"This just in. Another attack in Sector 3A, with reports confirming the involvement of a Vicious-infected. The death toll has reached seventeen and continues to rise."

  The broadcast flickered over the pale-blue glow of a wall-sized screen. A pristine anchorwoman sat composed behind her desk, her voice calm, unwavering—almost rehearsed.

  "Authorities believe the bck-market serum, now nicknamed Vicious, originated from a Subhuman trafficking ring operating in the ruins of Old Vareth. Citizens are advised to avoid contact with any suspected carriers and report abnormal behavior to local enforcement immediately."

  Images fshed—twisted human forms, snarling with distorted jaws and glowing red eyes. Creatures more beast than man, burning with internal rage and seething heat, tearing through steel and bone alike.

  "The Unified Government, in partnership with the Guardian League, has issued a joint statement condemning these attacks and pledging swift action. We remind our viewers: Peace is a privilege, protected by vigince."

  A subtle flicker of the screen revealed a government seal burning behind the broadcast, and just for a moment, a glimpse of a Guardian’s sigil—an angelic wing wreathed in golden fme.

  Click.

  The screen faded to bck.

  In a dim, concrete room lit only by the orange glow of a half-dead ceiling mp, a man leaned back against the wall. Shadows draped across his face like a second skin. His gaze was hollow, unreadable. The smoke from his cigarette curled in silence, as if too cautious to stir the air around him.

  Draven Veil had seen monsters.

  He had been one.

  And yet, what stared back at him from the news wasn’t a monster—it was a warning. A trigger. An excuse.

  “Vicious,” he muttered, the word ced with contempt. “They finally gave it a name.”

  Behind him, a voice rasped through the dark, mechanical and familiar.

  “New contract. Priority One. Source says the serum’s not just spreading, it's multiplying.”

  Draven didn’t turn. He didn’t need to.

  “Who’s the target?”

  A pause.

  “The syndicate pushing the first batch. Coordinates already uploaded. Orders are clear—erase them.”

  He crushed the cigarette under his boot.

  “Then let’s give them a reason to fear the real monster.”

  Draven’s boots echoed along the cracked pavement of the alleyway, each step quiet, deliberate. The city above hummed with neon and noise, but down here, shadows reigned.

  He slid a sleek, bck phone from his coat pocket and tapped the screen. A video was already pying.

  "This is an act of war!"

  The voice boomed from the tiny speaker, distorted slightly by the grit in the air.

  "How many more innocents must die before we acknowledge the truth? The Subhuman race has always been a threat. First Athis, now this. If they continue spreading that hell-born toxin, we will have no choice but to enforce another cleansing. For the safety of the people."

  The man on screen—a broad-shouldered human politician with slicked-back hair and fire in his eyes—pounded the podium as a crowd roared in support behind him. His name was irrelevant. His kind was not.

  Draven’s expression didn’t change. Not a twitch. He watched in silence until the video stuttered to its end. His thumb hovered for a second, then tapped the screen off.

  "Racist prick," he muttered under his breath.

  He was almost at the edge of the alley when a small voice halted his steps.

  “Mister… have you seen my father?”

  Draven turned his head slightly.

  A girl—no older than seven—stood under a flickering streetlight, clinging to a crumpled photograph in her tiny hands. Her eyes were swollen from crying, but her voice held firm. Desperate, but hopeful.

  She stepped forward and offered the photo.

  “This is him. He’s been gone since yesterday,” she said. “It’s just me and him at home. I don’t… I don’t know where else to go.”

  Draven crouched down slowly, taking the photo without a word. The man in it had a kind face, tired eyes, and a press badge hanging around his neck.

  “What does he do?” Draven asked, voice low.

  “He’s a journalist,” the girl answered, wiping her nose.

  He stared at the photo for a few seconds longer than usual. Then, he returned it to her.

  Draven’s face remained unreadable, but something in his eyes flickered. He forced a faint smile—awkward, restrained.

  “If I find him,” he said quietly, “I’ll let you know.”

  The girl nodded with a small, grateful smile.

  Draven rose, turned, and walked away into the dark.

  The boss stood still, his gaze unwavering, as he watched the journalist's face contort with the pain of his broken shoulder. Then, his expression shifted to something colder, more calcuting.

  “If you truly believe in your cause,” he said slowly, “if you truly wish to protect your nation...”

  He turned his back, pacing toward a shadowed corner of the room, before motioning with a hand.

