Two months ago…
The sky was darkening, painted in twilight purples and fading gold. Pines loomed on both sides, tall and whispering in the wind. Their boots crunched along the gravel path, the only sound for miles aside from the occasional bird taking flight.
Bob walked ahead, backpack slung over one shoulder, machete fastened to his hip. Alex followed a step behind, rubbing his arms from the chill.
"Why here?" Alex finally asked. "This deep?"
Bob didn't stop walking. "Off-grid. No signals, no traffic, no neighbors. They won't find us here."
"Cool," Alex muttered. "Love the whole serial killer vibe."
Bob smirked. "Good. Keeps you on your toes."
They reached a bend in the road, and there it was. The cabin.
It sat alone, slouched between trees, half-forgotten by time. The wood was weather-beaten, moss climbing the walls like veins. But the windows were intact. The door still on its hinges. Smoke even curled from the old chimney, Bob had lit the fireplace in advance, just in case.
Alex blinked. "Huh. It's kinda… nice."
Bob gave a small shrug. "Found it a few years ago. No records. No owner. Just the woods and this place."
They stepped inside. The wooden floors groaned under their weight. Dust danced in the firelight, the smell of old pine and soot filling the air. Two cots had already been set out. A small table. A few shelves. A rusted stove. Quiet, safe, and far from the rest of the world.
Alex dropped his bag. "This is better than every safehouse we've been to."
Bob nodded, tossing some canned beans onto the counter. "We lay low. Train. Wait for Lena to signal."
Alex sat on his cot, fiddling with a small multitool. Then, after a pause, "You ever… live somewhere like this before? Y'know before Helix point?"
Bob took a moment before answering. He stared into the fire. "I... don't remember."
…
Two months later…
TV Broadcast – Static crackles. Then, a female reporter's voice cuts in, calm but urgent.
REPORTER (V.O[1]):
"This just in. Authorities have confirmed that thirty-eight individuals, many of them confirmed high-grade meta-criminals were found dead late last night inside a hidden establishment beneath the ruins of Old District Twelve. The location, an underground bar known only by word of mouth in criminal networks, had been considered impenetrable and off-the-grid."
Cut to a grainy surveillance clip, street-level footage from a security camera. Smoke. A flicker. A silhouette walks alone through the haze. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Moving without fear.
REPORTER (V.O.):
"There were no survivors. And forensics confirm that all victims were executed with extreme precision and brutality, some appeared to be killed by their own shadows. Local enforcers are calling it a 'massacre'… and now, a chilling detail has emerged."
The screen shifts. A black-and-white still image of the figure from the footage. His face isn't fully visible, but it's enough. A red eye glows faintly through the darkness.
REPORTER (V.O.):
"Multiple sources have reviewed the footage. Analysts from the Bureau of Heroes believe this man… may be Rafael Azar. The villain known as 'The God of Wrath.'"
Cut back to the reporter in studio, her face is pale, composed, but visibly rattled.
"He was presumed dead five years ago. But if the footage is real, then Rafael Azar is alive. And he's made his return known."
She leans forward slightly.
"Everyone should stay in-doors for the time being, don't leave the house, unless it's crucial for your survival. Until this monster is caught, no one is safe."
Fade out. Static returns briefly before the screen cuts to black.
End of broadcast.
[1] Voice Over