Bang!
With that gunshot, the warmth and serenity of everyday life vanished, replaced by the cold, sharp fangs of fate.
The bullet seemed to pierce not only the young Hoffa's brain but also everything he had ever known—his education, upbringing, and life experiences—shattering them into fragments and leaving behind a hollow void.
Before him lay blood pooling, brains dripping from the back of a chair, shattered bone fragments splattered across the wall, and lifeless hands dangling below. The face, still bearing a faint smile, seemed like fate's cruelest mockery.
"Haha...?"
The overwhelming blend of uncertainty and inevitability drowned him. In a desperate reflex of emotional compensation, he let out a shaky, aimless laugh.
"Haha..."
Reaching out with trembling hands, he tried to wake the old man with the faint smile, pleading silently for this to be a joke. But his touch met only the cooling corpse.
"Ahhh!!"
Realizing the elderly version of himself was truly gone, Hoffa clutched his head, fingers digging into his scalp, and let out a soul-piercing scream. The cry sent swarms of nesting sparrows scattering into the skies for miles around.
Stumbling back, disoriented, he bolted out the door. The revolving glass entrance of the record store slammed shut behind him, the "Closed for the Day" sign spinning into the air. A group of neighbors returning home with baguettes and vegetables were knocked over as he dashed past, shouting complaints in his wake.
Hoffa ran blindly, terror driving him forward. He didn't know what he was fleeing or where he should go. All he knew was that no matter what he did, he couldn't escape the clutches of this nightmarish fate.
He ran, head down, afraid to look back, as though one glance over his shoulder would reveal the smiling, lifeless version of himself slumped in that chair.
That old bastard!
Damn it! Damn it!!
The scenery blurred around him as he sprinted. He didn't know how far he had run, how many corners he had turned, or how much time had passed. Eventually, he collided with a wall, finding himself at the edge of a stone riverbank. His body trembled, pale and drained.
Collapsing onto a bench by the river, he stared at his hands. They were intact. The temporal flare was gone. The logical chain sustaining his existence was no longer unraveling. Even a fool could deduce why—this timeline no longer held two versions of him.
But despite this, his mental state had reached rock bottom.
July 24, 1994—died by suicide.
If life was a closed loop, did this mean this day marked his destined end?
Reason whispered that all beings must face death. Even in the wildest fantasies, where deities and immortals roamed, they too would ultimately fall to the flow of time. Immortality was but a fool's dream, a shield against the innate fear of death.
But who wasn't afraid?
What terrified him more was the thought that, even with fifty more years to live, no matter what he did, he couldn't escape the inevitable outcome of dying by his own hand.
What's the point of trying, then?
He thought of the empty house, the flashy Lamborghini—a facade of success masking profound loneliness.
At that moment, an overwhelming sense of futility consumed him. The cruel irony struck deeper than ever, as though the universe itself was mocking him with its darkest humor.
He wanted to talk to someone, to pour out his frustrations about this capricious world, the twisted destiny that had led him here, the madness and extremes of his life, and the indescribable turmoil within him.
But as he looked around, he found himself utterly alone.
He wasn't in his own timeline, nor in the world he once knew. Even if he were, he doubted anyone would believe him.
Who could possibly understand the absurdity of his experiences?
The vast, incomprehensible unfairness turned to humiliation and bitterness—a sense of being toyed with. Clenching his fists, his chest heaved as he glared at the sky.
"Do you love me?"
"Of course, you silly thing. I loved you then, I love you now, and I'll love you in the future."
"How long will you love me?" the woman asked playfully.
"For a lifetime."
"Hmph, liar."
"What makes you say that, darling?"
"You won't love me in the next life?"
Night had deepened. By the riverbank, couples sat on benches, whispering sweet nothings, their heads pressed together in tender intimacy.
Hoffa lowered his head, biting into his hand so hard it nearly broke skin. Hearing their romance ignited a fiery eruption in his chest—a searing resentment at the universe's blatant unfairness.
In that moment, the weight of his lover's death, his forced displacement, the tragedies of the past, and every injustice flooded his heart.
"Why... why is it me!?"
Boom!
A deafening explosion tore through the silence. Hoffa's arm transformed into a blood-red wing, stretching over ten meters. With a powerful sweep, he obliterated the idyllic scene.
The romantic couples were hurled into the river like ragdolls, their cries of terror echoing into the night.
"Why does it have to be me!?"
He raised his head, roaring, as everything around him felt like an immense prison. Though vast and open, it suffocated him, making it impossible to breathe.
