M100- So Cheap, So Lost (Patreon)

Wow, 100th chapter. This will be a long one—almost 12,000 words. I won’t spoil much, but this is a subject I wanted to tackle for a long time. And of course, in my fantasy world, I’ll fix it. Hopefully, in the real world, it gets fixed too.

Anyway, enjoy the chapter.

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Nigel walked through the streets of London, blending in with the evening crowd. His long coat moved slightly with each step, his gloved hands tucked into his pockets. The air was damp, the city’s usual smoke, rain, and something vaguely metallic clinging to the cold. Streetlights reflected off the wet pavement, distorting the movements of pedestrians and traffic.

He wasn’t in a rush. The man he was following didn’t know he was being watched.

A few meters ahead, the MI6 agent weaved through the street casually. He wasn’t a top operative—just another mid-tier intelligence officer who had gotten greedy. A man willing to sell anything to the highest bidder, whether it was private corporations, rival governments, or criminals looking to disappear.

Nigel had been tracking him for days. He wasn’t alone. There were others, scattered across different agencies, all over the world, operating under the same system—trading secrets, identities, and assets. Some of them still held their positions, feeding information from the inside. Others had gone fully independent, carving out their own networks in the underworld. The agent ahead was one of the latter.

The man glanced around briefly before slipping into a pub at the corner of the street. Nigel slowed his steps. He didn’t follow immediately. Instead, he crossed the street, stepping into a small convenience store. He picked up a bottle of water, paid in cash, and stepped back out. From the sidewalk, he had a clear view of the pub’s entrance.

A minute passed. Then another.

Inside, the agent took a seat near the back, nodding at someone already waiting for him. A woman—early forties, dark suit, Eastern European. Her posture was controlled, practiced. Government or private buyer, hard to tell.

Nigel took a sip of his water, leaning casually against a wall.

The global aftermath of the invasion had played out exactly as expected. Governments were scrambling. Power structures had shifted. Intelligence agencies were cleaning house, trying to identify who had been compromised and who was still loyal. The world hadn’t collapsed, but it had changed.

London wasn’t an exception.

The UK had kept itself together, but the cracks were visible. Parliament had been arguing over expanded security measures. MI6 and MI5 were stretched thin, juggling counter-intelligence operations and domestic threats. The criminal underworld had grown more ambitious, sensing the distraction.

And in the middle of it all, people like the man Nigel was following had found their perfect opportunity.

Inside the pub, the agent slid a flash drive across the table. The woman pocketed it without a word. A moment later, she set down a small, unmarked envelope in return. Payment, or another piece of leverage—didn’t matter.

Nigel finished his water and tossed the bottle into a bin.

The agent stood up first, adjusting his jacket before heading toward the exit. His buyer remained seated, finishing her drink. Standard protocol—never leave at the same time.

Nigel didn’t watch him directly as he stepped onto the sidewalk, merging back into the flow of foot traffic. The agent moved with the ease of a man who thought he was untouchable.

Nigel let the MI6 agent blend into the crowd before turning slightly toward the pub. A faint wisp of purple flickered at his fingertips before solidifying into a perfect copy of himself, indistinguishable from the original. Without hesitation, the clone stepped into the pub and took a seat at the bar, its presence unnoticed, its gaze locked onto the woman still at the back table.

Nigel didn’t wait around. The clone would handle surveillance on the buyer.

The agent turned down a side alley, cutting through a shortcut between two buildings, emerging onto a quieter street. Nigel stayed behind, waiting a few extra seconds before rounding the same corner.

The agent had already blended into the pedestrians heading toward the financial district.

A different kind of corruption thrived here. Not the blood-and-knives variety, not the street gangs squabbling over territory. No, this was where men in tailored suits stole entire countries without ever getting their hands dirty.

The agent passed by a row of security cameras, never once glancing up. His clearance would scrub his image from the feeds, erasing any trace that he had ever been here.

Didn’t matter. Nigel wasn’t relying on security footage.

Ahead, the agent entered a private building, nodding at a man in a gray suit as he passed through the doors. Nigel didn’t follow.

Nigel crossed the street, leaning against the railing overlooking the Thames. The city lights reflected on the dark water, twisting and stretching with the current. He sighed, raising a hand as a tiny insect buzzed past.

He caught the fly between his fingers, his purple flames flickering briefly as his eyes shifted. The sensation was immediate—his sight, his hearing, his awareness—everything expanded and shrank at the same time, adjusting to the fly’s tiny form.

"Nero is really making me do weird things," he muttered, feeling the insect twitch in his grasp. The flame spread, anchoring the connection. "To think even something like this is possible."

He released the fly, watching as it zipped away, darting across the street, past the security cameras, and toward the office building’s window.

Inside, the MI6 agent made his way past the reception desk, nodding at the man in the gray suit. Whatever this place was, the people inside knew who he was and why he was there.

The fly hovered near the glass, its tiny body pressing into the minuscule gap where the pane met the frame. Then, with a flicker of purple energy, it was inside.

Nigel’s vision shifted. The office space was quiet, dimly lit, designed for private conversations rather than productivity. The agent walked toward an elevator at the far end, stepping inside and swiping a keycard.

The doors closed.

The agent stepped out on the top floor.

Inside, a meeting was already underway. The room was sleek, modern, but the people inside didn’t belong to any corporation.

A man with graying hair and an expensive suit sat at the head of the table, fingers steepled. His face was familiar—one of those lifelong officials that moved between intelligence, defense, and corporate boards like they were all the same thing. To his right, a woman in a navy-blue dress tapped at a tablet, barely glancing up as the agent approached.

Another man, heavier, with thinning blond hair, sat back in his chair, sipping from a glass of whiskey. His accent—when he spoke—was old money, the kind that never had to explain itself.

The agent took his seat. No introductions. No pleasantries. The meeting was already in motion.

The older man at the head of the table barely glanced up. "Is it done?"

The agent reached into his jacket, retrieving a small envelope, and slid it across the table. The woman with the tablet picked it up, opening it with a practiced efficiency. She scanned the contents, her face betraying nothing.

"Confirm it," the older man said.

The woman nodded once, then tapped at her screen. Somewhere, in a different part of the world, something changed. A name deleted, a record erased, a sum of money moved into the right account.

The heavier man swirled his whiskey. "If this is another misstep—"

"It isn’t," the agent cut in.

A brief pause. Then, the older man leaned back. "Good. That’s one loose end dealt with." He turned to the woman. "And the others?"

She flicked through her screen, her fingers gliding over financial reports, operational notes, movement patterns. "Moscow is proving difficult. The situation with the psychics isn’t contained."

"Expected," the older man muttered. "And the Americans?"

"California is progressing. The new augmentation trials have better retention rates. No external interference so far."

The heavier man chuckled. "Give it time. If they get a whiff of it, it’ll be another fiasco."

"Then we make sure they don’t."

The older man’s gaze shifted back to the agent. "And the money?"

"Safe," the agent said simply.

The woman nodded, confirming. "Geneva’s operations remain undisrupted. The banking networks are still compliant. No red flags from oversight committees."

The older man exhaled. "Good. We can proceed."

There was a brief silence, the weight of unspoken things settling over the table. Then, the heavier man leaned forward, setting his glass down.

"And the South American shipments?"

"Still moving."

"How many?"

"Enough."

The older man tapped a finger against the table. "Keep it quiet. Last thing we need is another scandal."

The heavier man scoffed. "That would require people actually caring."

A thin smirk flickered across the woman’s lips, but she said nothing.

The agent shifted slightly. "And the final matter?"

The older man met his gaze. "Handled."

No elaboration. No details.

The meeting was over.

The agent stood first, knowing better than to linger. He gave a brief nod before exiting the room.

The moment the door closed behind him, the older man spoke again.

"Keep a closer eye on London. We don’t need more disruptions. Deliver a copy to Price Andy."

Nigel left the railing, moving toward the building’s side entrance. The damp London air clung to his coat as he adjusted his gloves, stepping through the back alley. He didn’t rush. He had time.

The meeting inside continued, the agent still in the elevator, heading back down. Nigel wasn’t concerned. The moment the agent handed off the file, his usefulness had ended. The others in that room? They just hadn’t realized they were already dead.

