In the bowels of the GAOA command center, Director Elena Hale stood frozen before the holographic array, her face bathed in the ghostly blue glow of multiple feeds. The room had erupted into controlled chaos moments ago—analysts shouting updates, drones relaying real-time chaos from Queens. But Hale's focus narrowed to one screen: raw footage from a street cam, timestamped mere minutes past.
"Replay it," she commanded, her voice a whip-crack. Reyes complied, fingers flying over his console. The video looped: the monolith's rift sealing shut, a blood-drenched figure emerging—hoodie ragged, paper bag mask smeared with gore. Paper Face. He hurled massive Naga segments into the air like discarded trash, frost spears launching from gauntleted hands to impale them across the skyline. A coil skewered a bank facade, shattering glass in a rain of shards; another draped a billboard, scales and entrails swinging grotesquely, drawing horrified screams from the crowd below. The head came last—impaled on its own scythe, driven into the asphalt with earth-shaking force. Blood pooled around the trophy, fangs locked in a perpetual snarl, eyes glassy and accusatory.
Hale's breath caught. The precision, the brutality—it wasn't just power; it was artistry in carnage. No hesitation, no mercy. Stats that defied logic for someone so... anonymous. "This is him," she murmured, leaning closer. "Paper Face. The same one from the park. But evolved. Those gauntlets... skill progression mid-fight? Impossible without resources only top guilds have." Her mind raced: eight-star anomaly in Antarctica ticking down, global stakes. They needed heavies, anomalies like this. But who was he? A rogue Awakened? A ghost in the system?
She straightened, steeling her resolve like forging a blade in fire. "Reyes, pull every angle—traffic cams, civilian holo-vids, satellite thermals. Cross-ref with school databases, awakening registries. Discreetly. No flags." Her eyes hardened, reflecting the frozen image of the impaled head. "We find him. We recruit him. Before he becomes a liability... or someone else's weapon." The words hung heavy, a vow etched in her core. Paper Face wasn't just an asset; he was the key to averting apocalypse. And she'd drag him into the light, mask or no.
Across the river in Midtown, the school grounds lay in ruinous silence, emergency sirens wailing distantly like mournful ghosts. Jake Harlan staggered through the debris-strewn quad, Austin's limp form slung over his back in a fireman's carry. Blood soaked them both—Jake's from the nagini gashes that still wept despite his newfound Vitality knitting them slowly; Austin's from a vicious claw rake across his torso, shallow but enough to knock him out cold. The fallen angel's halo flickered faintly above Jake's head, its six broken wings of shadow drooping like wilted petals, black flames guttering low.
"Stay with me, Aus," Jake rasped, each step a grind against exhaustion. His stats had surged to mid-fifties in that awakening blaze—Strength enough to carry his friend without strain, Endurance to push through the pain. But the halo's power waned, a temporary boon fading as adrenaline ebbed. He'd carved through three more nagini in the halls, wings slicing like obsidian blades, flames cauterizing wounds in sprays of dark ichor. Found Austin barricaded in a classroom, bleeding but alive. "You're gonna be okay. Medics incoming."
They emerged onto the street, the city skyline looming under a bruised twilight sky. Jake paused, breath hitching as his gaze lifted. There, etched against the horizon: the Naga's "artwork." Massive coils pinned to buildings like macabre decorations, guts dangling in frozen loops from frost-speared holds. The head dominated, scythe through skull, blood congealing in rivulets down the blade. Civilians gawked from safe distances, holo-drones buzzing for news feeds. "What the hell...?" Jake whispered, awe warring with horror.
Who could do that? Solo a 4-star boss, then turn the corpse into a statement? Power like that—raw, unyielding. Jake's halo pulsed faintly, a reminder of his own spark. Mid-fifties stats felt puny now, a candle to that inferno. *Can I get that strong?* The thought ignited something fierce in his chest. Not for glory, not for the crowds he'd once chased. For Austin, for the hollow he'd filled with noise. To protect, to matter. "If that's what it takes," he muttered, shifting Austin's weight, "I'll grind till I break." Resolve burned, halo flaring brighter for a heartbeat. He'd awaken further, evolve. Become unbreakable. For the one real thing in his life.
Elena Morgan leaped from the Vanguard Collective's hover-van as it screeched to a halt in Queens, her guildmates spilling out behind her. The air reeked of blood and ozone, the street a battlefield of slain nagini—charred scales, severed limbs, venom pools hissing on pavement. Medics swarmed the wounded, barriers shimmering to contain the cleanup. But Elena's eyes locked on the skyline spectacle: Naga parts impaled across facades, a grotesque installation that turned her stomach even after years of raids.
"Status?" she barked at a local Awakened, Inferno Spear materializing in her grip, flames licking the haft.
"Break contained, ma'am. Boss down before we arrived. Solo clear." The man pointed upward, voice awed. "That... that's the aftermath."
Elena stared, tracing the frost-rimed coils dangling from the bank, guts frozen in mid-drip; the billboard sagging under scaled weight; the head pinned like a war trophy, scythe buried in asphalt. Blood had frozen into crystalline spikes around it, catching the dying light in crimson refractions. Power. Sheer, monstrous power. No guild tag, no team—just one figure, witnesses said, in a paper bag mask. "Quite the monster," she exclaimed, a mix of admiration and unease twisting her features. Who could wield such force? And why the display? A warning? A taunt?
Her wristband pinged—Max's location safe at home. Relief flooded, but the scene lingered, a shadow on her thoughts. Two days till she saw him. For now, focus: secure the site, harvest cores. But in her gut, a whisper: this "Paper Face" changed everything. Vanguard needed to adapt—or get left in the dust.