The silence of the abandoned lot stretched around Abraham as he walked away from the scene, his footsteps crunching faintly on broken glass and gravel. The night air was cool, damp with the scent of rain that had yet to fall. His mind churned, unsettled, gnawing on something that he couldn't quite place.
He couldn't stop thinking about the man.
The one with the camera.
Abraham had caught only glimpses of him during the chaos—a shadow moving between the wreckage, the faint metallic glint of a lens reflecting dim light. At first, he had dismissed it as a stray civilian, a mistake that would cost the fool their life if they stayed too long. But the way the man had lingered, the way he had been watching, felt different.
He was panicked. Frozen in fear. Yet, calculating.
That had made Abraham pause. He wasn't sure why, but something about the man's presence had tugged at his attention, like an itch beneath the skin. When he'd finally approached him, ready to snuff out the potential threat, he'd seen the man's face—a mixture of terror and determination that had stopped him cold.
Most people who encountered Abraham's true nature reacted predictably: screaming, fleeing, or begging for their lives. This man had done none of those things. He'd stood there, trembling, yes, but still there.
That shouldn't have mattered. Abraham had faced down far greater threats than some wide-eyed voyeur with a camera. Yet, as he walked deeper into the night, the man's expression lingered in his mind, a ghost he couldn't shake.
Abraham clenched his fists, his claws lightly biting into his palms as he tried to banish the thought. Why did it matter? He had spared the man—something he was already questioning—and had made it clear what would happen if they crossed paths again.
"Next time, I might not let you walk away."
The words had felt hollow even as he said them.
—
Now, hours later, in the solitude of his cramped apartment, Abraham paced like a caged animal. The dim light from a single desk lamp cast jagged shadows on the walls, the glow reflecting faintly off the stack of handwritten notes and diagrams he had been studying earlier. His thoughts were a storm, spinning too fast for him to focus on anything productive.
He leaned against the window, staring out at the city below. It stretched on endlessly, a maze of lights and life. Somewhere out there, that man was probably holed up, shaking in fear—or worse, reviewing the footage he'd captured.
That thought made Abraham tense. His image, his actions—everything about him—was a secret he couldn't afford to have exposed. The world wouldn't understand, couldn't comprehend what he was.
And yet, Abraham didn't feel the usual rush of anger or anxiety at the prospect of being watched. Instead, there was an ache, faint and unfamiliar, gnawing at him from within.
It was loneliness.
The realization hit him harder than he expected. For all his power, for all the entities he had consumed, for all the horrors he had faced, the idea of being observed, even judged, by a single human being felt strangely… grounding.
Not comforting. No, there was no comfort in it. But it was a reminder that, somewhere in the chaos of his existence, someone had seen him—not the monster, not the power, but him.
What they had seen, though, he didn't know.
He clenched his jaw and turned away from the window. It didn't matter. The man had his warning. If he was smart, he would disappear, and Abraham would never have to think about him again.
But deep down, Abraham doubted it would be that simple.
People like that didn't just walk away.
And if—or when—the man crossed his path again, Abraham wasn't sure what he would do. Would he crush the life from him, snuffing out the flicker of curiosity and judgment? Or would he hesitate, allowing that faint sliver of humanity he still clung to whisper its objections?
He sighed, sinking into the worn chair by his desk. The weight of the encounter pressed on him, a phantom burden he couldn't shake.
For the first time in a long while, Abraham felt unsure. Not about his power, or his purpose, but about himself.
Who was he becoming? And what would he see in the eyes of someone brave—or foolish—enough to keep watching?
—
Agent Callahan sat alone in the sterile meeting room, the fluorescent lights casting a harsh glare on the table's polished surface. His hands trembled as he stared at the untouched cup of coffee in front of him. The scalding liquid had long gone cold, but he didn't care.
The battle with it—with him—played on a relentless loop in his mind.
Callahan had witnessed plenty of horrors in his time with the Sentinels. Creatures that defied reason, things that could shatter a man's sanity with a glance. But none of it compared to what he'd seen that night.
The room's heavy door creaked open, pulling him from his spiraling thoughts. A tall figure entered, flanked by two others in dark suits. Director Hollis, the head of operations for their division, wasted no time taking the seat opposite Callahan. Her steely gaze bore into him, sharp and unyielding, as if she were dissecting him with her eyes.
"Agent Callahan," she began, her tone devoid of warmth, "you were the only survivor of both Operation Quarry and Operation Touchdown. Start from the beginning."
Callahan swallowed hard, his throat dry. He glanced at the two agents standing behind Hollis, their stoic expressions unreadable. It wasn't just a debriefing—it was an interrogation.
"I… I don't even know if words can do it justice," he stammered, his voice cracking.
"Try," Hollis snapped, her patience clearly thin.
Callahan closed his eyes, exhaling shakily. "We tracked the anomaly to the industrial district, just like the intelligence said. At first, it seemed like any other target—powerful but contained. We set up perimeter suppression fields, moved in standard formation."
He paused, his hands clenching into fists. "And then… it all went to hell."
"Define 'hell,'" Hollis pressed, her eyes narrowing.
Callahan's jaw tightened. "He wasn't just some rogue supernatural. He was… something else. Something I've never seen before."
"Elaborate," Hollis ordered.
Callahan hesitated, the memory of the fight clawing at the edges of his sanity. "He toyed with us. Like we were nothing. The others didn't even stand a chance. He bent the field emitters into weapons, threw them back at us like they were playthings. My team… they were gone before they could even scream."