The building’s security wasn’t impressive. Private, discreet, but predictable. Keycard access, off-the-books personnel, automatic record scrubbing. Not bad for standard corporate intelligence, but nowhere near the kind of security meant to keep people like him out.

As he walked, the streetlights around him flickered for a moment—brief, almost imperceptible.

Then, the cameras inside the building blacked out for exactly two seconds.

Enough.

Nigel stepped through the side door without a sound.

The hallway was quiet. A single guard was posted near the stairs, half-distracted by his phone. Nigel passed him without stopping. The man would never know he had been there.

Upstairs, the meeting was concluding. The agent stepped out of the conference room, walking toward the elevator.

He never made it.

Nigel’s blade slipped between his ribs as he reached for the call button. The agent gasped, eyes going wide, but Nigel had already twisted the knife, severing anything that might allow a scream.

Nigel didn’t let him drop immediately. He leaned in slightly, voice just above a whisper. "You were never untouchable."

The agent shuddered. Then he went still.

Nigel let the body fall, stepping over it as he entered the conference room.

The people inside barely had time to register his presence before the lights cut out entirely.

Panic flared for a fraction of a second, but it didn’t last. The sound of quick, sharp movements filled the darkness. A body thudding against a table. The gurgle of someone trying to scream through a slit throat.

By the time the emergency lights flickered back on, it was over.

The older man at the head of the table had a pen still gripped in his hand, his fingers twitching slightly before going slack. The woman with the tablet had slumped over, the screen still glowing in front of her. The heavier man with the whiskey had been thrown back against the wall, his drink shattered at his feet.

None of them would be making another deal.

Nigel walked past their bodies, stepping around the blood.

The computer terminal near the head of the table was still active. He glanced at it, then tapped a few keys, accessing the building’s network. For a moment, he skimmed through the files—names, transactions, locations.

He didn’t delete them. Didn’t need to.

Instead, he added one.

A single encrypted file, placed directly onto MI6’s mainframe.

"Not your war anymore."

It was all they needed to know.

Nigel left without looking back.

By the time security noticed the bodies upstairs, he was already blocks away, blending into the crowd. The city swallowed him effortlessly, his presence nothing more than another shadow in the London night.

Somewhere, across the world, in places just as corrupt, others were doing the same.

---

Donald walked the streets of California, hands in his pockets, taking in the sights. The sky had that late-afternoon warmth, the kind that made everything glow slightly orange. Silicon Valley stretched around him, a city built on ambition, money, and secrets.

He’d never had much of a chance to travel before. Back when his body had been weak, when his world had been limited to what he could endure. He’d always had an excuse to stay behind whenever Nero or Maria tried dragging him along on trips. He couldn’t use that excuse anymore.

Now, people glanced at him for entirely different reasons. His tall frame, the broad shoulders, the way he carried himself—he looked like he belonged, yet stood out at the same time. Some people noticed him because they thought they recognized him, but couldn’t place from where. Others just found excuses to glance his way, eyes lingering a second too long before looking away.

He ignored them.

The real reason he was here didn’t care about crowds, or sunlight, or the clean presentation of the city.

Somewhere beneath all of this, in some pristine, glass-walled lab filled with men in pressed suits and white coats, there were people playing with lives. People trying to rewrite human limits, not with training or skill, but with tech and forced evolution. They weren’t the first to try. Wouldn’t be the last. But they were getting bolder.

Donald adjusted his pace, moving down a side street, less foot traffic. The buildings here were sleek, modern. Offices where companies made billions moving numbers on screens. Where research firms weren’t always what they claimed to be.

At the end of the block, a car idled outside a private building. The man stepping out of it wore the kind of suit that cost more than most people made in a year. His watch gleamed in the fading light, an expensive signal to those who knew what to look for. His driver lingered by the car, scanning the area like he was expecting something.

Donald took out his phone, tilting the screen just slightly to catch the man’s reflection as he walked past. Recognition clicked immediately.

CEO of a well-funded biotech firm. Officially, they focused on cutting-edge prosthetics. Unofficially, they’d been receiving quiet grants for something else. Something off the books.

The man walked inside, flashing a keycard at the security checkpoint before disappearing through a set of reinforced doors.

Donald didn’t stop. He kept walking down the street, passing the building entirely. He wasn’t going in through the front door.

A block away, he turned down an alley and stepped into a coffee shop. It was quiet, upscale, filled with tech types having quiet meetings over overpriced espresso. He took a seat near the back, just out of direct sight of the entrance, and tapped his phone.

A few seconds later, it vibrated.

Sofia’s voice came through. "You’re early."

"You’re slow."

A soft chuckle. "I’m looking at the security feeds now. Place is wired tight. They’re not letting just anyone through."

Donald leaned back slightly, watching a barista argue with a customer about milk alternatives. "And the network?"

"Locked down. But you knew that."

"Backdoor?"

A pause. "There’s a signal coming from inside the building. Encrypted, but not corporate. Someone’s leaking data out."

Donald’s fingers tapped against the table. "You got a location?"

"Top floors. Whoever it is, they’re using a signal repeater to bounce it off nearby networks. I can piggyback if you give me a second."

"Do it."

He glanced toward the window, eyes scanning the street again. The driver was still outside, arms crossed, watching the flow of pedestrians. No movement inside the building yet.

Sofia hummed. "Got something. Internal documents. They’re running human trials. Full augmentation. They’re not just improving people, they’re replacing parts."

Donald didn’t react.

She kept going. "And they’ve already got candidates. Not volunteers."

That got a reaction. A flicker of something sharp, buried deep, under control.

Sofia’s voice was quieter. "There’s a shipment scheduled for tonight."

Donald exhaled slowly. "Where?"

She sent the location instantly. Industrial sector, a private facility with medical transport access.

"I’ll handle it," he said.

Sofia didn’t argue. "I’ll keep an eye on the data flow. If something moves, I’ll know."

Donald stood, leaving a few bills on the table before stepping out.

By the time the sun fully set, he was already on the move.

The facility was exactly what he expected—industrial on the surface, sterile underneath. Officially, it was a storage and logistics hub. Unofficially, it processed human bodies the same way it did any other product.

Donald slipped past the exterior security with no issue. The cameras weren’t a problem. The guards were predictable—rotations every fifteen minutes, half of them more concerned with their phones than the perimeter.

Inside, the air was colder. The lights were too bright, the walls too clean. A hallway stretched ahead, doors marked with sterile labels—Research Lab A, Bio-Processing, Restricted Access.

He moved without hesitation. The first guard barely had time to react before he was unconscious, slumped against the wall, his radio disabled. The second saw something flicker at the edge of his vision—too late.

Donald didn’t waste time with the minor staff. The real problem was further in.

Past the labs, past the storage rooms, past the layers of security meant to keep the truth from leaking out.

Donald stopped in front of the reinforced door. Standard high-security setup—biometric lock, multiple redundancies, no chance of entry without proper clearance. For most people, anyway.

He didn’t waste time. Turning, he walked toward the nearest emergency exit. His palm pressed against the doorframe, and green lightning flickered along the seams. The metal warped, melting into the surrounding structure before hardening like solid stone. He moved to the next one, repeating the process. Then another.

The facility was sealed.

"No exit."

Donald turned back toward the main reinforced door. He placed his palm against the locking mechanism. Electricity surged through his fingers, threading into the circuits, forcing them open. The lock disengaged. A second pulse overloaded the power grid, plunging the entire facility into darkness.

Then, he spoke.

"It’s time to hunt."

The emergency generators kicked in, red lights flickering along the halls, casting shadows that stretched unnaturally.

Somewhere deeper inside, voices rose. Confused, then panicked. The facility’s personnel weren’t trained for this kind of attack. They were scientists, technicians, researchers playing god with stolen lives. They had security, but none of them had ever dealt with someone like him.

The first guard turned a corner, flashlight sweeping the hall. His grip on the gun was too tight—nervous. "What the hell—"

Donald stepped from the dark and grabbed the man by the throat. The guard’s weapon barely raised before lightning snapped through his body, locking his muscles in place. His scream caught in his throat, cut off as Donald tossed him aside.

The others heard the impact.

