A sleek, white Ford pulled up in front of a modest, yet immaculately maintained, two-story house.
The building, though nearly a decade old, stood proudly between two beautifully manicured gardens, each bursting with the vibrant colors of seasonal flowers, carefully arranged in beds and borders. A meticulously laid stone path, smoothed by countless footsteps, ran between the emerald lawns, guiding the way from the quiet suburban road to the polished front door. The whole place radiated the quiet, unassuming charm of suburban peace—and, more tellingly, the undeniable comfort of financial stability. It was clear just by looking at the house: the people who lived here were well-off, comfortable, perhaps even affluent.
The car door opened with a heavy, metallic creak, a mundane sound that nonetheless sliced through the tranquil evening air. A man stepped out.
He wore a standard-issue military uniform, slightly creased from hours of wear, the name tag "T. Willson" barely catching the dim light, almost hidden in shadow. His face was pale, drawn, and the dark circles under his eyes told the unmistakable story of countless sleepless nights, of burdens too heavy to fully cast off. He looked like a man who had been carrying more than his fair share of responsibilities, of grim secrets.
His name was Thomas Willson.
Once, he had been just another soldier in the U.S. Army. Another name in a sea of dog tags, indistinguishable, unremarkable. But fate, in its cruel, unpredictable way, had other plans. He was promoted, his skills recognized, and his name found its way under the direct command of one of the military's most notorious, most unyielding men—General Thaddeus Ross.
And from that moment, everything changed.
Thomas had been drafted into a high-level, top-secret research project. Its ambitious, audacious goal: to recreate the legendary Super Soldier Serum—the very same serum that had once transformed a scrawny kid named Steve Rogers into a living legend, Captain America himself. But the experiment… didn't go as planned. In fact, it went horrifyingly, catastrophically wrong.
Instead of a hero, they created a monster.
A green, towering, rage-filled creature that knew nothing of justice or military discipline—only raw, unbridled destruction.
And from that day on, Thomas had been inextricably linked to something much bigger, much more terrifying than himself. For the next three years, he followed General Ross across the globe, a relentless hunter chasing the very creature they had unintentionally unleashed on the world: The Hulk.
One month ago, it had all come to a catastrophic head in New York City.
Dr. Bruce Banner, the brilliant scientist who was also the monster, had returned, driven by a desperate search for a cure. Thomas remembered feeling a strange mix of pity and dread. Seven PhDs. World-renowned. People used to call him a modern-day Einstein. And yet… he was now little more than a hunted fugitive, hiding from the very people he once served, a brilliant mind trapped in a living nightmare.
But even that wasn't the worst part.
When they were finally agonizingly close to capturing Banner, that lunatic Blonsky did the unthinkable. He injected himself with the mutated blood of the Hulk—becoming something even worse. A larger, more grotesque monster. Stronger. Wilder. And completely uncontrollable, a force of pure destruction.
In the end, the only way to stop him, the only solution to their self-made crisis, was to unleash the Hulk himself.
The ensuing battle between the two monstrous titans tore through a full block of Manhattan, reducing skyscrapers to rubble and streets to dust. Hundreds died. The city bled. And once the dust settled, once the screams faded… the Hulk disappeared again, a phantom of destruction, leaving only ruin in his wake.
General Ross, as the commanding officer, was, predictably, court-martialed. Temporarily stripped of rank. A slap on the wrist.
But despite everything, nothing truly significant happened to him. The full weight of the consequences fell where they always did—on the second in command.
On Thomas.
And yet, General Ross, with an inexplicable loyalty, had shielded him from the brunt of the blame, softening the blow. Why? Thomas never asked. Maybe he didn't want to know. Maybe, in his bone-deep weariness, he simply didn't care.
He was just grateful.
And now, there were rumors—whispers, from within the military brass—about promoting him to General. A coveted, high-ranking position. It was obvious to anyone with eyes to see. This too was Ross's doing, a calculated reward for unwavering loyalty.
Thomas stepped into his house, closing the door behind him with a soft sigh, the sound of a weary man seeking respite.
A warm, inviting smell immediately reached his nose. Something rich, comforting… familiar. The scent of home-cooked food.
