Late at night, an unnatural silence clings to the seemingly empty streets.
The steady footsteps of a woman echo throughout the dark, her face hidden beneath the rim of an umbrella. Each step lands with calm intent—until the silence breaks.
Running footsteps. Fast. Erratic. Rushed.
A man bursts into view, out of breath, eyes darting around wildly as he scans his environment. He spots the woman and frantically, grabs her, pressing a handgun against her head with a trembling grip.
"Don't move a muscle," he hisses, more to himself than to her.
Moments later, others emerge from the darkness.
Six—no, seven figures, all dressed identically head to toe. Black attire. Heavy Boots. Gloves. Their faces remain half-lost to the shadow the darkness had cast upon them. They spread out with practiced precision.
The umbrella slips from the woman's hand.
It clatters against the pavement.
Where her face should have been, there is nothing.
No eyes. No mouth. No skin.
Just smooth, featureless flesh.
The men freeze.
In unison, they draw their weapons.
The clueless man looks upon the now frightened aggressors, clueless of what just occurred. That's when he catches glimpse of the face of his 'hostage'.
The man holding the gun inhales sharply. His finger tightens—
The gun fires.
The sound cracks through the street.
The woman does not react.
The man stumbles backwards, staring in disbelief. No blood. No wound. No movement— until her arms begin the stretch.
Bones do not snap. Flesh does not tear. Her limbs lengthen smoothly, impossibly, bending the rules of human anatomy as if they never existed.
Her head turns in an uncanny matter.
Slowly.
Far too slowly.
It rotates past where it should stop, twisting backwards until it faces the man now glued to the ground in fear.
Screams erupt. Gunfire follows.
The shots echo through the night until the streets fall silent once more.
—
The scene cuts to a flickering television screen.
BREAKING NEWS: Eight unidentified men were found dead late last night under unexplained circumstances. Authorities report no signs of struggle and no surviving witnesses.
The screen goes black.
Static hums.
The doorbell rings.
An eleven-year-old boy jolts upright from the couch, eyes widening. He sprints toward the door, when he pulls it open, they're standing there—smiling.
Too cheerful for the hour.
His father steps forward, holding a box carefully in both hands.
"We picked you up something along the way home."
The boy tears the wrapping away.
A limited edition Superman action figure.
His breath catches. His hands tremble as he lifts it free, already imagining it flying, saving the world.
From the hallway, his twin sister scoffs. "Wow. Must be nice. I never get anything"
Their mother chuckles, ruffling the girl's hair as she walks past her. "You'll get over it." before tucking in an ID badge that was leaking out of her pocket.
For a brief moment, the house feels normal.
Warm.
Safe.
Later, the boy sits cross-legged on the floor, Superman soaring between his hands, punching invisible villains into the air. From the living room, voices drift through—quiet at first, then strained.
"This has gone too far Robert," the mother says. "The Phoenix Program is dangerous. You know what it attracts."
"We're on the brink of something unprecedented," the father replies sharply. "One serum. That's all it takes. We're talking about the ability to overpower the gods themselves. Margaret, please. After all these years of research, just a few more steps until the finish line."
"That's exactly why it needs to stop."
Silence.
That night, the boy lies awake in his room, staring at the ceiling. Superman rests beside him, arm raised heroically.
Something feels wrong.
A shape stands in the corner of the room.
Tall.
Still.
Watching.
Curiosity outweighs fear. The boy slowly slips out of bed, action figure in hand.
The figure steps forward.
It's body is elongated, distorted—as if stretched improperly. It's mouth curves into a wide, unnatural smile packed with sharp teeth. It's eyes glean with something amused.
One long, clawed finger rises to it's lips.
"Go back to sleep," it whispers.
The boy tries to scream.
Nothing comes out. The action figure drops to the ground.
From the hallway his sister, holding a candy wrapper creeps out to his slightly opened door.
"How many times have I told you not to leave your garbage in front of my doo—"
Her words are interrupted, by the shock that befalls her. She screams.
The entity turns it's head.
Slowly.
Too slowly.
It moves.
The screams cut off with a sharp snap.
Then sounds follow— wet, cracking, deliberate.
"Go to sleep." the entity whispers with questionable child-like intelligence.
Footsteps thunder. The father bursts into the hallway, fury overtaking reason. He charges the creature—
His head hits the floor before his body does.
The boy doesn't move. Can't move. But forced to observe everything taking place.
The entity starts poking at the father— "Are you asleep?" with a disturbing creepy horror filled grin.
His mother grabs the child, dragging him into another room, hands shaking violently. She throws open a briefcase hidden beneath a desk.
Inside, a syringe filled with a faintly shimmering liquid.
"I'm sorry," she sobs.
From the hallway, a calm voice speaks"
"Why didn't you listen to me?"
The door explodes inward.
The needle plunges into the boy's arm.
His mother is ripped away— slammed against the wall, bones snapping. She falls, unmoving.
"No needles! NO NEEDLES!"— The monster frantically screams.
The boy collapses to the floor, sobbing, paralyzed with fear.
The creature crouches in front of him, tilting its head.
"Good boy," it murmurs. "Go sleep sleep".
As it leaves, the boy's blurred vision catches something else.
A man stands in the hallway.
Not monstrous.
Not distorted.
Normal.
He speaks— "Oh you silly silly boy, went through one of my portals now did you?"
The monster speaks— "Sorry. Father. I. Made. Them. Sleep."
"You're such a good boy, now hurry along".
The man looks directly at the boy and smiles.
His eyes glow a vivid, unnatural red.