A second guard stepped out of a nearby room, his gun drawn. He saw the first man twitching on the ground and hesitated. That was his mistake.

Donald didn’t slow down. He crossed the distance before the trigger could be pulled, one hand seizing the guard’s wrist while the other pressed against his chest. A pulse of green light sent him crashing backward into a steel door.

The third one tried to run.

Donald let him.

He walked at a steady pace, listening to the sound of panicked footsteps pounding against the floor. A second later, a voice echoed through the facility’s intercom.

"Intruder in the west wing! Repeat, we have—"

The intercom cut out mid-sentence.

Donald smirked. With him there, no electronic device would work against him.

He reached the next reinforced door, bypassed the lock with another pulse of lightning, and stepped inside.

Rows of medical equipment lined the walls. Not ordinary hospital gear. These were high-end augmentation units—machines designed to alter bodies at the cellular level. Some were still running, their displays flashing biometric readouts.

Along the far side of the room, containment pods stood in neat rows, filled with unconscious figures. Human test subjects.

Some were barely alive. Others weren’t so lucky.

Donald moved to the nearest console, scanning the data. Organ replacements. Neural integration. Cybernetic attachments. The reports detailed experimental phases, failure rates, tissue rejection.

They weren’t treating patients. They were running stress tests.

A sound from behind.

One of the technicians had been hiding behind a terminal, hoping to go unnoticed. Donald barely glanced at him.

"How do I shut it down?"

The man trembled. "I-I don’t—"

Donald grabbed his wrist and pressed his thumb against the technician’s pulse point. A controlled jolt sent a sharp, burning pain through his arm—enough to make his vision blur, but not enough to knock him out.

The technician gasped.

Donald repeated the question. "How do I shut it down?"

The man choked on his response. "You—y-you can’t! Not from here! The control panel is in the main lab!"

Donald let go. The technician collapsed, clutching his arm.

He turned back to the console. It was still running, the display scrolling through live data. He scanned the names attached to the experiments. Some had identification numbers, others were listed under aliases. None of them were here by choice.

He placed a hand against the screen. Electricity crawled through the circuits, corrupting the database, wiping every file.

The machines flickered and died.

The lights above dimmed, then brightened again as backup systems tried to compensate. Donald ignored them, already moving toward the next room.

The system shut down. The hum of machines cut off, the biometric scanners flickered dead, and the reinforced security doors were now useless slabs of metal. Donald turned away from the console, ready to finish what he started—

Then he saw the kid.

A boy, maybe seven. His body was wrecked—cybernetic legs, replaced organs, one mechanical eye glowing faintly in the dim emergency lighting. He was unconscious in the pod, strapped in like an experiment in progress.

Donald’s grip tightened.

A gunshot rang out.

Then another.

The guards had regrouped down the hall. They were scared, but they weren’t backing down.

Donald exhaled, stepping forward, his fingers crackling with green lightning. "I made a mistake," he said, his voice carrying over the sound of approaching boots. "I let you think I was Thor."

The first guard rounded the corner, rifle raised—too slow.

A bolt of lightning speared through the air, striking him in the chest. The force sent him flying backward, his body slamming into the reinforced glass of a containment pod. It shattered on impact, sparks dancing across his armor as his corpse twitched.

The second guard fired.

Donald was already moving. He sidestepped the shot, the bullet sizzling past his shoulder, and closed the distance before the man could fire again. His hand snapped forward, grabbing the rifle’s barrel—electricity surged through the weapon, frying its circuits instantly.

The guard barely had time to react before Donald drove his fist into his stomach. The impact lifted the man off his feet, sending him crashing into the opposite wall.

Another gunshot.

Donald ducked, twisting as the bullet clipped the edge of his coat. He raised his hand, and the overhead lights exploded, plunging the hallway into flashing emergency red. Shadows stretched across the walls as his lightning flickered through the dark.

The remaining guards hesitated.

That was enough.

Donald moved.

A flash of green, then another body hit the ground, convulsing from the surge of energy ripping through his nervous system. The next one barely had time to scream before Donald’s foot connected with his knee, shattering it sideways. The guard collapsed, and Donald finished him with a palm against his chest—one last pulse of lightning to stop his heart.

The final man turned to run.

Donald flicked his wrist. A thin arc of electricity snapped forward, striking the back of the man’s skull. His body seized up before collapsing face-first onto the floor.

Silence.

Donald straightened, glancing back at the containment pod. The kid hadn’t moved.

He stepped forward, placing a hand against the pod’s locking mechanism. The glass hissed as it depressurized, the straps around the kid releasing.

The boy stirred slightly, his mechanical eye flickering weakly. He didn’t wake up.

Donald’s jaw tensed.

A sound behind him.

He turned.

A new group of figures had entered the room. Not guards—doctors, technicians. They were unarmed, trembling, backing away toward the emergency exit.

Donald said nothing.

The emergency lights flickered again. The air smelled of ozone and burnt circuits.

One of the scientists raised his hands. "Please—"

Donald lifted his fingers.

Lightning surged.

The room erupted in screams.

The facility burned.

Donald stepped toward the containment pod, scanning the boy’s condition. His breathing was shallow, mechanical eye flickering weakly. The cybernetic parts were crude—integrated forcibly, muscles and nerves barely adjusting to the foreign tech. The organic parts of him were failing. Whatever they had done to him, it wasn’t meant to last.

Donald clenched his fist, then exhaled.

His green Lightning Flames flared at his fingertips before surging into the boy’s body. Not electricity—something deeper. A force that hardened what was natural and left everything else brittle. The original cells strengthened, while the unnatural implants turned fragile in comparison.

The boy twitched.

Donald placed a hand on his chest, steadying him. "Sorry. This is going to hurt."

The flames surged again, burning through the foreign elements—not just metal, but everything that didn’t belong. Modified cells, implanted tissue, artificial enhancements meant to force an unnatural evolution. All of it was stripped away, erased at a fundamental level. The cybernetic legs cracked, the mechanical eye dimmed, the forced augmentation collapsed.

The boy convulsed, gasping as the corrupted parts of his body died.

Donald didn’t stop.

His Lightning Flames stabilized the remaining organic tissue, reinforcing the parts that were still his own. The boy’s heartbeat steadied, his breathing evened out. The damage was done, but he would live.

Donald pulled back his flames, letting the last remnants settle into the kid’s system. The artificial elements were gone. He was left with what he should have been.

Donald checked the kid’s pulse again. Steady. Better than before. He moved on.

The other containment pods held more bodies—some still breathing, some already past the point of saving. He unstrapped the ones that could be moved, letting them slump forward, their bodies weak but alive.

A few were barely conscious, their eyes fluttering open at the sudden lack of machinery keeping them under. One of them, a woman in her twenties, coughed weakly. Donald crouched beside her, fingers pressing lightly against her wrist to check circulation. "You hear me?"

She blinked sluggishly. Her throat moved like she wanted to speak, but nothing came out. Whatever drugs they had pumped into her system were still wearing off.

Donald stood, reaching for his comms. "Snape. I need you to Apperate to me. A lot of people need medical attention." He glanced at the boy again. "You can regrow limbs, right?"

Silence. Then a familiar, dry voice cut through the line. "What in Merlin’s name have you dragged me into?"

Donald stepped past another pod, nudging open a cabinet filled with unused syringes. "Something ugly."

The air shifted behind him. A faint rush, the distinct sound of displaced space. Snape was already pulling out his wand before he had fully appeared, his gaze sweeping the room with the practiced sharpness of a man who had seen too many bodies in his life.

He didn’t waste time with questions. His fingers barely twitched, and the first wave of healing spells settled over the room, stabilizing heartbeats, forcing broken bones to knit back together.

Donald watched him work. "Regrowing’s possible?"

Snape didn’t look up. "It depends on the damage. I can restore what was once there, but if something unnatural was integrated—" He gestured vaguely at one of the men strapped to the far wall, his arms replaced with mechanical augments. "—then there are complications."

Donald exhaled. "Just do what you can."

The lights flickered. Somewhere deep in the facility, alarms finally started blaring—someone on the outside realizing that nothing inside was responding anymore.

Snape glanced toward the ceiling. "We have limited time."

Donald turned toward the exit. "I don’t need much."

