lex gave a lazy wave behind him, calling out, “Catch you later, Rosette.”

  But Aven didn’t look back.

  He just kept walking, swallowed into the cold, clinical glow of the corridor—like a phantom stepping back into the shadows of a world that didn’t deserve to hold his name.

  And just like that, the air hangar felt a little colder.

  A little quieter.

  A little more mortal.

  Aven walked through the corridor, its walls pulsing faintly with green LED strips embedded in sterile metal, casting an eerie glow across the steel panels like veins of artificial life. The heavy blast doors behind him sealed shut with a hydraulic hiss, cutting off with it, Lex, Mikhail, and the spectacle of the Wind-6. and the distant clatter of engineers. The world behind him vanished with the final metallic clunk. Now it was just him. Him and his thoughts alone.

  He exhaled softly, his breath barely audible beneath the quiet buzz of electronics that filled the air like static.

  Aven ran his slender fingers through his striking crimson hair, each strand catching the light like threads of silk dipped in blood. His pale, porcelain skin—flawless and smooth as marble—gleamed under the soft glow of the overhead lights.

  A slow, quiet sigh escaped his lips, a subtle exhale of relief slipping through the facade he’d worked so hard to maintain. His footsteps echoed softly as he walked forward, every movement graceful, calculated—masking the adrenaline still coursing through his veins.

  Somehow, despite the tension that had gripped the room moments earlier, he had managed to keep his act together... and, more importantly, avoided getting shot. Then, a wry chuckle slipped past his lips, low and faint.

  “…Kind of surprised that worked,” he muttered to himself, a hint of disbelief in his voice.

  Despite the motionless stare that had cowed a man ready to race thunder—his chest was still tight, a quiet ache pulsing behind his ribs. His heart had been beating too fast, he wasn't made for this, The pressure. The unknown. The way the air in that room had felt thick with consequence—it was too much for any normal person like him.

  It was too fast

  Too stressful.

  Too dangerous.

  But maybe that was just it. He wasn’t normal anymore.

  Like being thrown into a dream you couldn't wake from, where one misstep could break bones or snap reality in half. He had survived, yes. But not without cost. Not without exhaustion.

  Why am I even still calm? he thought.

  Maybe it was shock. Or maybe it was just fear. The kind that was so deep, so constant, that you stopped feeling it. A numbness born of being galaxies away from home. Light-years from anything familiar. Universes from the sound of his mother’s voice… the smell of his dad’s cologne… the warmth of laughter he couldn’t recreate, no matter how hard he tried. Or maybe—just maybe—it was the fact that deep down, he knew he had no choice. Fight, bluff, survive. That’s how the game's worked now.

  But that doesn’t mean it’s not eating me alive.

  He missed them.

  God, he missed them all.

  Aven’s eyes lowered as he walked, his pace slowed just a little. Not from exhaustion—his body could keep going—but from something deeper. A weight that memories placed on the soul.. His hand lightly brushed the cold steel walls beside him—a quiet attempt to ground himself in something real. Something that wouldn’t vanish if he blinked.

  He didn’t want to die. That much he knew.

  But he wanted it to end. The endless threat. The running. The pretending. It just started yet he couldn't handle it. The burden of holding onto threads he couldn’t tie back together.

  He just wanted to go home.

  But how could he?

  He had no powers. No grand destiny. No divine calling. Just a blade, Fire Magic, an instinct that kept him alive, and a mind running on fumes.

  As he continued down the corridor, he noticed something odd—the hallway felt longer than before. Not metaphorically. Physically longer. Like the architecture itself was stretching, pulsing, responding to his weariness with mirrored exhaustion. The door that once led him into the hangar now stood distant—a rectangular silhouette far down the path, haloed in faint white light, as if daring him to keep going.

  His boots clicked softly on the reflective floor, a rhythm to match the racing of his thoughts.

  What am I even doing here? How much further can I go like this?

  And yet, despite everything—his fear, his grief, his isolation—he kept walking.

  Because he had no choice.

  Because if he stopped, the weight of all he’d lost might finally catch up.

  And crush him.

  As Aven continued forward, the corridor gradually shifted—each step bringing him closer to a door outlined in faint white light. It opened with a soft hydraulic hiss, but instead of leading him into Sector 09 of Silo 98—the chaotic sci-fi heart of experimental tech and impossible machines—it welcomed him into something far more surreal. Far more quiet. Far more... wrong.

