The world had already ended once.
That was what people said when they spoke about the past, usually late at night, when honesty slipped through their voices. Not because humanity had been wiped out—but because something essential had cracked beyond repair.
In 1980, the sky burned.
A meteor tore through the atmosphere like the wrath of a forgotten god. For a brief moment, night turned into blinding daylight. Then the earth shook so violently that buildings collapsed hundreds of miles away from the impact zone. Oceans rose and swallowed coastlines. Communication lines went dead. Entire regions vanished from maps overnight.
Humanity didn't disappear.
Cities still stood. Governments still held press conferences. Flags still flew.
But fear replaced trust.
Every nation assumed the worst. Borders were sealed, then crossed in the name of "prevention." Resources became leverage. Scientific progress turned secretive, weaponized, buried under layers of classification.
Civilization survived.
Humanity didn't.
Years passed. Wars burned out or were hidden beneath treaties and lies. The world stabilized—not because it healed, but because people grew tired of bleeding.
Or at least… that's what they wanted to believe.
Snow fell endlessly over the frozen Russian wilderness.
Buried deep beneath ice and steel, far from any civilian record, stood a facility that officially did not exist. No satellite showed it clearly. No government document acknowledged it.
A blacksite.
Inside, scientists worked without names, without recognition, and without the right to refuse. Every hallway had cameras. Every door required clearance. Every conversation felt watched.
This place wasn't about defense.
It was about control.
One of the men trapped inside that truth was Robert Hale.
An American scientist recruited for his brilliance and bound by what he knew. The project he worked on wasn't meant to protect the world. It was meant to prepare for what came after the world fell apart again.
Robert knew it was wrong.
And he knew it was too late to walk away.
Ryan Hale was eleven years old.
He sat on the cold metal floor of a narrow corridor, legs pulled close to his chest, twisting exposed wires on a small toy drone. One of its wings had snapped earlier when it crashed into the wall. No matter how carefully he worked, it refused to power on.
The facility was silent.
Too silent.
Ryan had been here long enough to know silence meant something bad was happening somewhere else.
His father had told him to wait. Just a few minutes, he'd said.
Ryan trusted him.
The explosion shattered that trust.
The floor lurched violently, throwing Ryan forward. The drone slipped from his hands and shattered completely. The lights overhead flickered once—twice—
Then the corridor flooded with red.
Alarms screamed through the facility, sharp enough to make his ears ring. Panic hit him all at once, heavy and suffocating.
Then came gunfire.
Not wild. Not desperate.
Professional.
Boots thundered through the hallways. Voices shouted commands in Russian—short, sharp, practiced. But beneath them were voices Ryan understood clearly.
English.
His stomach dropped.
The door at the end of the corridor exploded inward. Armed men poured in, weapons raised. Some wore Russian military uniforms. Others wore black tactical gear with no insignia at all.
A scientist sprinted past Ryan, terror written across his face.
He didn't make it five steps.
A gunshot echoed. The man collapsed. Blood spread across the floor, warm and dark against the white walls.
Ryan's body locked up.
Then someone grabbed his arm.
"Ryan!"
His father's voice cut through the chaos.
Robert Hale stood in front of him, breathing hard. His lab coat was soaked in blood—some of it his own. His eyes, usually calm and reassuring, were wide with urgency and fear.
"Dad…?" Ryan whispered.
"No questions," Robert said, yanking him to his feet. "We're leaving. Now."
They ran.
Bullets ripped into the walls behind them. Glass shattered. Somewhere, someone screamed—and then went silent. Robert dragged Ryan through a side corridor, his grip tight, almost painful.
They stopped at what looked like a dead end.
Robert slammed his hand against the wall.
A hidden panel slid open, revealing a narrow escape tunnel.
Robert knelt in front of Ryan, gripping his shoulders. His hands were shaking badly now.
"Listen to me," he said, voice low and urgent. "No matter what happens… you survive."
Ryan shook his head, tears blurring his vision. "You're coming with me."
Robert hesitated.
"They're not all Russians," he said quietly. "Remember that. Promise me."
Footsteps echoed closer.
Robert shoved Ryan into the tunnel.
The door slammed shut.
"Dad!" Ryan screamed, pounding on the metal with everything he had.
A single gunshot echoed from the other side.
Then the tunnel activated, throwing Ryan forward into darkness.
Ryan stumbled out into a frozen wasteland.
Snow slammed into his face, the wind slicing through his clothes like knives. He turned around, expecting to see the facility behind him.
There was nothing.
Just endless white.
He screamed his father's name until his throat burned raw. No one answered.
Ryan walked.
He didn't know where he was going. He only knew stopping meant dying. Snow filled his boots. His fingers went numb. His legs burned with every step.
He fell. He stood back up.
Again. And again.
On the third day, his body finally gave out.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
Ryan woke to cold steel pressed against his forehead.
A gun barrel.
Men surrounded him—scarred, hardened, their expressions empty of hesitation. Weapons rested easily in their hands.
Mercenaries.
They argued over what to do with him. Ryan didn't understand every word, but he understood enough to know his life meant nothing here.
In the end, they spared him.
They trained him.
That was where his childhood ended.
Pain became routine. Fear disappeared. Ryan learned how to fight, how to shoot, how to stay calm while bleeding. They broke his body again and again and rebuilt it tougher.
He didn't gain powers.
He gained control.
Years later, he met Mr. Xero.
Xero was missing one hand. He never explained how he lost it. He didn't need to. His presence alone commanded silence.
Unlike the others, Xero spoke to Ryan like a person.
Like a son.
"You don't live to survive," Xero once said. "You live to finish something."
Ryan never disagreed.
2025
Blood soaked into the ground beneath him.
Ryan lay on his back, staring at the dark sky. His breathing was shallow, uneven. Two bullets burned inside him—one in his chest, one deep in his abdomen.
His communicator crackled uselessly.
No signal.
Jammed.
Footsteps echoed around him. Enemies closed in from every direction. Weapons were being raised.
This wasn't a mistake.
This was an execution.
Ryan smiled weakly as blood filled his mouth.
"So this is how it ends," he whispered.
His vision blurred.
Then the world turned white.
The pain vanished.
Ryan floated in a vast, endless void. No sound. No body. Just emptiness stretching in every direction.
Something was there.
Watching.
A presence calm, overwhelming, and impossibly familiar.
A voice echoed through the void.
"Welcome… my dear son."
Ryan's eyes widened.
And for the second time in his life—
The world ended again.
To Be Continued ............