Months Later… The mirror stared back at him like it was judging him. Elijah Quinn straightened the lapels of his black Italian silk tuxedo for the third time, smoothed out a wrinkle that wasn’t there, and adjusted his bow tie until it sat perfectly. It was a gala night. The UN Global Restoration Summit, to be precise. A once-in-a-decade event now repurposed to honor survivors and defenders of the NovaX Crisis. And this time, Elijah Quinn wasn’t just attending… He was the chief guest. Speeches. Cameras. The world’s gratitude poured in like a tidal wave ever since he emerged from the rubble. Everyone wanted to shake the hand of the man who saved humanity from self-destruction. But behind the prestige, behind the tuxedo and spotlight, Elijah carried a weight . Valeria was gone. He breathed in deeply, lips pressed tight as he stepped out of the mirror room. The mansion’s upper floors were silent except for the low hum of electricity and the occasional soft click from security

“VALERIA!” Elijah’s voice broke in the hall. Everyone of them froze Hundreds of masked guests stared. Silent. Stunned. Some gasped behind their jeweled disguises, others simply… watched. Phones hovered in midair. Camera drones refocused. No one moved. Except Elijah Quinn. With a trembling inhale, he slid his arms beneath her, lifting her carefully inbridal style. Her head lolled against his chest, blood smearing the side of her cheek as it leaked from her nose, now seeping down to her lips. Her body was limp. Too limp. He couldn’t tell if her heart was still beating. “HELP!!” he roared, his voice cracking, chest heaving. “SOMEBODY HELP!” But they just stood there. Leaders. Ambassadors. Billionaires in designer suits. The ones who cheered when he walked in… who once called him a hero. Now they were statues. Useless. The orchestra had stopped. The lights overhead flickered as security scrambled too late to trace the vanished assailant. But none of it mattered to Elijah.

The silence in the hospital suite cracked like thin glass when the door hissed open. Elijah turned sharply. Two men stepped in, their uniforms crisp black coats with gold emblems stitched to their shoulders. Not standard city police. The insignia was foreign, elite, bearing the seal of Venetian Global Security Authority. Behind them, a third figure followed, older, grey-haired, with the deliberate gait of someone who didn’t waste steps. “Mr. Quinn?” the leader asked. His accent was sharp, precise. Northern European. Elijah squared his shoulders. “What do you want?” The man didn’t blink. “We’re with the Venetian GSA. We’ve been granted temporary jurisdiction under Section 42 of the International Financial Protection Act.” Elijah’s jaw tightened. “This is a hospital.” “Which currently shelters a known international threat,” the second officer added, stepping further inside. “We’re here on orders to extract intelligence. That woman, Valeria Quinn,is facing multiple transnationa

Somewhere in the Mediterranean Sea – Onboard the Lucid yacht 11:24 AM The bass thumped low and rhythmic, vibrating through the teak deck of the luxury yacht slicing through turquoise waters. Light danced on the foam trailing behind it as guests in designer swimsuits and mirrored glasses moved to the pulse of a anthem blaring from speakers. Laughter echoed. Champagne popped. Bodies moved to beats, uninhibited, unaware. In the middle of it all, lounging against a warmed leather chair, was Alec Virex. His left arm was inked from wrist to elbow symbols that meant nothing to anyone but him. One in particular: a small serpent curled around a crown. He sipped lazily from a lemon-spiked cocktail, ice clinking, condensation trailing down his fingers. A woman in a red bikini swayed past him. He smirked, tipped his glass. It was a good day to disappear. Then, the shadow fell. He blinked. Looked up. A helicopter. Black. Unmarked. Slicing toward the yacht low and fast, through the s

She spun. A hiss. A seam opened in the padded wall she hadn’t noticed before. A perfectly aligned door revealed itself, sliding back with hydraulic grace. And from the shadow of the corridor stepped a figure. A man. His gait was uneven, but powerful. One leg clanked with each step—matte black titanium that gleamed beneath the white fluorescent light. His left arm was mechanical too, sharp-edged, chrome, humming with servo motors as he flexed the fingers casually. But the rest of him was flesh. Bald scalp. Pale skin. One eye scarred shut, the other gleaming like a predator’s. She knew that face. Her breath caught. “Red Mirage,” she whispered. The man smirked. “Ah. So I’m still famous,” he said, voice like sandpaper dragged across steel. “Even after all these years.” Valeria stepped back. She felt for the padded wall behind her, unsure whether she was looking at a ghost or a nightmare made flesh. “You…” she choked. “You’re supposed to be dead.” “That’s the idea,” he said, s