He left Snape with the survivors, moving back down the hall, stepping over bodies that hadn’t been lucky enough to die clean. The ones still breathing weren’t a concern.

He reached the main security hub, where half a dozen terminals had been wiped clean the second he overloaded the system. It didn’t matter—he had already taken what he needed.

A few taps on the console, and the building’s remaining security feed flickered back on. The outer perimeter was swarming now—guards moving into formation, rifles up, a few armored vehicles blocking off the access roads.

Standard corporate response. Lock it down, contain it, bury the evidence.

Donald rolled his shoulders. "Alright."

He stepped outside.

The air was thick with tension the second he was in the open. Half a dozen spotlights snapped onto him at once, cutting through the night. More than twenty men were already positioned, their weapons aimed, waiting for the order to fire.

One of them stepped forward, some corporate officer who thought he was in control. "On your knees. Hands behind your head."

Donald raised a hand. Green lightning crackled at his fingertips.

"Last warning," the officer barked.

Donald closed his fist.

The first bolt hit one of the armored cars, frying the engine block in a single strike. The second jumped between the guards closest to the entrance, their bodies convulsing before they collapsed, smoke rising from their armor.

Then he moved.

By the time the rest of them fired, he wasn’t there. Lightning flickered through the field, shadows twisting between the flashes of green. Rifles jammed, circuits burned, limbs locked in place as muscles seized from the raw voltage surging through their bodies.

One of the guards tried to run. Donald let him make it three steps before sending a thin bolt straight through his knee. He hit the ground with a scream, clutching at the ruined joint.

The others didn’t last much longer.

When the last man fell, Donald stepped past them, barely sparing a glance at the ones still twitching.

Behind him, the building stood silent. The lab was done. The experiments were over.

---

Diego walked through the streets of the Democratic Republic of the Congo.

The city had the usual noise—market vendors calling out prices, motorcycles weaving through traffic, the occasional burst of laughter from a nearby bar. A normal day, on the surface. But there was something underneath it. A tension that settled into the cracks of the streets, the kind that came from people who had learned to keep their heads down.

A few miles outside the city, the real problem waited.

Diego moved like he belonged, blending into the flow of people. His worn jacket helped—plain, nothing flashy. The kind of thing that didn’t make people look twice. He stopped at a stall, buying a bottle of water with a few crumpled bills. The vendor didn’t say much, just took the money and gave a nod.

He kept walking.

Past the markets, past the newer buildings where foreign companies set up offices, past the streets where expensive cars crawled through traffic while kids with empty stomachs watched from the sidewalks.

Closer to the edge, where the city bled into something rougher.

This was where people disappeared.

The last time he had been here, the situation had been different. Then, it had been the usual mix of warlords, corrupt officials, and foreign interests carving out their pieces of the country. Now, it was worse. Someone had gotten organized. The private military base he was looking for wasn’t just some warlord’s playground. It was business.

Children taken from their villages. Forced to work in mines, breaking their bodies for minerals that would be shipped off to other parts of the world. The ones that weren’t strong enough to work? They had other uses for them.

Diego took another sip of water, eyes scanning the street ahead.

The bar he was looking for wasn’t anything special. A two-story concrete building with faded paint and a few motorcycles parked outside. The kind of place where deals were made over cheap whiskey, and the wrong questions could get a knife in your ribs.

He stepped inside.

The air was thick with sweat, alcohol, and cigarette smoke. A TV mounted in the corner played an old football match. A few men sat at the bar, drinking quietly. Others were at the tables, speaking in low voices.

In the back, a man in military fatigues leaned against the wall, a rifle slung over his shoulder. Not a soldier. Not officially, at least. His boots were too clean for someone who actually fought.

Diego walked to the bar, setting down some money. "Whiskey."

The bartender poured without a word.

He took the glass, not drinking yet. His attention was on the conversation at the far table. Three men. One of them had a satellite phone resting on the table beside his drink. Another had the build of someone who spent more time making people afraid than actually fighting. The third, the one speaking, had the arrogance of someone who thought he couldn’t be touched.

Diego sipped his drink, listening.

"...shipments have been delayed," the first man was saying. "Security’s getting tighter. We had to reroute through the southern border."

The second man frowned. "That’s a problem."

"We handled it. The money’s still moving."

Diego glanced at the bartender. "Who’s the guy talking?"

The bartender hesitated, then shrugged. "Boss for some people. Middleman for others."

Diego set more money on the counter. "And the third?"

The bartender pocketed the cash. "Foreign investor. Don’t know his name. He’s been here a few weeks. Meeting with the big players."

Diego leaned back slightly, watching the man with the satellite phone. A foreigner, meeting with the kind of people who ran things from the shadows.

He’d seen enough of these types. Corporate money flowing into places it shouldn’t be, keeping things just stable enough to function while making sure the suffering never actually stopped.

The conversation at the table shifted.

"The new shipments leave tomorrow night," the middleman said. "We’ve already arranged the transport."

The second man nodded. "And the others?"

The other man replied without looking up from his drink. “Girls are already shipped to the island. We’ll be paid soon.”

Diego’s fingers curled around his glass.

The bartender poured him another shot.

The man at the table kept talking, discussing numbers like he was going over inventory.

“The ones who didn’t make the cut?”

“Disposed of. No need to carry dead weight.”

Diego finished his drink and set the glass down carefully.

The military guy near the back was watching now, hand resting near his rifle. Diego barely glanced at him.

The three at the table moved on to other topics—transports, funding, the usual logistics of running a well-oiled nightmare. The one with the satellite phone checked his messages and nodded.

“Final security check tonight. Boss wants everything locked down before departure.”

“Numbers?”

“Eighty men, full loadout. Anti-air, heavy weapons, two choppers. If someone tries to hit us, they won’t live long enough to regret it.”

Diego exhaled through his nose.

The bartender eyed him. “You need another?”

Diego shook his head. He stood, stretching slightly, adjusting his sleeves. “Nah. I’m good.”

The men at the table didn’t even glance at him as he walked past.

The guy with the rifle did.

Diego caught his eye and smiled.

Then he left.

The private military base was deep in the jungle, walled off from the outside world. Guard towers, electrified fences, patrols sweeping the perimeter in tight, disciplined formations. Trucks moved in and out, bringing supplies, moving cargo.

Nothing about it was sloppy. These weren’t just mercenaries running security for some warlord. This was structure. Trained professionals.

Diego watched from the trees, perched on a thick branch, chewing a piece of dried fruit.

“Eighty men, huh?” he muttered to himself.

He flicked the stem away and rolled his shoulders.

Below, a patrol passed. Two guards, well-equipped, moving in sync. Diego barely shifted, letting them pass before dropping silently to the ground.

His flames flickered at his fingertips—red, barely visible in the night.

The first man had a cigarette in his mouth, talking about some girl he met last week.

The second nodded, half-listening.

Neither saw him.

Diego walked between them.

The moment his flames touched their uniforms, they didn’t even have time to scream.

They dissolved, their bodies crumbling into fine dust that scattered with the night breeze.

Their rifles hit the ground a second later.

Diego kept moving.

Inside the base, the holding area was exactly what he expected. Rows of cages, each one filled with stolen lives.

Most of the people inside were silent. Some were unconscious. Others stared blankly, their minds already somewhere else.

A few looked up when the first screams echoed from the outer perimeter.

The guards turned toward the noise, fingers twitching near their weapons.

Diego stepped out of the shadows.

The first guard barely registered him before his face was gone.

Not burned. Not melted. Just… gone.

The second went for his gun. Diego reached him before the trigger could be pulled, pressing a single burning hand against his chest.

He crumbled into nothing.

The third guard ran.

Diego let him.

He turned toward the cages.

A few of the captives had backed up against the bars, eyes darting between him and the bodies that weren’t bodies anymore.

Diego tilted his head. “Any of you got a key?”

Silence.

Then, a shaking hand pointed toward a dead man’s belt.

Diego laughed, tossing the key ring into the air before catching it again. "Well, I don’t really need them."

He flexed his fingers, and red flames flickered to life, curling lazily around his palm. The cages rattled as the heat warped the metal, bars melting away like wax.