  The room beyond was pitch black, deeper than shadow, a void that swallowed the cold fluorescent glow of the corridor behind him. The moment Aven stepped through, the door slid shut behind him with a sealed finality, erasing all sound from the world he knew.

  And then, with a whisper of light, a glowing white table came into view—long, elegant, almost floating. It stretched like a monolith across the abyss, casting soft illumination that made the darkness around it feel denser by contrast.

  Seven figures awaited him.

  One sat at the far head of the table.

  Three stood silently on each side, veiled in perfect darkness—only vague silhouettes, cloaked in a static void that refused to yield features or form. Despite the obscurity, Aven felt their presence. Oppressive. Watchful. Not passive observers but beings with weight. Each bore a single glowing number somewhere on their shadowed forms—glowing in sync with the white table. They didn’t speak, didn’t move—but none of them felt weak. Not in the slightest.

  And then, at the front—seated like a king upon a throne of obsidian leather—was a figure Aven could see.

  Barely.

  A cascade of black bandages floated weightlessly behind him, moving like they were underwater, as though alive in the stagnant air. His right eye was visible, a piercing dark blue that glowed faintly with unnatural intensity. His other eye remained concealed beneath layers of cloth, wrapped tight around one side of his face.

  A gloved hand slid playfully along the length of the table—silent, relaxed, unsettlingly casual. As his hand moved, metal rings—thick, worn, industrial—locked themselves into place around each of his fingers with mechanical precision, as if the table recognized him, or submitted to him.

  Under the table’s low light, strands of his golden blond hair caught a gleam, just enough to hint at nobility—but warped through something more eerie. More ancient. The chair he sat on wasn't just a seat—it felt like a throne, crowned in silence.

  He motioned, wordlessly, for Aven to take a seat opposite him.

  Aven hesitated, eyes flickering to the six standing figures again.

  Even veiled in shadow, the details his eyes could catch made his pulse tighten.

  One—across the table to his left—was unmistakably female, draped in a long ceremonial dress of deep grey silk, her face hidden beneath a veil of ash-colored lace. Pitch-black crows perched around her, motionless, suspended in the air like living statues. Their eyes glowed stark white in the dark—uncannily still, unblinking.

  Another figure resembled ancient armor—like the war-garb of a shogun, multiple symbols were glowing white in its pitch black armor

  The rest... blurred in shadow. But he could feel them.

  Aven’s gaze returned to the man seated in front of him—the only one lit fully by the table’s ethereal glow.

  The man with the bandages smiled—slow, deliberate. Not cruel, not kind. Just knowing.

  And Aven, unsure of what they wanted, unsure if this was an interrogation or an invitation, stepped forward and took the seat.

  Because whatever this was—he was already in it.

  Too deep to turn back now.

  As Aven lowered himself into the chair, he felt it—something strange. Not just the firmness of cold, synthetic material beneath him, but an awareness. As if the chair itself recognized him. Welcomed him. The armrests adjusted slightly with a mechanical hum, angling inward, and the base pulsed with a soft vibration, subtle and steady, syncing with the rhythm of his heartbeat. It wasn’t comforting. It was intimate. Intrusive. Like being scanned by a machine that knew too much.

  Then the man seated at the far end of the glowing table finally spoke.

  “Good to see you again,” he said warmly—too warmly. His voice was smooth, familiar in tone but laced with unsettling undertones. “I’m sorry I had to hand you a little adventure before we meet again.”

  His smile widened, not out of cruelty, but with a kind of amused patience, like a teacher watching a student fumble through a problem he already knew the answer to.

  “I just want to talk about your future, that’s all.”

  Aven narrowed his eyes. “My future?” he echoed, tone cool but sharp. “You're going to decide my future?”

  The man—Yuri—shook his head slowly, the golden strands of his hair catching the low glow of the table as they swayed like liquid light. “No. Not decide. More like… showing you the path. What happens depends entirely on whether you choose to walk it.”

  Aven leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the edge of the illuminated surface. His voice was calm, but there was steel beneath it. “And if I dont… what’s are the consequence?”

  Yuri’s smile returned—wider this time, lips parting just enough to hint at something deeper. Something older.

  “Well,” he said, fingers brushing across one of the metallic rings that locked around his hand, “there’s no punishment. Not in the way you’re imagining. But I will make it difficult for you. Not impossible—just… inconvenient. The path I lay ahead for you will test you. Threaten your life. Shake your convictions. And, most importantly—” he tapped a finger to his temple, “—it’ll challenge you morally. Intimately. I know you, Aven. You’re vulnerable to mental choices. To doubt. To guilt.”