His eyes fell on the woman in the kitchen, her back to him, humming softly.
His wife.
She had noticed his arrival and turned to face him, a faint, almost reluctant smile gracing her lips. There was something restrained in her expression—a weariness just beneath the surface, a silent testament to the strain on their marriage.
Earlier that day, Thomas had caught the sharp, cutting mockery in her voice. It wasn't hard to understand why. Ever since he'd joined Ross, things had irrevocably changed. He had become too busy—too distant. Especially after the escalating incidents involving the Hulk. He had barely seen her even once or twice in the last year, their lives diverging like parallel lines.
And now that he was back, his precious time at home was consumed by endless damage control briefings and top-secret, classified reports, leaving no room for them.
He knew it was his fault.
So he didn't say anything. No apologies, no explanations. He knew words wouldn't be enough.
Instead, he walked straight to her, his uniform rustling softly, and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close.
She flinched slightly at first, caught off guard by the unexpected embrace, her body tensing.
But then her eyes caught sight of something on the counter—two crisp, new tickets to Paris, resting innocently beside a fruit bowl.
Her heart, previously cold and tired from neglect, softened just a little, a fragile thaw.
"Okay," she said softly, her voice losing its sharp edge, a hint of tenderness returning. "Come eat. I made your favorite dish tonight."
They sat together, sharing a quiet meal in the soft, intimate light of their dining room. For the first time in months, it felt like a fleeting glimpse of the life they once had, a fragile memory rekindled.
But the peace was short-lived.
A sudden, loud chime rang through the house, a jarring, electronic sound that shattered the domestic tranquility.
Thomas froze, his fork midway to his mouth.
He recognized that sound. A very specific alert. One that hadn't rung since the hulk's disaster.
Without a word, he stood up, pushed his chair back quietly, and walked silently to his study room. There, he unlocked the reinforced metal cabinet, its heavy door swinging open with a muted clank.
From inside, he pulled out a laptop—thick and heavy, like a brick, utterly unlike any commercial product. This was military-issued, designed for secure transmissions during urgent, high-stakes operations.
Only twelve units like it existed in the world. Each connected to a closed, encrypted network that spanned their entire specialized unit, a digital tether to a hidden war.
The screen blinked to life, its pale light illuminating his tense face, and a single unread message awaited him.
He opened it.
His face went utterly pale, all color draining from it.
Thomas, I've found Hulk. He's in India now. He's too dangerous to be left alive. Hire someone to finish the job.
Password: 832892. Use it to access the intelligence archive.
Bank Account: 3210832109. Funds will be transferred shortly, 8932 is the password.
Delete this email after reading. —A Well-Wisher
Thomas stared at the message, his eyes unblinking, fixed on the damning words. All color drained from his face. His heart thudded in his chest like a frantic war drum, each beat echoing the impending storm.
Behind him, his wife had silently entered the room, drawn by the sudden tension, by the shift in the atmosphere. She saw the expression on his face—the horror, the grim resignation—and knew, knew in her bones, that something was very, very wrong. Their fragile peace had shattered.
"Honey," he muttered weakly, his voice barely a whisper, a broken plea. "It looks like we'll have to postpone our Paris trip."
The moment he said it, something in her snapped. The weariness, the neglect, the simmering resentment—it all boiled over.
Without warning, without a single word, she hurled the ceramic plate she had been holding straight at him. It shattered against the wall behind him with a violent crash, fragments scattering across the floor like shards of their broken life.
"Go sleep with your General Ross!" she screamed, her voice raw, laced with fury and unbearable pain.
"Or maybe you already are!"
Her eyes were blazing, wild with unleashed emotion. Her voice trembled, not with fear, but with righteous fury and heartbreaking despair.
"Don't contact me again. My lawyer will send the divorce papers."
And without waiting for his reply, without a single backward glance, she stormed out of the house—slamming the door behind her with a final, echoing bang that resonated through the suddenly empty silence.
Thomas stood frozen, a statue of defeat.
He looked at the computer screen, the damning message glowing coldly.
He looked at the empty doorway, where his wife had just vanished from his life.
He clenched his teeth, his fists trembling at his sides, but in the end…
he didn't chase after her. The war, both external and internal, had claimed it's victor.