"Sorry, I can be such a… what’s the phrase? Ah, right—head in the clouds sometimes." He turned to the children huddled together, winking. "Do you guys even know English phrases? Probably not."

A few of them stared in silent confusion.

Diego made a ridiculous face, puffing out his cheeks and crossing his eyes. "I be silly a lot. Haha."

One of the younger kids let out a nervous giggle. The older ones weren’t convinced.

The last of the cages burned open, embers floating into the humid night air. Diego dusted off his hands, turning back to the group.

"I’d say run, but let’s be real—you’d just get caught again, and your fate would be either the same or worse." He rocked back on his heels. "So, what to do with you?"

Silence.

A few of the older captives glanced at each other. They weren’t dumb. Whatever this guy was, he wasn’t normal. He had just erased their captors without effort and burned through metal like it was nothing. But now, he was standing there like they were a bunch of stray puppies he had to figure out what to do with.

A man with sunken eyes and a bruised face stepped forward hesitantly. "We… we can get back to our villages."

Diego gave him a look. "Can you?"

The man swallowed. He knew the answer. The ones who had taken them weren’t just some random gang. They had reach, power. Even if they made it back, they’d be hunted down and dragged right back into chains.

Diego sighed. "Yeah. Thought so."

He glanced up at the night sky, rubbing his chin. He could kill every last one of the bastards who ran this place, but that wouldn’t change the fact that more would come. Always more.

The sound of distant gunfire crackled through the trees.

Someone else was handling the rest of the base. Not his problem.

One of the kids, a girl no older than ten, tugged at his sleeve. "Mister, are you a ghost?"

Diego blinked, looking down at her.

She stared up at him with wide, tired eyes. "Mama used to say ghosts come when people do bad things."

He crouched to her level, resting his arms on his knees. "Huh. That so?"

She nodded. "Are you gonna take them away?"

Diego grinned. "Something like that."

A few of the others watched him more closely now, uncertainty shifting toward something else. Hope? Maybe. He wasn’t sure.

He stood, stretching his arms over his head. "Alright, change of plans. You’re not going back home."

One of the older men frowned. "Then where—"

"You’ll know when we get there." Diego cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Just know that no one’s laying a finger on you again."

He rolled his shoulders, flames sparking around his fingertips.

"Now, let’s burn this place to the ground."

The captives hesitated.

Then, as the first building erupted into fire behind him, they started to move.

---

Sofia sat in a small café in Geneva, lazily swirling a spoon through a dish of meringue with double cream, a local specialty. It was indulgent, but she figured she earned it. A laptop sat open in front of her, but she wasn’t staring at the screen. Not at the moment. Instead, she enjoyed the view—cobbled streets, historic architecture, people going about their evening without realizing the depths of corruption swirling beneath their city.

Her phone buzzed. She put the spoon in her mouth, glanced down, and swiped to answer.

Donald’s voice came through. “I did my part.”

She chuckled, licking some cream from her lip. “Even if you become a god, you need me for tech support.”

Donald didn’t argue. “You get my files?”

“I get everything.” Sofia tapped a few keys, skimming through the latest data breach she had executed. She had dumped half of it onto backup servers, the other half still streaming into a hidden network she had prepped earlier. “Shame you broke everything. Had to reconstruct some of the logs.”

“They were committing war crimes in a basement.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She sipped her coffee, letting the bitterness settle on her tongue. “Got anything else for me?”

“I sent the shipping manifests. Your end should have the payment trails.”

Sofia flicked through her files, her screen lighting up with offshore accounts, corporate shell companies, and money transfers wrapped in layers of bureaucratic bullshit. The numbers told a clear enough story.

Trafficking. Exploitation. Laundering.

Nothing new. Just the usual crowd of billionaires, royal degenerates, and state-funded sociopaths pretending they weren’t all in the same bed together.

She took another bite of her dessert, barely paying attention to the taste now. “They’re getting lazy.”

Donald hummed. “How so?”

Sofia flipped a tab on her screen, pulling up a list of transactions connected to Geneva’s biggest private banks. “They didn’t even bother hiding the transfers properly. Money’s bouncing between the same three banks before getting moved offshore.” She clicked through the files. “Your guys in California are using the exact same funnel.”

“So they’re connected.”

“Oh, everything is connected.” She highlighted a particular transfer from Geneva to the Bahamas. A significant sum, marked under the vague cover of consulting fees. She leaned back, twirling the spoon in her fingers.

“Guess who got a deposit three days before your lab started their latest batch of ‘volunteers.’”

Donald was quiet. Then: “Tell me.”

Sofia smirked. “Price Andy.”

A pause. Then Donald exhaled. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

“I wish.” She tapped another key, letting the system cross-reference names. “Want the real kicker? He’s been meeting with one of Nigel’s guys. Some MI6 has-been turned private operator. That trail leads right back to your Silicon Valley clowns.”

Donald muttered something under his breath.

Sofia stretched her arms over her head, lazily clicking through more files. “So, your billionaires, my bankers, Nigel’s spies, Diego’s warlords… All on the same payroll.”

Donald clicked his tongue. "How about Anthony and Maria?"

Sofia snorted, swirling her spoon in the last bit of her dessert. "Most of the kids kidnapped in Diego’s area and Asia? Shipped to South America first, where Anthony is, then filtered and sent to the island. The ones with good genes or ‘potential’ get rerouted. Either to your lab or the one in Moscow." She tapped her screen. "Maria should be hitting them right now."

Donald muttered some curses under his breath, then sighed. "You didn’t have to go all the way there. You could’ve done this from the base."

Sofia rolled her eyes. "I earned a travel too, alright? I wanted to visit a foreign country with Boss’ money."

Donald grumbled something about priorities, but Sofia wasn’t listening. She took another sip of her coffee, tapping through more encrypted files. The system had practically unspooled itself for her—arrogance made people sloppy, and Geneva’s banking elites weren’t exactly subtle.

She had names now.

Transfers.

Private accounts shielded by layers of legal bullshit.

And behind it all, a familiar pattern of meetings, favors, and quiet handshakes.

A couple of these bank CEOs had attended certain private retreats. Islands with no official records, but plenty of whispers. The same circles, the same families, the same smiling faces shaking hands in public while gutting the world behind closed doors.

Sofia leaned back, stretching. "So many rich old men laundering money through fake charities. You’d think at least one of them would have a little creativity."

Donald exhaled. "Who’s the biggest name on the list?"

Sofia scrolled. "Billy Gaggs’s got his hands deep in this, obviously."

Donald let out a humorless laugh. "Shocker."

"But it’s bigger than that." She clicked open a different set of files. "These aren't just isolated transactions. This is a full-blown pipeline. You got people funding Diego’s warlords, while the same funds cycle back through NGOs pretending to 'rebuild' what they helped burn down. The same investors dumping cash into your California freak show are signing off on new 'education grants' for kids who don’t actually exist."

Donald was quiet.

Sofia continued. "One of the big private equity groups handling these payments? Just so happened to be founded by a certain family that used to own entire shipping routes in the 1800s." She swirled the last bit of her coffee. "Generational business. Gotta respect the commitment to tradition."

Donald sighed. "And Nero?"

Sofia smirked. "If I had to guess?" She leaned back, glancing toward the city skyline. "He’s in a room full of names you’d recognize. The ones who pretend they don’t know each other, but all took the same private jet to a certain island at some point. The real owners of the world."

She checked her watch.

"They probably just finished shaking his hand, thinking they can do business with him."

A slow grin spread across her face.

"They don’t realize they’re already ruined."

Sofia ended the call and stretched, cracking her neck as she pushed away from the café table. The dessert was gone, her coffee half-empty, the screen of her laptop still glowing with the sheer weight of the data she had just pulled.

The financial web was endless—offshore accounts layered under more shell companies, payments bouncing through different legal jurisdictions, digital breadcrumbs scattered just enough to keep investigators in circles. It was old money trickery, perfected by generations of bastards who thought themselves untouchable.

She tapped a key, sending another packet of information to a private server. A failsafe, in case things went sideways.

The transaction logs were the most damning part. Bank executives smiling in press releases while their institutions funneled billions into warzones, into labs experimenting on unwilling subjects, into facilities treating human lives as raw material for whatever the highest bidder wanted.