  He let the silence hang, just long enough for the weight of his words to settle.

  “That’s why,” Yuri continued, his voice softening just a little, “I want you to walk the path I’ve set. Not stray. Not falter. Whether you end up a villain or a hero doesn’t matter to me. Titles are empty. Stories change. What does matter—”

  He gestured gracefully to the six towering figures beside the table.

  “—are them.”

  Aven followed the motion with his eyes, scanning the shadowy presences once more. They didn’t move, didn’t speak—but the sheer gravity of their presence had only grown heavier since he sat down.

  “I understand they… hold some sort of value,” Aven said, his tone guarded, analytical. “But what do they have to do with my future?”

  Yuri smiled again.

  A slower smile this time.

  The kind that knew the punchline before the setup was done.

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  He raised both hands now, palms up, as if unveiling a secret too vast for words.

  Yuri leaned forward with a childlike gleam in his eye, the throne beneath him giving a subtle wobble under his sudden burst of enthusiasm. “These—” he exclaimed, spreading his arms wide with theatrical flair, “—are my personal favorites! My strongest UNITS!”

  The shadows around the six figures pulsed faintly in sync with his excitement, as if even the void acknowledged his pride. His voice bounced with childish energy, and for a moment, he looked less like a ruler on a throne and more like a kid showing off prized action figures.

  “I call them The Espionage,” he said, practically bouncing in his seat now. “All of them—equally strong, mind you—capable of eliminating 80% of reality if I let them off the leash.” He paused, the table glowing brighter in time with his rising energy. “And see those glowing numbers on each of them? That’s how cool I think they look!”

  Aven’s brow lifted, unimpressed. “You… ranked them by appearance?” he said flatly. “Even if their raw strength is equal, some of them have to have more versatile abilities. One should logically outperform the others depending on the fight.”

  Yuri paused mid-gesture, one gloved hand resting beneath his chin, as if considering Aven’s words with genuine philosophical weight. His fingers drummed thoughtfully against his jaw, then he exhaled with a lazy grin and waved his hand dismissively. “Tch. See, that’s where you’re thinking too linearly, Aven. If I ranked them by power—what would be the point? Rock, paper, scissors. One always beats another. Boooring.”

  He spun a ring on his finger idly, the metal locking into place with a tiny click that echoed far louder than it should’ve. “But when you rank them by coolness?” he said, voice now dreamy, almost poetic. “Now that… that’s art. That’s unpredictable. It’s irrational, chaotic—it’s fun.”

  He leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper that buzzed with amusement. “Because in the end, isn’t that what real power is? Not logic. Not stats. Just style.”

  Aven didn’t even try to make sense of Yuri’s warped logic. He knew better than to argue about something as ridiculous as ranking reality-warping entities based on how “cool” they looked. He exhaled through his nose and sat back, folding his arms.

  “Alright, alright,” Aven said, brushing the nonsense aside. “So what about these Espionage? What am I actually supposed to do with them?”

  Yuri cleared his throat dramatically and straightened his posture like a game show host about to reveal a prize. “Glad you asked!” he said, beaming. “I’ll be sending you into each of their respective universes. Your one and only goal… is to beat them in a fight.”

  Aven blinked. “Pardon me… did you just say fight?”

  Yuri gave a single, casual nod. “Yeah. What about it?”

  Aven leaned forward in disbelief. “What do you mean fight? How in the hell am I supposed to fight something that can erase eighty percent of reality?”

  Yuri tilted his head, looking genuinely confused. “Uh… with the powers I gave you from the Wheel, remember?”

  Aven stared blankly. “What is fire and The All Handed Blade going to do against an Espionage?!”

  Yuri scratched the back of his head. “Okay okay, fair point. I guess just… beat them somehow. It doesn’t have to be a fight-fight. Could be a cooking contest. A game of riddles. You could outwit ‘em, out-charm ‘em, hell, cheat if you want. There are no rules. Just win.”

  Aven groaned and buried his face into the glowing table with a dull thud, the cold surface doing nothing to soothe the building frustration. “Great. Just great.”

  “Oh! And another thing!” Yuri added cheerfully, like he was announcing a bonus feature on a cursed contract. “You’re being sent into entirely different universes, so… y’know, different rules, physics, logic, all that jazz. Some of them have magic. Others have tech. Some have talking trees or screaming clouds—whatever. Point is—since your powers that the wheel has handed you are universal, they’ll scale to each reality.”

