The city was quiet too quiet. The familiar hum of engines, the murmurs of busy streets, and the clink of coins as they exchanged hands all seemed to vanish into the silence. Vince Jaxon, known to most by the name "Yellow," had disappeared without a trace. No one had seen him in weeks. His workshop was empty, his tools left untouched, and his garage, which once buzzed with activity, now sat abandoned.
The military had scoured every corner of the city, looking for the renegade mechanic who had once been a tool in their arsenal. The Obsidian Syndicate had gone on high alert, but even they couldn't track him down. Vince was gone, and no one had any idea where he'd gone or what had happened to him.
But that didn't stop the search.
On the outskirts of the city, a secluded farmhouse stood tall against the horizon. Inside, a large map covered the wall, pinned with photographs, coordinates, and scribbled notes. An old man, graying hair falling loosely around his face, sat hunched over a worn wooden table. His eyes, though tired, burned with a fire that refused to be extinguished. He was no stranger to loss or failure, but this... this was different. Vince had been a key player in their game, and now he was gone.
"He's still out there," the old man muttered under his breath, scanning the map. He slammed his fist on the table, rattling the dishes. "I know he is. We've lost too much to let him vanish into thin air."
Behind him, a young girl stood in the shadows, her expression unreadable. Her name was Ilya, and she had once been a part of Vince's world a tool in the military's twisted system. They had tried to control her just as they had tried to control him. But she had learned from Vince. Learned that true power lay in the ability to control one's destiny. That was why she had left the system, why she had joined the hunt.
Her eyes darted from the old man to the map. "He won't be easy to find," she said softly. Her voice held a strange calmness, but it was laced with an edge of something darker. "He's always been one step ahead."
The old man, Sergeant Pomeroy, grunted in agreement. His rough hands ran over the map again, tracking Vince's movements. "He had access to things the government couldn't even dream of. That kind of ability doesn't just vanish. No, he's biding his time, planning something big. And we need to find him before that happens."
Ilya's gaze flicked to the open window, where the wind rustled the trees outside. "But what if he's no longer fighting for the same cause? What if he's…"
She didn't finish the sentence. It wasn't needed. Pomeroy knew what she was implying. Vince wasn't just a mechanic anymore. He was a master of destruction, a weapon of unimaginable power. If he wasn't on their side, he could bring down the entire system.
"He's a ghost now," Pomeroy said, as though he had been reading her mind. "But ghosts can be found. We just need to make them uncomfortable enough to show themselves."
Ilya turned away from the window, walking over to the map. "What's the plan?"
"We hit the Syndicate," Pomeroy said flatly. "They're our best lead. They've been the last ones to have any direct contact with him. If anyone knows where he is, it's them."
Ilya nodded silently. She had no love for the Syndicate, but sometimes, there were no other options.
Meanwhile, Vince Jaxon was deep underground, hidden from both the military and the Syndicate. For days, he had stayed off the radar, allowing his absence to weigh heavy on the people searching for him.
He was laying low in a dilapidated safehouse, far away from the places he had once called home. The safehouse was nothing more than an abandoned warehouse in the outskirts of the city, hidden under layers of rubble and debris. A place where the world's eyes couldn't find him, and no one could hear his thoughts.
But Vince wasn't resting. No, there was something gnawing at the back of his mind. Something he couldn't shake.
The weight of everything he had done, the power he had been given, and the destruction he had caused it was all closing in on him. He had left the world behind, but the ghosts of the past still haunted him.
He could feel them. The old man's hand on his back, the cold glint of Ilya's eyes their pursuit, relentless and unforgiving. They were coming for him. But did he care?
"Why am I still running?" Vince muttered to himself, staring at his hands. They had the power to reshape the world, to bend the fabric of reality to his will, and yet… here he was. Hiding like a coward. Hiding from the very people who had once controlled him, and the people who had once called him their ally.
"Is this what freedom looks like?" he whispered to the silence.
Back at the farmhouse, Pomeroy and Ilya had begun their preparations. The search had become personal for them. They had seen Vince's potential his raw, untapped power and they understood that no matter what happened, they needed to stop him from falling into the wrong hands.
Ilya stood, gazing at the photo of Vince pinned to the wall. His eyes, cold and calculating, stared back at her. The man she had once known was gone. Now, he was a weapon, and weapons didn't need love.
"I'll track him down," Ilya said quietly. "I'll make him see reason."
Pomeroy shook his head. "It's not just about finding him, Ilya. It's about surviving him. This isn't just a man we're chasing. It's the embodiment of chaos."
But as they discussed their plans, neither of them could shake the thought that Vince might be exactly what the world needed no matter how dangerous it was.