She had enough to burn the whole system down if she wanted.

Not yet.

Sofia took another sip of coffee, scrolling through the last few files. Most of the big players had overlapping trails, their names connected in ways they’d deny in public while shaking hands in private.

She skimmed past the usual suspects—energy moguls, arms dealers, pharmaceutical giants. Then her eyes flicked over the more interesting ones.

Shitstein Island.

Her lips twitched. Of course.

They had all been there. The usual parade of politicians, corporate heads, fake philanthropists—men who thought their money meant the world belonged to them. The same ones pretending to be disgusted when the truth leaked, despite being on the flight logs.

Sofia glanced out the café window. Geneva’s streets stretched before her, clean, orderly, its people moving through their routines, unaware that the city housed some of the filthiest secrets on the planet.

She looked back at her laptop. One of the transaction records caught her attention—one of the oldest ones, buried under layers of outdated encryption.

The amount was massive. Transferred decades ago.

Destination: A private account linked to the Royal Family.

Sofia let out a low whistle. "Price Andy, you absolute cockroach."

Even after getting publicly torched, his name still ran deep in the system. The others had just been better at covering for him, shifting his assets, laundering his reputation along with the money.

She clicked through the connections.

Geneva funneled the cash. London kept the political cover. South America handled the human inventory. California ran the research. Moscow worked the psychic experiments. Africa kept the warlords stocked.

And above it all, pulling the strings? The same group that had been running things for centuries.

Sofia leaned back, exhaling through her nose. No wonder Nero wanted in on this personally.

She shut the laptop and grabbed her bag. Time to move.

---

 Anthony stood at the edge of the dock, the salt air thick with the stench of diesel and sweat.

The ship in front of him wasn’t anything special—an old freighter, rusted in places, the kind of vessel that could disappear in international waters without a second thought. Cargo containers lined the deck, each one indistinguishable from the next. Some held supplies, others held people.

The men working the ship moved with the ease of routine. They weren’t thinking about their cargo. They weren’t thinking about the lives crammed inside the dark metal boxes, suffocating, waiting to be sold. They were thinking about the payday at the end of the route.

Anthony rolled his shoulders.

Two of them stood near the gangplank, smoking. A conversation drifted over the sound of the waves.

“Boss says we move at midnight.”

“Thought we had another day.”

“Nah. Some of the boys are spooked. Think someone’s onto us.”

Anthony let them finish their cigarettes. Then he stepped forward.

They barely had time to turn.

His fist met the first man’s throat. A single, sharp strike. No wasted movement. The second man dropped his cigarette, reaching for a gun. Anthony didn’t give him the chance. His palm met the side of the man’s head, twisting it at the wrong angle.

The bodies hit the ground in near silence.

Anthony exhaled, stepping over them.

The deck was still busy, men moving containers, securing straps, checking paperwork that meant nothing. He walked through them like he belonged. No one questioned him. Not yet.

A dockworker passed by, glancing his way. “Hey—”

Anthony grabbed the man’s shirt and pulled him in close. “Where’s the cargo?”

The man barely had time to process before Anthony’s fingers tightened around his collar, the heat bleeding through the fabric. His breath hitched as the temperature spiked, the edges of his shirt beginning to smolder.

“The hell—”

Anthony didn’t ask again.

“Hold—hold on! Below deck—container C-seventeen!”

Anthony released him. The man staggered, panting, fingers brushing the burned edges of his shirt.

“Die!” Anthony said.

The man fell.

Anthony moved toward the cargo hold.

The lower levels of the ship were worse. The air was thick, humid, layered with something sour. He reached the container, pressing his palm against the cold metal. The heat surged for a moment before the lock gave way, snapping open.

Inside, nearly fifty people huddled together, blinking against the sudden light. Some flinched back. Others barely reacted. They had been in there too long.

Anthony stepped inside. “You can walk?”

No one spoke. A woman near the front nodded.

“Then move.”

They hesitated.

Anthony turned slightly, lifting his hand toward the opposite wall. Heat pulsed, a burst of golden fire spreading over the metal like ink. The steel groaned, warping under the heat.

The message was clear.

The first person stepped forward. Then another.

The ship’s alarms finally kicked in.

Anthony turned. The crew had noticed.

A group of men stood at the entrance of the hold, weapons raised. The one in front, some low-ranking thug with a pistol, sneered.

“The hell do you think you’re doing?”

Anthony flexed his fingers. The golden light flickered at his knuckles.

One of the crew took a step back. “Shit.”

The leader raised his gun. “I don’t know who you think you are, but you’re making a big mistake—”

Anthony flicked his wrist. The first bullet turned to scrap liquid before it left the barrel.

The second man tried to fire. He didn’t get the chance. The heat swallowed him whole, his body melting before he could scream.

The leader stumbled back, watching his crew melt in front of him. His hand shook, the pistol slipping from his grip.

Anthony stepped closer.

The man’s mouth opened, trying to say something, anything, but the words didn’t come.

Anthony didn’t waste time.

His fist connected with the man’s chest, the golden fire surging outward. Not burning. Searing. Just… melting.

The man hit the ground.

Anthony turned back to the freed captives. “Go.”

They didn’t hesitate this time.

The ship burned behind them as they left.

The next camp was deeper inland, past the river, past the tree line where even local authorities didn’t bother looking.

Anthony moved through the jungle without sound, his steps even, his breathing steady. The humidity clung to his skin, but he ignored it.

Ahead, lights flickered between the trees. The camp wasn’t large—smaller than expected—but the men inside were relaxed. They weren’t expecting trouble. No one ever came out this far unless they were part of the business.

Anthony stepped into the clearing.

A man leaning against a truck barely had time to register the movement before his body collapsed, bones crumbling into dust, skin curling from the heat.

The second guard turned, gun half-raised. Anthony caught his wrist, twisted, and sent him to the ground in one motion. A single pulse of Sun Flames, and he was gone.

No one screamed. There was no time.

Anthony walked through the camp, and one by one, the men inside were erased.

By the time he reached the storage building, the heat from his flames had already warped the nearest metal. The lock on the reinforced door melted before he even touched it.

Inside, twenty-four people. Some standing, some slumped against the walls, barely conscious. They flinched at the sudden burst of heat as the door fell.

Anthony scanned them quickly. Too many children. Too many who wouldn’t make it far on their own.

A man in the corner stirred, one of the captives who still had enough strength to move. His face was bruised, but his eyes were sharp. "Who—"

Anthony sighed, Sun Flames flaring. The captives shied away at first, flinching as the golden light washed over them. Then, the fear faded. Their hair grew, nails lengthened, strength filled their limbs, and the dull ache of hunger disappeared. Wounds closed, bruises vanished, and exhaustion melted away.

The man who had spoken earlier stared at his own hands, flexing his fingers like he couldn’t believe they still worked. “What…?”

One of the older captives, a woman with hollow eyes, swallowed hard. "Who are you?"

Anthony didn’t look at her. "The Sun."

Anthony moved through the jungle, his boots sinking slightly into damp earth. He had lost count of how many miles he had covered, how many camps had been turned to ash. Every outpost was the same—crates packed with bodies, cages full of ghosts still breathing. Some were already too broken to move, others clung to life by sheer stubbornness.

He adjusted the strap on his wrist, letting his Sun Flames flare just enough to dry the sweat sticking to his skin.

The last group had been worse than the others. Most of them had open wounds, barely patched up, ribs sticking out from starvation. Some of the kids could hardly stand even after healing. He cracked his knuckles, exhaling.

"Nero must have sent me to heal them," he muttered, kicking a loose rock off the dirt path. "Almost all captives are injured. Human life shouldn’t be this cheap."

---

Maria pulled her scarf tighter as the Moscow cold bit at her skin. Snow clung to the city’s edges, piled in uneven heaps along the streets, half-melted where the heat of passing cars had touched it. The sky was a deep gray, heavy with the weight of an oncoming storm, but she paid it no mind.

She moved through the streets without drawing attention, her coat blending in with the hundreds of others rushing to escape the cold. The underground facility wasn’t far. It was just hidden enough to avoid casual discovery, but not so deep that those running it feared exposure. They thought their ties to the right people made them untouchable.