  Aven lifted his head just enough to give a deadpan stare. “That’s supposed to help?”

  Yuri grinned like he was unveiling a grand secret. “Totally! See, if in one universe people make their magic stronger by meditating, you can meditate to enhance your fire. If the next universe powers up through ancient books, then grab a library card and start reading. Your fire and the Blade will adapt to whatever system exists in that world. It’s not impossible, just, y’know… super hard.”

  He leaned back, arms behind his head, satisfied like he’d just solved every problem in existence.

  Aven exhaled slowly. “This is insane.”

  Yuri chuckled. “Yep! Welcome to the job.”

  “So I’m assuming I’m being sent into his universe first?” Aven asked, narrowing his eyes and pointing toward the sixth figure.

  The one he referred to stood in still, perfect silence—an obsidian silhouette against the faint glow of a moon-like light that hung eerily behind him. His presence radiated menace and elegance, like a statue of war incarnate. The air seemed denser around him. A sword sheath rested on his hip, its outline defined by the faint glint of silver. His dark, shadowy hair swayed despite the absence of wind, thick and messy like smoke caught in time. A long cape clung to his shoulders, trailing behind him with unnatural fluidity—as if gravity itself yielded to his will.

  On his wrist, glowing faintly with white light against the shadowed skin, was the number 6, etched like a curse.

  Yuri gave an exaggerated finger-gun. “You got it! Starting with number six and climbing your way up to the top like a twisted tournament arc.”

  Aven exhaled, gaze drifting down the line of the remaining Espionage. His future opponents. His future nightmares.

  The Fifth Espionage stood in absolute stillness, hauntingly elegant, like a silhouette carved from midnight and moonlight. Her presence felt like a soft breath over a grave—silent, cold, and reverent. Judging by the gentle curves beneath the dark, celestial layers of her gown, Aven assumed she was female, though her aura was so ethereal it seemed to transcend human form entirely.

  A long, translucent veil flowed from her head, trailing endlessly behind her like a river of starlight. It shimmered faintly, catching the lightless azure glow of the void like the ocean beneath her feet. Each fold flickered with silver glints, as though stars had been plucked from the sky and stitched into the fabric. The veil whispered as it moved—not from her steps, for she stood perfectly still, but from the soft motion of an unseen breeze that existed only around her.

  Her face was half-concealed by a porcelain-black feathered mask—fragile, feminine, and cold. The mask bore intricate engravings of angelic wings fanning out to the temples and teardrop patterns etched delicately beneath the eyes. It resembled something mourned and sacred, like a relic from a forgotten celestial tragedy. Only her mouth was visible, soft and unreadable, curved in neither a smile nor a frown.

  Her dress was impossibly dark—woven from layered silks and shadow, as if mourning itself had been spun into fabric. It clung gracefully to her figure, then cascaded down into sweeping tattered sleeves and a long, ghostlike skirt that drifted and fluttered as though submerged in deep water. Its textures were inconsistent—some parts glossy like raven feathers, others as sheer and spectral as mourning veils. Intricate gothic jewelry—crosses, chains, and blackened pearls—decorated her chest, glinting faintly like tiny dying stars.

  Around her hovered a murder of shadowy crows, suspended mid-flight in a thickening, inky cloud. Their feathers flickered in and out of focus, sometimes sharp and real, sometimes like echoes of creatures long gone. None moved. They merely watched, perched in midair behind her like the physical embodiment of secrets, fate, and death.

  There was no mistaking it—she was beautiful, but not in a way that comforted. Her elegance was the kind that belonged to something that had mourned thousands, or had waited for millennia. To look at her too long felt like watching your own funeral through a mirror.

  She did not speak. She didn’t need to. Her stillness was a sermon.

  Then came The Fourth Espionage—an ominous presence that exuded a heavy, commanding silence. The moment Aven laid eyes on him, a single word carved itself into his thoughts: Captain. Not of any ordinary vessel, but of something older, darker—something that hadn’t seen sunlight in centuries.

  He was tall and broad, with the shape of a man built from iron discipline and storm-forged rage. A long, militaristic coat draped over him like armor—thick, structured, jet black, with gold accents barely catching the blue glow of the water beneath his feet. His chest was wrapped in thick chains, as though someone had tried to bind him and failed. These chains snaked tightly across his upper body, rattling softly with each subtle movement, pulsing faintly with a dull inner light like a heartbeat buried deep in rusted metal.

