Winter suffocated Creel. The impoverished mountain town—choked by its own oblivion in the frozen Sierra Tarahumara—was quieter than a graveyard, save the howl of wind and the laughter of children who didn't yet understand what it meant to go without. Snow fell in slow, mournful swirls, muffling gunshots and drunken curses alike. The broken cobblestone streets were lined with weary tenements, each building tattooed by decay: obscene graffiti, bricks eroded black, paint that peeled like leprous skin.
In one such ruin, sunlight barely penetrated the grime-caked windows. Dampness clung to everything, gnawing through rotten drywall and sodden insulation. The cold felt alive, intentional—a parasite gripping the marrow.
Inside, Bruce Banner huddled in a corner, scarcely visible in the jaundiced glow of a single lightbulb that buzzed like an insect. The room was a burial ground for failed lives; battered furniture, ancient stains, and the odor of mildew pervaded every breath. Scientific relics—beakers, test tubes, even a blood-streaked scalpel—competed for space on a warped table. His presence here was less that of a researcher and more of a ghost clinging to obsessions.
At 42, Bruce looked and moved like someone much older, every muscle tight with memories of rage and regret. His eyes—once soft, now icy and hunted—rarely blinked. Grime caked beneath his bitten nails. Cold sweat beaded his brow, but inside burned a feverish desperation. He wore thrift store remnants—a shirt and jeans more patch than fabric, boots whose soles were coming apart. The brown work jacket that hung nearby reeked of stale cigarettes and the copper tang of blood.
His laptop cast hellish light over a 3D rendering of his altered cells. The imagery was nauseating: undulating, cancerous growths warping DNA, primal and predatory, as if his very biology wanted to consume him from the inside out. Each calculation, each sleepless night, pitted intellect against hunger—science a frail talisman against the horror inside.
Beyond the walls, children's laughter echoed—a cruel reminder of innocence lost. Sometimes, he envied their ignorance; sometimes, he detested them for what he'd never reclaim. The snow outside became a blank shroud, the world steadily erasing itself to spare witnessing what he'd become.
A sharp knock shattered the silence. Bruce's pulse quickened. Every knock in Creel was a possible execution, not a neighborly visit. He snapped his laptop shut, eyes scanning escape routes and defensive positions. Animal instinct twitched in his nerves—a warning that the monster within was always too close.
"¿Quién es?" His voice sounded alien, hollow.
"Es el cartero. Tengo un paquete para usted."
For a moment, suspicion warred with hope. The mailman, ancient and worn, recognized Bruce as no more than another foreigner running from dead ends. After a tense exchange, Bruce quickly accepted the package—a small, anonymous box, sealed tight, the corners scuffed by a thousand miles of danger.
Inside: a vial of shadowy liquid, dark as old bruises, and a note in a familiar, desperate scrawl.
> Bruce,
> Hope is a dangerous thing—sometimes a curse, sometimes a cure. Use this well.
> —S.
He stared at the vial, hand trembling. The promise of salvation—life or death—always came in tiny containers. Hope was sometimes a slow poison.
As daylight faded, the shadows in the corners of his apartment thickened. He poured himself into work, merging science and ritual, trying to outrun the monstrosity in his blood. Hours bled together; outside, snow erased the world, white and silent as a morgue sheet.
Later, exhaustion overtook him. Bruce stood, joints aching, feeling every scar and old wound. He let the curtain slip aside and pressed his forehead to the frostbitten glass. The town, bathed in ghostly snowlight, looked deceptively tranquil—a painting of peace atop graves.
The longer he stared, the more the cold outside bled into him. He clung to the vial, knowing that hope and horror were never so easily separated. The Hulk pressed against the cage of his ribs, hungry, restless, whispering violent promises: You are nothing but this rage. You will never be free.
For a moment, as snow smothered the world and his breath misted the window, Bruce felt the true meaning of isolation—not just from society, but from himself.