The corridor stretched endlessly, dim and cold, the faint hum of electric lights the only sound apart from the measured footsteps of the man leading the way. The walls seemed to close in, their sterile metal surfaces warped by an unseen pressure. It wasn't the corridor that stifled the air. It was him.
Victor.
Clad in an immaculate black suit and tie, with a black umbrella tapping softly on the metal floor like the ticking of a clock, Victor exuded an aura that made the six soldiers trailing behind him cling tightly to their weapons. His dark hair was perfectly combed, his polished shoes gleamed with unnatural perfection, and his calm smile, just barely visible beneath his black sunglasses, was the most terrifying thing of all.
Beside him walked Alto, dressed in a bold red suit with a matching red umbrella resting against his shoulder. His crimson hair and sharp red eyes gave him an air of defiance, but even he, the Coalition's public face, was subdued in Victor's presence. He could feel the soldiers' stares boring into his back, as if silently pleading with him to act as a buffer against the towering force of nature walking beside him.
Victor broke the silence first, his voice calm, measured, and dangerously soft.
"Why must I choose the superhumans again, Alto?" His umbrella tapped the floor rhythmically as he spoke. "Haven't I done enough for your Coalition this week?"
Alto hesitated, knowing full well that an answer too careless could end in his deathâor worse. He forced a confident smirk, though it didn't reach his eyes.
"It's not about what you've done, Victor. It's about what the people need."
Victor turned his head slightly toward Alto, his smile unchanging. "They need me. That should suffice."
Alto's steps faltered, but he quickly regained his composure. "They don't see you as a savior, Victor. They see a monster. A Dream Beast walking among men, killing millions of its own kind. Do you think thirty million Dream Beasts dead last week inspires hope?"
Victor stopped, and the soldiers behind them froze instantly, their breaths catching in their throats. He turned his head toward Alto, his tone still calm but carrying an edge that chilled the room.
"Hope is a fragile illusion, Alto. Fear is reliable."
Alto scowled, his frustration finally bubbling over. "Fear doesn't build a future, Victor! People can't rally behind something they're terrified of. That's why we need heroesâsymbols of hope, not harbingers of death."
Victor resumed walking, his pace unhurried. "Fear keeps them alive. That's all that matters."
The corridor stretched on in silence, the tension thick enough to choke. But it wasn't just the Dream Beasts that Victor had killed weighing on everyone's mind. It was the rumorsâno, the factâthat Victor had walked into a stronghold of the Cult of the Broken God mere days ago and single-handedly slaughtered all 1,200 of its members.
No hesitation. No remorse. Just methodical destruction.
Even now, blood still lingered faintly on the edge of his black umbrella, a subtle stain that refused to fade.
At last, they reached a steel door marked 444. The oppressive air seemed to grow heavier, and even Alto shifted uneasily. Beneath the number, a plaque read:
"The Master Painter"
Classification: High
Species: Human
Victor paused in front of the door, tilting his umbrella slightly as he tapped its tip against the floor.
"Open it," he said quietly.
Alto hesitated. "Victor, you know how dangerous she is. Adrastea isn't just another prisoner. She's..." He trailed off, glancing at the soldiers, who were now gripping their rifles with white-knuckled hands.
Victor's smile didn't falter. "Open it."
Reluctantly, Alto stepped forward and swiped his keycard. The scanner beeped, its light turning green.
"Alto Allan. Access granted."
Victor pushed the door open, stepping into a world that defied logic and reason.
The pocket dimension beyond was a swirling chaos of impossible colors. The sky was a living storm of greens, purples, and pinks, while the ground shimmered with hues of molten amber. At the center of this warped reality floated Adrastea, a figure of serene beauty and unspoken malice.
Her dress, a radiant cascade of liquid starlight, shimmered as she lounged on a cloud of soft pink, a paintbrush in her hand. With each delicate stroke, reality itself shifted, bending to her will. Her pink eyes, sharp and intelligent, locked onto Victor as he entered.
"Victor," she said, her melodic voice laced with mockery. "To what do I owe the honor of a visit from the infamous Dream Beast Slayer?"
Victor's calm smile remained, unchanging as ever.
"Adrastea. I've come to offer you a choice."
She laughed softly, the sound echoing unnaturally. "A choice? From you? How... quaint." Her eyes flickered to the faint bloodstain on his umbrella. "Did you offer the same to the 1,200 zealots you butchered last week? Or was that a mercy too?"
Victor took a step forward, his voice as steady as the endless rhythm of his tapping umbrella. "They chose to threaten humanity. I gave them the only answer they deserved."
Adrastea leaned forward slightly, her smile sharpening. "And what answer do I deserve, Victor? After all, wasn't I just painting when you locked me away? Or is creativity itself a threat now?"
Victor's tone didn't waver. "Your art bends reality. You were a danger to every living thing."
"And yet, here you are," Adrastea countered, her voice a venomous whisper. "You, the self-proclaimed savior, come to me begging for help. Tell me, brother of nightmares, how many more of your 'siblings' will you kill before you decide that humanity isn't worth saving?"
Victor stopped in front of her, his smile unwavering. "As many as it takes."
The air around them seemed to shudder, the pocket dimension trembling under the sheer weight of their presences. Adrastea's pink cloud darkened, flickering as her smile turned colder.
"Such conviction," she murmured. "But conviction alone won't save you when the rest of your kind turn their blades on you. Tell me, Victor, will you cry for mercy when you're finally brought to your knees?"
Victor's grip on his umbrella tightened slightly, but his voice remained calm.
"Mercy is irrelevant. Survival is all that matters. Will you join the Coalition of Heroes, Adrastea, or will you remain here?"
Adrastea studied him, her gaze penetrating, as if peeling back the layers of his calm exterior. Then, slowly, she smiled again.
"Very well, Victor. I'll play your little game. But remember, even cages have hinges. And hinges can break."
Victor extended his hand. Adrastea took it, her grip icy and firm.
As they turned to leave, Victor's gaze lingered on an unfinished painting hovering nearby. It depicted him standing atop a mountain of corpses, his black umbrella held high as rivers of blood flowed around him.
Victor said nothing, but the image burned in his mind as he struck the ground with his umbrella. The pocket dimension dissolved, leaving them back in the cold, sterile corridor.
Adrastea glanced around, her smile faint but knowing.
"So, this is your sanctuary," she said softly. "How fragile it is."
Victor didn't respond, but the calmness in his smile grew just slightly sharper.Â