  A faded naval officer's cap sat low on his brow, the insignia of an anchor gleaming a sickly gold. It looked like it had survived countless storms, impossibly intact, giving him the look of a ghostly commander still trapped in eternal duty. From beneath the cap, a mask stretched across his face—sharp, angular, and beast-like, with long, pointed ends curling near his jaw, like the stylized helm of an ancient warrior. His mask was devoid of expression, but from behind it burned two cold, luminous eyes—white, piercing, and distant, as if seeing into a horizon only he could understand.

  His right arm bore a glowing number: 4—stark white and outlined in gold, pulsing slowly like a countdown. The number almost felt ceremonial, like a rank or curse carved into his very soul.

  Strapped across his back with twisted, decaying bandages was a monolithic greatsword. The blade itself was crude and brutal, with no hint of elegance—just raw, unwavering violence in weapon form. The bandages swayed and danced in a nonexistent wind as it flared and twitched against gravity, fluttering and pulling as if they longed to move on their own—like the sword itself was trying to break free from obedience. One side of the blade glinted in brief, uneven intervals, catching light that didn’t exist in the surrounding gloom, ignoring the laws of reality like ghosts refusing to stay buried. The sword, far too large for a human to wield comfortably, looked like it had been torn from the depths of the sea or dragged from a battlefield where gods once bled.

  More unsettling than anything, however, was how his body glitched. At random intervals, parts of him would twitch, distort, or flicker, as though he were phasing between timelines—one moment fully solid, the next a fragmented afterimage. Yet he stood there as if nothing was wrong. No reaction. No discomfort. His stillness made it worse, like watching a statue blink. Like reality itself couldn’t agree on whether he should exist.

  His pale, glowing eyes did not focus on anyone. Yet Aven felt watched all the same. It was like being appraised by a mind that had already calculated every move he could make—and deemed them meaningless.

  The 3rd Espionage radiated an ancient, quiet power. A shogun forged in shadows, his armor bore traditional Japanese design, layered and battle-worn, each plate marked with glowing white Kanji that pulsed softly like the flicker of distant lanterns. At his waist, a sheathed katana, the hilt wrapped in black and gold. His presence was disciplined—refined—yet the tension in his stance felt like a coiled spring waiting to snap. A dull badge with the number 3 glowed near his shoulder, like a forgotten honor.

  Then came the Second Espionage.

  A feminine figure emerged, cloaked in shadow, her presence exuding a quiet but commanding force. Darkness clung to her like a second skin, its edges fraying into strands of ethereal mist. Atop her head, partially woven into her cascading, raven-black hair, sat a jagged crown—its spires twisted and elegant, adorned with countless fine jewels that shimmered with a light as ancient as the stars. Her hair fell in long, fluid waves, flowing like ink through water, concealing her face in shadows that shifted with every motion.

  Set upon her head was a gladiator-style open-face helmet, seamlessly merged with her crown. Its surface was wrought from a celestial alloy—obsidian with veins of silver—that caught the faintest traces of light. Despite its openness, it offered no glimpse of her eyes, only deep darkness veiled by her drifting hair.

  Her dress was a living tapestry of the night sky—stitched from midnight fabric and threaded with constellations. Countless white stars sparkled across it, flaring briefly before flickering out, only to be replaced by new lights, as though galaxies were being born and dying with each step she took. Beneath her flowing starfield gown trailed a layered cape-skirt: deep violet in hue, drenched in radiant starlight that shimmered with every fold. From it, ribbons of animated bandages floated upward—graceful and ghostly, like tethers of forgotten souls drifting in space.

  Above her, multiple halos spun silently, each larger than the last. They hovered above her crown in mesmerizing, chaotic harmony—rotating in different directions and angles, glowing with hues of gold, silver, and deep space blue. Their motion stirred the air with an unseen gravity, creating a soft hum like the distant pulse of stars.

  Her form seemed untethered from the world, as though she walked between realms—one foot in the shadow of the cosmos, the other in a world of secrets and silence. An aura of cosmic elegance wrapped around her, both divine and unknowable. She was a vision of celestial espionage—majestic, terrifying, and utterly untouchable.

  And then… the First Espionage.

  He—or perhaps it—stood beyond comprehension, less a being and more a monument to dominion itself. Aven’s breath caught before he even saw the figure, as if his lungs recognized the presence before his eyes did. The number 1 was never seen, never written… and yet it was known. It pressed down on the world around it like gravity made flesh—the first, and undeniably so.