  Two rge men entered, each holding a small, trembling figure. A young girl—no older than the age of his daughter—struggled in their grasp, tears streaking down her face as she looked around, panic rising.

  Her eyes locked onto her father.

  “Daddy! Please!” she cried, her voice shrill with fear. “Help me! Help me!”

  The journalist’s heart nearly stopped. His face twisted in horror, but he said nothing. He couldn’t.

  The boss turned slowly, his voice ced with venom.

  “Now tell me, Mr. Journalist—if you want to be a hero for the people, will you sacrifice your own blood for their cause?”

  He pulled something from his coat—a small vial with a syringe filled with glowing crimson liquid. The serum. Vicious.

  “This is a very potent serum,” the boss continued, his tone almost casual, “It’ll make your sweet daughter very... violent. Wild. She’ll tear anyone apart in seconds. All you need to do is say the word.”

  The girl trembled violently, her eyes filled with terror as she tried to break free, screaming for her father. “No! No, Daddy! Don’t! Please, don’t listen to him!”

  The journalist's breath quickened, his heart racing as he fought the pain in his body, the agony of watching his daughter suffer. He stared at the boss, hatred and helplessness burning in his eyes.

  “If you speak,” the boss said, stepping forward, “I’ll let her go. But if you don’t—”

  The syringe glinted under the harsh light, and the man’s grip on his daughter tightened.

  The journalist, sweat beading on his forehead, closed his eyes. Every instinct screamed to save her, to give in, but his pride, his resolve, remained unshaken.

  “Wait!...I... won’t... betray them...but, my daughter!” he hissed, his voice shaking but firm.

  Before the room could drown in the sound of tortured pleas, a loud bang shook the walls. A violent knock echoed through the steel door, reverberating like a warning shot.

  The boss turned, startled, but quickly regained composure.

  “Open it,” he commanded sharply.

  One of the henchmen rushed toward the door, unlocking the heavy, reinforced metal with trembling hands.

  As soon as the door creaked open, there was a fsh of movement—blinding, swift. The man standing at the threshold didn’t even get a chance to react.

  With a hiss of heated metal, the door itself was cleaved in two, its edges glowing molten red. The sharp sound of steel being sliced echoed through the room like thunder.

  And then, the severed head of the henchman fell to the floor, rolling like a discarded object, the blood spraying out in a crimson arc.

  The boss’s eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat. His voice shook as he gnced around, searching for the source of the attack.

  “Who... Who is—?”

  From the darkened doorway, Draven stepped forward, his silhouette tall and imposing. The shadows clung to him like a second skin, but the coldness in his eyes was unmistakable.

  “This isn’t personal,” Draven said, his voice low, like the growl of a distant storm. “I’m just here to work.”

  He walked slowly into the room, his every movement calcuted, as if he were simply passing through another task in his daily routine.

  The boss’s face went pale. He took a step back, raising his hands in a defensive gesture, though he knew it would be useless.

  “You...” he stammered. “You’re a Velmire Thorns...”

  Draven didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

  With a quick motion, he unsheathed his weapon, a sleek, bck bde, its edge shimmering coldly under the flickering light.

  The room was now filled with a heavy, suffocating silence.

  The journalist’s daughter, still restrained by the aluminum foil, looked up at Draven with wide, fearful eyes.

  “Daddy...” she whimpered.

  The room erupted into chaos as the henchmen scrambled to grab their weapons, reaching for the rifles stored nearby. They were no match for someone like Draven, but the desperation in their eyes was clear.

  In an instant, Draven moved like a blur—his sword slicing through the air. The sound of steel cutting through flesh and bone filled the room as he cleaved through their legs with calcuted precision. One by one, their knees buckled, their screams muffled by the shock of pain.

  Yet, just as he was about to advance, he felt it—a sudden, suffocating pressure.

  Albert, the Humangel, stood at the far end of the room, his eyes glowing with power. With a flick of his wrist, the aluminum foil in the room came alive again, wrapping around Draven's body in a cold, suffocating cocoon.

  Draven's muscles strained against the metal, but it was no use. The foil tightened, cutting off his movement. He gred at Albert, his breath shallow but steady.

  “Oh, you’re a Humangel,” Draven murmured, his voice dripping with disdain.

  Albert smirked, the corners of his mouth curling arrogantly as he stepped closer.