Intelligent. Amused. Satisfied.
For a moment, the boy understands something he doesn't yet have words for.
A deep sense of fear, being ashamed, and feeling of responsibility for getting his family killed.
The man steps backwards into nothingness— and is disappears along with the monster.
The boy screams as he hurdles up and tears run down his face.
...
..
.
10 years later...
A man in his early twenties stands inside a dimly lit bar, eyes scanning the room with quiet intent.
He finds his target.
Across the room, a well-dressed man lounges at a table surrounded by women and several influential-looking men. Laughter spills from the group. Money. Power. Carelessness.
The man moves.
He steps up behind his target and slams a hand onto the table before pushing his targets face on it.
Drinks spill. Glass shatters.
The women recoil, startled. The men rise in unison, hands already reaching for concealed weapons.
The man pinned to the table raises his hands quickly, panic in his voice.
"G-Greed! W-what a pleasant surprise!" he stammers. "Everyone—please—put the weapons away. This is… a dear f-friend of mine."
Reluctantly, the men sit back down. Alert. Watching.
"W-would you mind letting me go?" the man asks weakly.
Greed tightens his grip around the man's neck.
"O-ouch—Greed, Greed! I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"
Greed finally speaks, his voice calm.
"You little rat," he says. "Tell me what you know about him."
He tosses a photograph onto the table beside the man's face.
It shows a large, broad-shouldered man—bald, dark-skinned, built like a wall.
The man blinks. "What? This isn't about that thing I stole from y—"He forces a laugh. "H-haha… yeah. Sure. Whatever you want to know."
Greed lifts him off the table with ease, holding him in the air.
"Where's his hideout?" Greed asks. "You're lucky I don't put holes in every one of you for siphoning my money."
The man's voice cracks. "T-12th Avenue. Gardener Street!"
Greed releases him.
The man collapses onto the couch, gasping. Greed turns and exits the bar without another word.
Silence lingers.
One of the men finally speaks. "Who the hell was that? Some kind of tycoon? Why'd you submit so fast?"
The shaken man swallows hard.
"No," he says. "I'm lucky he didn't kill me on the spot. How he found out about the money I funneled out of him—I don't know."
He exhales.
"Sadistic maniac. That's what he is."
A pause.
"They say he murdered his entire family at eleven," he adds quietly. "Now he's obsessed—searching for some 'man with red eyes.'"
Someone scoffs. "Sounds like a fairy tale."
The man doesn't laugh.
He stares into his glass, hands shaking just enough to notice.
"Fairy tales don't leave dents in steel tables," he mutters.
--
Outside, the night air is cold.
Greed walks alone down the sidewalk, coat pulled tight, eyes scanning reflections in windows more than the street itself. Every shadow lingers a second too long. Every sound feels intentional.
He stops.
A flicker of movement—too fast to be normal.
A scream echoes three blocks down.
Greed breaks into a sprint.
An alleyway opens up ahead, illuminated by a single flickering streetlight.
Blood stains the concrete.
A body lies crumpled against the wall—twisted, broken, unmoving.
Greed slows.
Something breathes in the dark.
Not human.
It steps forward.
Tall. Wrong. Its limbs bend at angles that defy logic, joints shifting like they're deciding where to be. Its face is a mess of stretched skin and hollow sockets, a mouth opening wider than it should.
The anomaly tilts its head. Greed doesn't draw his weapon.
He speaks instead.
"What are you?""And who let you out?"
The thing vanishes. Pain explodes through his chest.
He doesn't even see the strike—just the impact. The world flips. His back hits the pavement.
His vision fades as the creature stands over him.
A final thought crosses his mind, not fear—but frustration.
Too slow.
The anomaly strikes again.
Darkness.
Floodlights snap on. Boots pound the pavement.
"Target located!"
"Deploy restraints!"
Thick, reinforced cables shoot through the air, wrapping around the anomaly's limbs. It thrashes, shrieks, slams against the ground with inhuman force.
Men in tactical gear surround it, visors glowing faintly.
"Secure the head!"
"Sedatives ineffective—keep pressure!"
One of them glances down at Greed's body.
Still.
Broken.
A hand presses against his neck.
Nothing.
"Command," a voice crackles through the radio, calm and professional."Civilian male confirmed dead."
"Copy. Bag the body later. Priority is the anomaly."
The SCP is dragged away, screaming fading into the distance. The lights shut off.
Silence returns to the alley. Minutes pass.
Then—
Greed inhales sharply.
His body convulses as air floods his lungs. He coughs violently, clawing at the ground, vision blurring as sensation crashes back into him all at once.
Pain. Cold. Confusion.
He rolls onto his back, gasping.
Above him—
Words appear. Floating. Sharp. White.
'FIRST INSTINCT' UNLOCKED !
- CONDITION: Death faster than the ability to React
- EFFECT: The first lethal strike will be automatically dodged
The words don't just sit there. They sink in.
Etching themselves into his mind. Echoing.
Not spoken.
Known.
Greed sits up slowly, hands trembling. He laughs once—short, breathless.
"…You've got to be kidding me."
He looks down at his chest.
No wound. No blood.
Just torn fabric and fading pain. His expression hardens.
The alley no longer feels empty. It feels like a threshold.
Greed stands.
Somewhere out there, things like that exist.
And worse—someone let them roam free.
He cracks his neck, eyes cold with purpose.
"Fine," he mutters."If you won't stay in the hell you crawled out of…"
He steps out of the alley, disappearing into the city.
"…I'll make sure you don't get a second chance."