  The entity towered above the rippling reality like a crowned phantom. It wore layer upon layer of tattered cloaks and torn fabrics that drifted with a mind of their own, whispering and grinding against each other like sandpaper across silk—ancient, abrasive, and full of secrets. The garments wrapped and unraveled endlessly, as if the being carried with it a storm of timeworn remnants: war banners, robes of fallen monarchs, and veils that once graced gods long dead.

  A long, ragged scarf unfurled behind it, twisted and torn like something ripped from a battlefield altar. It didn’t follow the wind—it created it, dragging a breeze from nowhere, severing the silence with every flicker.

  Its helmet—if it could even be called that—was carved like a relic of forgotten rituals, angular and cruel. The front bore a single, perfect hole. Not a visor. Not an eye. A void. A hollow absence that looked back when stared into, returning not darkness, but awareness. Aven felt like he wasn’t looking at the void—he was being seen through it. Judged. Cataloged. Remembered.

  Behind the First’s shadow-veiled figure, Aven caught something even worse: another skull, fused within the black haze like a second consciousness, slouched and coiled in silence. It was armored in a jagged, molten helm that shimmered with black fire—flames that didn’t burn the air, but rather devoured meaning. They licked at the entity’s frame, consuming light, distorting edges, and twisting reality into fever-dreamed shapes. The skull did not move, but its presence loomed like a buried god—not active, but ready.

  Its gloves were unnervingly pristine: a clean, polished white like untouched ivory, etched with glowing ancient runes across the knuckles—symbols from a language that predated reason. They pulsed gently, like dying stars coded in forgotten laws. To see them was to remember things you were never meant to know.

  And in its hand, the staff.

  No words could pin down its design. It shimmered at the edge of perception, always in motion, always undefined—blurred like a censored weapon in the eyes of reality. Whenever Aven tried to focus on it, his vision slid away, as if his brain refused to give it shape. All he could grasp was its feeling: the weight of command, the call of war, and the memory of miracles and executions delivered with the same hand.

  The First Espionage didn’t move. It didn’t need to. The world shifted around it—the void rippled outward like water in concentric circles, the windless breeze hesitated before passing, and sound itself thinned to a breathless hum.

  Aven’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “I’m not sure how I’m supposed to beat any of this…”

  Yuri shrugged nonchalantly, like they were talking about a pop quiz. “If it works, it works. Just let the story roll, man. You might get the ol’ Main Character treatment—plot armor, hidden powers, sudden flashbacks unlocking ancient skills. Y’know, all the classics.”

  Aven stared at him, deadpan. “I’m not in an anime.”

  Yuri wiggled his brows. “Could’ve fooled me.”

  So now—let your training arc begin!” Yuri bellowed dramatically, flailing his arms above his head like a conductor at the climax of a symphony. His voice echoed with theatrical flair, as if he were announcing the start of a legendary saga.

  Before Aven could even react, Yuri had already begun spinning in circles, sparks of imaginary light bursting from his fingertips. “Cue the opening theme! Cue the slow-motion montage! Cue the epic backflips on mountains!”

  “Dude, no—stop!” Aven jumped to his feet, frantically waving his arms to cut him off. His voice cracked with panic, eyes wide as he tried to physically block the swirl of nonsense manifesting around Yuri.

  But it was too late.

  The world around him began to blur like wet paint on glass. Yuri's overly dramatic pose—the flared arms, wide grin, and sparkles—froze for a moment before everything melted into a whirlpool of light and shadow.

  “Wait—Yuri—wait!” Aven shouted one last time, but his voice felt like it was being pulled underwater.

  Then—silence.

  Just like that, as if a switch had been flicked…

  Aven’s eyes snapped open.

  Aven jolted awake, his body snapping upright—only to immediately crack his forehead against the wooden frame of the bunk above him.

  “Ow, dammit,” he hissed, rubbing the spot with a wince.

  The room was dim, cloaked in thick shadows with only the faint flicker of a single lantern casting a weak, golden glow from across the space. Rows of bunk beds stretched out in every direction, their silhouettes looming like sleeping giants. The air smelled faintly of old wood, sweat, and dust—lived-in and worn.

  Aven sat there on the edge of the lower bunk, still rubbing his forehead, eyes scanning the unfamiliar environment.

  His voice broke the silence, half-groaned under his breath.

  “Great. Just great. Where the hell am I now?”

  His words hung in the darkness, unanswered.

  Until the next episode.