They were wrong.

She reached an old apartment block, the kind that had stood through the fall of the Soviet Union and every government shake-up since. On the surface, it was nothing special—peeling paint, cracked windows, the smell of damp concrete hanging in the air. But below it, beneath layers of bureaucracy and forged records, was something else entirely.

She walked past the entrance, ignoring the rusting metal door, and turned into a side alley. A single security camera hung from the corner of the building, its lens sweeping lazily over the alleyway. It never saw her. A faint wisp of Mist Flames flickered at her fingertips, and the feed looped—ten seconds of an empty street, over and over.

She stepped toward the service entrance. A keypad blinked red beside the door, waiting for an access code.

She didn’t bother with codes.

Her fingers brushed the metal, and for a moment, the lock flickered—unsure of what was real and what wasn’t. Then, with a quiet click, the door unlatched.

Inside, the facility stretched downward, far below the surface of the city. She moved through the corridors unnoticed, Mist curling around her like a second skin, turning her into a shadow that didn’t belong.

The first sign of life came two floors down.

A scientist in a white coat, eyes bloodshot from too many hours spent staring at monitors. He stepped out of a security room, adjusting his ID badge as he muttered to himself in Russian. She let him pass. No need to waste time on small obstacles.

The real problem was ahead.

A heavy steel door marked with symbols she recognized. Psychic suppression, meant to contain whatever was inside.

She pressed a hand against it, letting the Mist slip through the cracks, feeling for the structure beneath. The locks were simple. The barriers, less so. This wasn’t just physical security—it was layered with something deeper, something designed to keep anyone inside from resisting.

She didn’t need to break the door. She just needed to make it forget it was locked.

A shift, a flicker—then the bolt slid open.

The room beyond was dim, lined with reinforced glass. Inside each containment unit, a person. Some awake, some unconscious, all wearing the same blank expressions that came from too many forced experiments. Electrodes lined their temples, wires running from their bodies to machines humming quietly in the background.

Psychics.

She walked past the first glass cell. A young girl, maybe fourteen, her head tilted slightly as if listening to something no one else could hear. The next held an older man, eyes half-closed, his hands twitching at his sides, the only sign that he was still aware.

They weren’t prisoners. They were test subjects.

She stopped at the control panel, fingers dancing over the keys. The data was a mess of numbers, brain scans, readings she didn’t need to understand to know what they meant.

They were trying to force evolution.

A chair in the center of the room still held its last occupant. The straps were undone, but the blood was fresh. Whoever had been in it last hadn’t been moved far.

She exhaled through her nose, tilting her head slightly. This wasn’t a matter of shutting down a lab. It was a matter of making sure no one ever tried again.

She placed a hand on the console. The screens flickered, the security feed looping back on itself just like the camera outside.

Then, the illusions began.

She didn’t make the facility disappear. That would be too obvious. Instead, she made it ordinary. The containment cells filled with empty chairs. The computers scrolled through harmless data—weather reports, supply orders, the kind of paperwork that wouldn’t raise suspicion. The security systems reported nothing unusual.

If anyone looked inside, they would see a quiet, unused section of the building, waiting for its next assignment.

And when the Russian government eventually sent someone down here? When the next shift arrived?

That’s when they would see the bodies.

Not fresh. Not new. But weeks old. As if they had been dead long before anyone thought to check. As if the experiments had failed, and the facility had been abandoned.

There would be no cover-up. No frantic attempt to scrub records or shift blame. Just another failed project, buried beneath bureaucracy and bad luck.

The people in the cells wouldn’t be here when that happened.

She turned toward them, the illusion settling into place around her. "Time to go."

Some hesitated. The ones still half-lost to whatever they had been forced through. Others understood immediately.

She stepped aside as the first of them moved toward the door.

The girl with the electrodes paused beside her, watching her with wide, unblinking eyes. "What did you do?"

Maria smiled slightly. "Made sure no one comes looking for you."

The girl didn’t question it.

One by one, they slipped past her, leaving behind only empty rooms, silent machines, and a lie so perfect it would hold until it was too late to matter.

By the time the Russian government realized something was wrong, there would be nothing left to find.

---

Nero stepped onto the island without a sound.

The sea stretched out behind him, dark and endless. The air was thick with salt and the false security of men who thought they were untouchable. The private dock was silent, the usual guards nowhere to be seen. They were there—scattered across the estate, walking their patrols, speaking into earpieces linked to security systems that didn’t matter.

The real defenses weren’t walls or guns.

It was power. The kind that didn’t need fences, because the people here believed in something stronger: money, influence, blackmail. They didn’t worry about intruders. They worried about exposure.

Which was exactly why Nero was here.

He moved through the trees, slipping past the private security teams that had been trained to stop the kind of threats they understood. He wasn’t one of them. The cameras didn’t see him, the sensors didn’t register his presence. He wasn’t hiding from their systems—he simply wasn’t there.

The estate came into view, sitting on the highest point of the island. Lights glowed against the night sky, warm and inviting. Inside, the most powerful men in the world were gathered.

Not politicians—puppets. Not CEOs—managers. The real decision-makers didn’t bother with titles. They sat in the dark, deciding wars, economies, the fates of people they had never met.

This wasn’t their first meeting.

But it would be the one they never forgot.

Inside, the gathering was in full swing.

Crystal glasses clinked. Conversations were low, confident. Men in tailored suits and women draped in wealth spoke in quiet tones, discussing numbers that decided the lives of millions.

Price Andy sat near the center, his movements carefully rehearsed. A man who had spent a lifetime pretending he was important, while others cleaned up his messes. He sipped from his drink, trying to look relaxed.

Billy Gaggs was further back, speaking to a cluster of men about global population solutions. He didn’t use the real words—he never did. But the meaning was clear.

Hick Clinton laughed too loudly at something, his presence tolerated but not respected. A man who had once held power, now lingering on the edges, still desperate to be relevant.

Elton Muskrat wasn’t speaking. He rarely did in meetings like this. He played the role of the eccentric, the outsider, the rebel billionaire who fought against the system—while funding half of it.

And then there were the others. The ones the public didn’t know by name, the ones who had never needed recognition because they owned everything that mattered.

The meeting hadn’t started yet. Not officially. They were still settling in, pretending this was just another gathering.

Then the lights flickered.

Conversations stilled. A few glances were exchanged, but no one spoke.

The lights steadied.

Price Andy chuckled, a forced sound. “Bloody generators.”

Gaggs smirked. “Your ancestors must be rolling in their graves, Andy. A prince relying on a backup power source? Tragic.”

Andy scowled.

Across the room, Muskrat checked his watch. “We starting, or what?”

Another flicker.

Then, the room went dark.

Not just dark—absent. The kind of blackness that didn’t come from a power outage, but from something deeper. A silence fell over them, thick and unnatural.

Then, slowly, the lights returned.

Nero was sitting in the chair at the head of the table.

None of them had seen him enter. None of them knew how long he had been there.

For the first time in their lives, they felt something close to fear.

He leaned back slightly, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair. “Good evening.”

Silence.

The security team should have been reacting. They should have been swarming in, weapons raised, demanding to know how he got in.

But no alarms had gone off. No one had called for help. The guards were still outside, unaware that anything was wrong.

Muskrat’s eyes narrowed. “Who the hell are you?”

Nero smiled. “The man who just ruined your lives.”

Gaggs let out a sharp breath through his nose. “Cute. But you’re outnumbered.”

Nero raised an eyebrow. “Am I?”

The screens mounted along the walls flickered to life.

Flight logs. Bank transfers. Signed documents. Names. Dates. Evidence so damning that even the most well-oiled machine of damage control couldn’t spin it.

Every secret they had buried was now on display.

The room went still.

Andy’s face drained of color. “This… this is fake.”

“No,” Nero said simply.

Clinton reached for his phone, hands shaking. “We can fix this—”

The phone screen turned black.

Nero’s gaze flicked toward him. “No, you can’t.”

Muskrat’s fingers twitched, barely keeping himself composed. “What do you want?”

Nero tilted his head. “What do I want?” He exhaled through his nose, amused. “You still think this is a negotiation.”

He leaned forward slightly. “You think you control the world?” His voice was calm. “You don’t even control your own fate.”

