The rain fell like broken glass from the sky, sharp and relentless, slicing through the neon glow of the city. Sirens wailed somewhere in the distance, their echoes bouncing between skyscrapers like ghosts that refused to rest. Smoke crawled out of shattered windows, mixing with the metallic scent of blood and gunpowder. The night should have belonged to criminals. Instead, it belonged to him.
Alex stood alone in the middle of the street.
Bullets littered the ground around his boots like dead insects. His black coat, torn and soaked, clung to his body. Beneath it, faint blue lines pulsed across his skin — glowing veins that looked almost alive, like lightning trapped under flesh. Each pulse matched the steady beat of his heart.
A heart that refused to stop.
A dozen armed men surrounded him. Tactical gear. Military precision. No street thugs. These were professionals.
"Target still standing," one of them muttered into his comm. "How is he still—"
Alex moved.
To the human eye, it looked like a blur. One second he was standing still, the next he was behind the first man. A single strike to the neck. Clean. Silent. The soldier dropped before he even realized what happened.
Three more opened fire.
The sound of gunshots ripped through the rain.
Bullets tore into Alex's chest.
Blood sprayed.
He fell.
For two seconds, the world went quiet.
The soldiers lowered their weapons.
"Target down," someone said.
Then Alex's fingers twitched.
The holes in his chest began to close.
Skin knitting together. Bone resetting. Blood crawling back inside like it had a mind of its own.
His eyes snapped open.
Glowing blue.
Terrified whispers filled the air.
"No… no way…"
"He's regenerating—"
Alex stood up slowly, like death itself had just rejected him.
He wiped the blood from his lips and sighed.
"I really hate when they shoot first," he muttered.
Then he charged.
What followed wasn't a fight. It was a massacre.
In less than thirty seconds, the street was silent again except for rain hitting pavement.
Alex stood alone among the fallen bodies, breathing hard. Not tired — he never really got tired — but frustrated.
They kept coming.
Every year stronger. Smarter. Better weapons.
Like the world had decided he was a disease that needed to be cured.
He checked the small device on his wrist. A cracked screen flickered to life.
TARGET ELIMINATED: 12/12
Good.
But that wasn't what worried him.
A red icon blinked beneath it.
VANGUARD TRACKING SIGNAL DETECTED
His jaw tightened.
"They found me again…"
The Vanguard.
The one organization that refused to believe he was human.
Because he wasn't.
Not completely.
Alex had died for the first time when he was twelve.
A car accident. Brain dead for three minutes.
Doctors declared him gone.
Then he woke up.
Since then, he'd been shot, stabbed, drowned, burned, electrocuted, blown apart—
He always came back.
No scars. No aging. No explanation.
At first, it felt like a miracle.
Then it became a curse.
Friends grew old while he stayed the same.
Lovers faded away.
Families died.
Time moved on.
He didn't.
Eventually, the government noticed.
People don't stay twenty-five for thirty years without someone asking questions.
That's when the Vanguard took him.
They called it "research."
To him, it was torture.
Needles. Scans. Autopsies while he was still alive.
Trying to figure out why he wouldn't die.
Trying to weaponize him.
Trying to turn him into a soldier that could fight forever.
But Alex escaped.
He always escaped.
And for the last five years, he'd been running.
City to city.
Name to name.
Never staying long enough to grow attached.
Never letting anyone close enough to get hurt.
Because wherever he went, the Vanguard followed.
And when they followed, people died.
Thunder cracked overhead.
Alex pulled up his hood and started walking.
He needed to disappear again.
New city. New identity.
Same old curse.
As he passed a shattered storefront, his reflection caught his eye.
Same face.
Same age.
Same eyes.
He looked twenty-five.
He'd actually stopped counting years after seventy.
Seventy years of watching the world change while he stayed frozen in time.
Seventy years of funerals.
Seventy years of loneliness.
Sometimes he wondered if immortality wasn't a mistake of nature.
Maybe he wasn't meant to exist.
Maybe the universe kept trying to kill him for a reason.
His wrist device buzzed again.
This time, it wasn't Vanguard tech.
It was a message.
Unknown sender.
He frowned.
Nobody had this frequency.
He opened it.
One line appeared:
"If you want to know why you can't die… come to Sector 17. Midnight."
His chest tightened.
A trap?
Probably.
But it was the first real lead in decades.
The first time someone claimed to know the truth.
And truth was the one thing he'd been chasing longer than the Vanguard had chased him.
Who was he?
Why him?
Was he really the only one?
Or were there others like him?
The rain slowed to a drizzle.
Alex stared up at the clouds, thinking.
If it was a trap, he'd survive.
He always did.
But if it wasn't…
If someone truly knew…
This might finally end.
Or begin.
He smirked slightly.
"Sector 17, huh?" he whispered.
Dangerous places had always felt like home.
He shoved his hands into his pockets and walked into the night, boots splashing through puddles, neon lights reflecting off the wet streets like broken stars.
Somewhere far away, hidden in the dark, a satellite locked onto his heat signature.
Inside a secure command center, a woman watched his image on a screen.
White coat. Cold eyes.
"Subject A-01 located," she said calmly. "Prepare Vanguard Unit Zero."
On the screen, Alex's face zoomed in.
She studied him like a scientist looking at an insect.
"The immortal anomaly," she murmured. "This time… we dissect him properly."
Back on the street, Alex felt a chill run down his spine.
Like the world itself was watching.
Maybe it was.
Maybe it always had been.
But for the first time in years, something burned inside him that wasn't fear or exhaustion.
Hope.
Hope that somewhere in Sector 17 waited an answer.
Or someone like him.
Because being immortal wasn't the worst thing in the world.
Being immortal alone was.
And Alex was tired of being the last one.