His voice cracked, and he looked away, his shame and fear laid bare. "I don't know why he spared me. Maybe he didn't even notice I was still alive."
Director Hollis leaned back, her sharp features impassive. "You're saying he deliberately dismantled a full Sentinel squad and left no survivors other than you."
"Yes," Callahan said, his voice barely above a whisper.
"And this wasn't just a supernatural anomaly? You're claiming it was a person?"
Callahan nodded, his throat tightening. "He looked human, but there was something… wrong. His eyes—they glowed, like molten gold. And the way he moved, the way he fought—it wasn't human."
The room fell silent, the weight of his words sinking in.
After a long pause, Hollis spoke again, her tone colder than ever. "Agent Callahan, do you understand the implications of what you're saying? If this individual is as powerful as you claim, he represents a threat unlike any we've encountered before."
"I understand," Callahan said, his voice trembling. "But you don't. You didn't see him."
Hollis's eyes narrowed. "You're still alive, Agent. That gives us the advantage."
"Advantage?" Callahan's voice rose, his fear spilling over into anger. "You didn't see what he did! We're not dealing with some beast or minor entity. This… this thing can think, plan. He's stronger than anything we're prepared to handle!"
"That's enough," Hollis snapped, her tone icy. "You survived, and you'll use that knowledge to help us. We'll gather intel, regroup, and eliminate the target. That is your duty, Agent Callahan."
Callahan slumped back in his chair, his energy drained. He could see it in her eyes—the stubborn determination, the refusal to acknowledge the scale of the threat.
But he knew.
They weren't hunting a monster.
They were hunting something far worse.
As Hollis stood to leave, she turned back, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "This isn't over. We'll bring him down, no matter what it takes."
Callahan said nothing, his mind haunted by the memory of molten eyes and the chaos they had unleashed.
For the first time in his career, he doubted whether the Sentinels could win.
—
Abraham sat in the dim light of his apartment, staring at the legal documents spread across the coffee table. The hum of his laptop filled the silence, but his focus remained on the deed in front of him—the house his father had left him. A house that still bore the weight of every argument, every memory, every scar of his fractured family.
He rubbed his temples, exhaustion settling deep into his bones. The fight with the Sentinels had forced him to confront a harsh reality: staying in the city was no longer an option. Too many eyes were on him, too many risks. He had to leave.
The idea of selling the house had been gnawing at him for weeks. His father had meant it as a gesture of love, leaving him something tangible after death, but it felt like a shackle. It wasn't home—not anymore. Marcus and his mom had made it their space, their refuge, and Abraham's presence had always felt like an intrusion.
His phone buzzed, breaking the stillness. It was a notification from the real estate agent he'd contacted.
"Offer received. Let me know if you want to move forward."
Abraham leaned back in his chair, the weight of the decision pressing against his chest. He glanced out the window at the city skyline, the neon lights flickering like dying stars. It was time to move on, to leave this life behind.
He'd already purchased a parcel of land deep in the woods—a secluded stretch of forest that promised the privacy he desperately needed. The money from selling the house would fund his next step: building a home tailored to his new existence.
A home for someone like him.
—
A Month Later.
The woods were alive with the scent of pine and damp earth as Abraham stepped out of his car. The property stretched endlessly before him, a canvas of towering trees and uneven ground. It was perfect—isolated, untamed, and free from prying eyes.
He'd spent weeks planning the construction, working with contractors under the guise of a reclusive artist seeking solitude. The house wasn't just a place to live; it was a fortress, designed to keep both intruders and his own escalating powers contained.
The structure stood half-finished, a sleek, minimalist design that blended into the environment. Steel and reinforced concrete formed the frame, with large, shatterproof windows overlooking the dense forest. Inside, the layout was open but functional, with hidden compartments and storage areas for weapons, supplies, and anything else he might need.
Abraham walked through the skeleton of the house, his boots crunching against gravel and debris. He stopped in what would be the main living area, envisioning the space. A simple couch. A functional kitchen. No pictures, no personal touches—nothing to remind him of the life he was leaving behind.
He couldn't afford sentimentality. Not anymore.
As he inspected the work, his thoughts drifted back to the house he'd sold. Marcus had called him when the papers were finalized, his voice heavy with a mix of relief and resentment.
"You didn't have to do this, you know," Marcus had said. "That house meant something to Dad. To all of us."
"It doesn't mean anything to me," Abraham had replied coldly.
Marcus had sighed. "You're running again, aren't you? Just like you always do."
Maybe he was right. Maybe Abraham was running—from the city, from the Sentinels, from his family. But it didn't matter. What mattered was survival, and this new house, this sanctuary in the woods, was his first step toward that.
—
2 weeks later.
The house was quiet, the hum of the generator the only sound breaking the silence. Abraham sat on the floor in the unfinished living room, the walls bare and the air heavy with the smell of fresh paint.
His powers buzzed faintly beneath his skin, a constant reminder of what he was becoming. He reached out with his mind, touching the beams and supports of the house. With a thought, he reinforced the structure, bending the very essence of the materials to his will. The act came effortlessly now, a far cry from the struggle it had been when his abilities first emerged.
As he worked, a strange sense of calm washed over him. This was his space, his domain. No one could reach him here.
But deep down, he knew the woods wouldn't keep them out forever.
The Sentinels. The supernatural creatures drawn to his presence. The Journalist.
They were all coming.
And he would be ready.
_____