Gaggs’s jaw clenched. “You think this will change anything?”

“Yes.”

The screens flickered again. The files weren’t just here. They had already been sent—broadcasted, leaked, spread across every corner of the internet. Every journalist, every independent investigator, every person waiting for proof that the world was exactly as rotten as they feared.

By the time this meeting was over, it wouldn’t just be whispers in dark corners. It would be truth.

Andy gripped the table. “You don’t understand what you’ve done.”

“I understand perfectly.”

Gaggs stared at the screens, his expression unreadable. “So you just… what? You think people will care?”

Muskrat didn’t look nervous. None of them did, really. He leaned back in his chair, swirling the drink in his hand with the detached boredom of a man who had spent his entire life above consequences.

"People are stupid," he said, matter-of-factly. "A few will care about what you published, but soon, it will be forgotten. I’ll send another rocket to space, Gaggs will divorce his wife, Steb Javs will have cancer, and Jemm Seboz will build a clock. Narrative will shift. People will forget."

Gaggs chuckled under his breath, as if the entire situation was nothing more than an amusing inconvenience. "It’s cute that you think this changes anything."

Price Andy, pale but forcing confidence, straightened his suit. "We are inevitable."

Nero exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. "You all say the same shit. Every time." He rested his chin on one hand, looking genuinely disappointed. "It’s like none of you have an original thought left."

Muskrat smirked. "And what do you think you've done? You think a few leaked documents will scare us?"

Nero didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he raised a hand and snapped his fingers.

Outside, the world shifted.

Price Andy’s phone vibrated violently in his pocket. He hesitated before pulling it out. His blood drained the second he saw the notification.

BANK ACCOUNT: 0.00

His breath hitched. He swiped desperately, trying to access his other assets. Every account—offshore, hidden, numbered—gone.

Not transferred. Not frozen. Erased.

He wasn’t the only one.

Gaggs’ watch beeped in warning, alerting him to a sudden stock market collapse—his own holdings tanking by the second, assets being liquidated without his input. Muskrat’s smart glasses flickered with emergency notifications—his factories shut down, his supply chains cut, his companies losing billions before he could even process what was happening.

Across the room, every phone, every device, every screen blinked with the same silent truth.

Their power was vanishing.

Nero sighed, stretching his arms. "You don’t get it yet, do you?"

Clinton’s lips parted slightly, the first real sign of panic on his aging face. "You—"

"I didn’t just leak your secrets," Nero continued, his tone almost casual. "I erased you."

The words settled over them like a weight.

"You’ve spent your whole lives above the system," he said, leaning back in the chair, watching them struggle to catch up. "You never worried about elections, scandals, wars—because you controlled them. You owned the news, the banks, the judges, the politicians." He tilted his head. "But you don’t own me."

Muskrat looked so calm that it started to irritate Nero.

"Well, if you’re done, you can leave," Muskrat said, adjusting his sleeve like this was nothing more than a mild inconvenience. "To us, money in banks means nothing. They’re just numbers. But now I don’t have to pay taxes, so thanks."

A few chuckled.

Nero studied him. The arrogance, the detachment—Muskrat truly believed this wasn’t real. That whatever damage had been done could be patched up. That the system they had built would simply correct itself, like it always did. His expression was calm—too calm. It wasn’t arrogance, not quite. It was the certainty of a man who had spent his life knowing that consequences were for other people.

Nero stood there, silent.

For the first time in a long time, he didn’t know what to do.

He had expected resistance. Expected threats, arrogance, defiance—anything but this. Muskrat, Bills, the rest of the bastards seated around their lavish dining table, sipping wine and barely sparing him a glance. Everything was exposed, their crimes laid bare, and they didn’t care.

Muskrat smirked, swirling his glass. “You’re making a scene.”

Nero didn’t answer. His hands were steady, but something inside him twisted.

Muskrat leaned back, looking bored. “People will talk for a week. Maybe two. Then they’ll move on. New scandal, new distraction. Attention spans are shorter than ever.” He tapped his temple. “That’s how we designed it.”

Bills gestured vaguely. “Sure, a few of our guys will take the fall. Scapegoats, low-level nobodies. Then everything continues. Always does.”

One of the others sighed, irritated. “Honestly, you’re being exhausting.”

Nero stared at them, not even sure why he was still standing there. He had exposed them. Ruined them. They should have been groveling. Begging. Afraid.

Instead, they were… dismissive.

He turned, eyes flicking to the security detail along the walls who entered at some point. Mercenaries, well-paid and well-armed. They weren’t flinching. They weren’t even sweating. Because they knew. No matter what happened here, nothing really changed.

For a brief, dangerous moment, he considered burning everything. Every person in this room. Every structure on this island. Reduce it all to ashes, let them choke on their own arrogance before they died.

But even then… what would it change?

The thought disgusted him. Not just them—himself.

He turned on his heel, walking away.

Muskrat’s voice followed him. “Oh, taking the high road? How noble.”

Nero didn’t look back. He kept walking, fists clenched at his sides.

Nero moved, his fists clenched on his sides.

The doors exploded before he even touched them, the reinforced steel ripping from its frame, folding in on itself like crumpled paper. The guards at the entrance flinched but didn’t move, didn’t react. They weren’t afraid. They were paid well enough to pretend none of this mattered.

He hated them more for it.

The hallways were as pristine as they were sickening. Marble floors, crystal chandeliers, paintings worth millions hanging over sins worth far more. He passed door after door, some locked, some open just enough for him to see inside. Rooms designed to entertain. To imprison. To break.

The first lock melted under his hand. The door groaned, then collapsed inward, revealing a cramped space—bunk beds, stained sheets, the smell of sweat and fear. Children huddled in the corners, too tired to cry, too broken to hope.

He exhaled sharply.

“Out.” His voice wasn’t soft.

A few flinched, too used to orders coming from monsters.

One, a girl no older than eight, moved first. She was barefoot, wearing a dress too big for her, the fabric hanging loose over a body far too thin. She didn’t ask who he was. She just stepped forward, then stopped, turning to the others. “Come on.”

That was all it took.

They followed her, quiet, wary, waiting for the trick, for the punishment that always came.

There was none.

Nero turned away before they could see the expression on his face.

Another door. Another locked room. More captives—older, some barely teenagers, others just past it. Some were chained. Some weren’t. It didn’t matter. They were all prisoners.

He stepped inside.

A young man, maybe seventeen, stared at him from the farthest bed. His lip was split, bruises running down his arms, but his eyes were sharp. “You one of them?”

He sighed, "No. Move on."

The others followed.

Room after room, hall after hall. The numbers grew. Some walked with their heads down. Others clenched their fists, their rage barely contained. They didn’t look back. None of them did.

The halls widened into an open courtyard, and that was where the guards finally moved.

Nero barely glanced at them before flicking his wrist.

The air exploded.

Not fire. Not lightning. Just raw force. Invisible, unstoppable. The guards slammed into walls, their weapons shattering in their hands. One tried to raise a pistol. It melted in his grip.

None of them got back up.

Nero stepped over them without slowing down.

The group behind him did the same.

They reached the dock. Boats were waiting. Some belonged to the island’s owners, others to visitors who thought they were untouchable.

Now, they belonged to him.

The captives boarded without being told. Some took the controls, engines roaring to life. They didn’t need to be taught—some had been brought here on these very boats. They knew how to leave.

Nero stood at the edge of the dock, watching them go.

He should have felt something. Satisfaction. Relief. Rage.

Instead, he felt nothing.

Then, behind him, laughter.

Not panic. Not fear.

Laughter.

He turned.

On the balcony above, a few of them had gathered. Not guards. Not the men who had built this place. The ones who used it. The ones who sat in their meetings, drinking expensive wine and pretending they were gods.

Muskrat wasn’t there, but Price Andy was, his tie loose, his expression smug. Gaggs was beside him, scrolling on his phone, already moving on.

One of them chuckled, shaking his head. “We were getting bored of those ones anyway.”

Another waved a hand dismissively. “A new batch will arrive eventually.”

They didn’t care.

They simply didn't give a fuck. Human life... shouldn't be this cheap.

For the first time in a long time Nero was at a loss. So lost.