  “Yes, and you’re nothing more than a Subhuman.” His tone was full of superiority, every word ced with venom. “You don’t belong here. I’ll enjoy putting you in your pce.”

  He took slow, deliberate steps toward Draven, eyes burning with contempt.

  Draven remained still, as if defeated. But beneath the calm exterior, something shifted. His body began to heat up, his internal temperature rising like a furnace. The pressure of the aluminum foil was oppressive, but it wasn’t enough to hold him back. Not for long.

  With a sudden, explosive release, Draven unleashed the full force of his internal heat. The foil began to melt under the intense heat radiating from his body, the once-sturdy metal warping and softening as the air around them shimmered.

  Albert's eyes widened, his arrogance faltering for just a second, but it was enough.

  Draven moved faster than Albert could react. With a swift ssh, his bde sliced through the air, severing Albert’s head from his body. The Humangel’s body crumpled to the floor, the faint glow in his eyes fading as his head rolled to a stop, a look of disbelief frozen on his face.

  Draven stood over the lifeless body, his chest heaving as the heat from his body slowly subsided.

  But just as the room fell into silence, a chilling sound broke through—a soft click, followed by the sharp hiss of a syringe being emptied.

  Draven turned his head sharply.

  At the far end of the room, the boss, now trembling like a leaf in the wind, stood beside the girl—his hand still pressed against her arm. The empty vial of Vicious serum slipped from his fingers and cttered to the floor.

  The little girl’s body convulsed, her eyes going wide with panic and confusion. She let out a small cry—frightened, pained—as bck veins began to spread across her skin. Her breathing grew ragged, her pupils diting unnaturally.

  The boss stumbled backward, sheer terror overtaking him. “I didn’t mean— I just—!” he whimpered.

  But before he could escape, a sudden blur of heat and light pierced through his chest. A sizzling bde, still glowing from residual heat, jutted out from his back. His breath caught, mouth agape in a final silent scream.

  Draven stood behind him, expression cold and unfeeling.

  “Such an ugly bastard,” he muttered ftly.

  He let the body drop like waste.

  But there was no time to waste—Draven turned to face the girl, whose transformation had already begun. Her skin darkened, her limbs twisting, voice turning to a guttural snarl. Her father, still tied down, looked on in horror.

  “No... not her...” the journalist sobbed. “Please, let it be me. Let her kill me if she must... I failed her... I—!”

  Before the beast that had once been his daughter could lunge, Draven moved.

  In the blink of an eye, he was between them, sliding across the ground. His bde struck—not to kill, but to knock the creature back just enough to prevent bloodshed.

  He pivoted, shifting the girl’s momentum with surgical precision, sending her crashing into a stack of steel crates. The impact was hard, but controlled.

  “Get a hold of yourself,” Draven growled, locking eyes with the snarling creature. “I’ve seen worse.”

  Draven stood still for a moment, his gaze fixed on the creature writhing before them. The growls had softened, repced by low, inhuman whimpers—the girl’s form now barely recognizable beneath the corruption of the Vicious serum.

  “There’s nothing we can do for her,” Draven said quietly, his voice devoid of emotion, yet heavy with finality.

  The journalist colpsed to his knees, trembling. “She… she was all I had,” he whispered, tears streaking down his face. “She didn’t deserve this…”

  He reached out to her, as if his touch could somehow reverse the nightmare. But the creature only hissed weakly, its body trembling, trapped between what it was and what it had become.

  Draven stepped forward, unsheathing his bde.

  “I can end her pain,” he said softly. “Before she loses whatever is left of who she was.”

  The man looked up at him, eyes filled with anguish. His lips quivered, then finally parted.

  “Do it… please,” he breathed. “Let her rest… she doesn’t deserve to suffer like this.”

  He turned to his daughter—if even a fragment of her soul still remained in that twisted shell.

  “Rest now, my little star,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Daddy’s here.”

  Draven raised his sword, not with fury, not with righteousness—but with solemn duty.

  One swift stroke. Silent. Clean.

  The body fell limp.

  The room seemed to hold its breath.

  The journalist crawled toward her, gathering her lifeless form in his arms. He sobbed openly now, cradling her as if trying to return warmth to her fading body.

  Draven said nothing. He watched for a moment, then stepped forward.

  A light tap on the man’s shoulder.

  That was all.

  No words of comfort. No hollow condolences.

  Just presence.

  Then, he turned, walking away with slow, deliberate steps—leaving the father to grieve in silence.