His frenzied, piercing cries drew the attention of bystanders. Suddenly, a colossal thunderbird, nearly a hundred meters long, emerged. With a deafening crash, it soared into the sky and then plummeted to the ground, wreaking havoc.
Buildings crumbled under its impact, and terrified pedestrians fled in all directions, screaming.
Seemingly oblivious to the chaos, he rose again, his massive wings slicing through the air as he ascended to the heavens. Then, like an arc in freefall, he descended once more, reducing everything within a thousand-meter radius to rubble.
Ministry of Magic
Minister's Conference Room
Two men sat on opposite sides of the desk.
One was a short, plump man in a long, striped cloak and a four-cornered wizard's hat. He wrung his hands nervously, forcing a somewhat awkward smile. Behind him stood a crowd of Ministry officials.
Across from him sat an elderly man with a long white beard, wearing a flowing purple cloak that trailed to the ground. His demeanor was relaxed, leaning back in his chair with interlocked fingers. Beneath half-moon glasses, his blue eyes twinkled with an inscrutable light.
"The security for this year's Triwizard Tournament will rely heavily on your efforts, Professor Dumbledore," said the short man, scratching his head with a hint of tension. "Given what happened last year, and the year before... Let's try to avoid any incidents this time."
"What are you worried about, Cornelius?"
Albus Dumbledore clasped his hands together with a sigh. "This event is being held at Hogwarts. Do you think I'd allow my school's reputation to be tarnished?"
"Haha, it's reassuring to hear you say that, Professor Dumbledore." Cornelius Fudge chuckled, rubbing his hands together. He slid a parchment across the table. "Please sign this security agreement. We'll deploy a team of Aurors to Hogsmeade for extra protection. I hope you won't mind."
"Not at all."
The elder wizard, with his hooked nose and calm demeanor, spoke gently. "I, too, hope there won't be a repeat of last year's events."
"No problem! No problem at all!" Fudge replied eagerly. Turning with an air of authority, he addressed a scarred, one-eyed man standing behind him. "Moody, did you hear that? You've got a lot riding on you this year."
"What exactly are you worried about, Minister?" growled Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody, his heavily scarred face twisting into a frown. "I assure you, as long as I'm on duty, nothing will go wrong."
Bang!
The doors burst open.
A soaking wet woman, clutching her shoulder, staggered into the room. Her Auror uniform was drenched, and she was visibly out of breath, her face full of urgency.
Cornelius Fudge frowned, rising to his feet. "What is the meaning of this, Natalie? Can't you see I'm in a meeting with Professor Dumbledore?"
"It's... it's an emergency!"
Ignoring Fudge's reprimand, the drenched Auror stammered, "Fifteen kilometers east of Weybridge... a thunderbird—an out-of-control thunderbird—has appeared!"
The room fell silent for a moment.
Then came a murmur of bewildered discussion.
"A thunderbird?"
"Aren't those creatures only native to America?"
"Could it be another illegal magical creature smuggling incident?"
"Maybe someone used the Quidditch World Cup as cover to sneak it in—"
"Enough!"
The Auror woman, on the verge of tears, raised her wand and pointed it at the ceiling. A spell rippled outward, transforming the ceiling into a magical display of the scene outside.
The once-clear night sky was now consumed by raging storm clouds. Lightning crackled through the dense blackness like a spider's web, illuminating the chaos below. Though no sound could be heard, the scene vividly conveyed the ferocity of the storm.
The Auror pointed at the display. "Half an hour ago, the creature was sighted heading toward Westminster. It's caused a massive disturbance—many Muggles have seen it."
Cornelius Fudge stood paralyzed, staring blankly at the ceiling before turning to Dumbledore. "Could it be... Newt?"
For once, Dumbledore—usually unshakable even in the gravest situations—seemed momentarily dazed. His gaze remained fixed on the lightning storm reflected above, his lips slightly parted, his eyes gleaming with an unreadable intensity.
"Professor? Professor Dumbledore?" Fudge called several times, but the elder wizard did not respond.
At that moment, Moody stepped forward, his wooden leg thudding against the floor with authority. A calming aura spread from him, cutting through the panic.
"Take a deep breath, Natalie," Moody said, his scarred face unexpectedly reassuring. "Explain exactly what happened."
The woman wiped the water from her face. "Half an hour ago, a massive four-winged creature was spotted in Weybridge. It's been erratically slamming into the ground, showing signs of severe agitation. Our colleagues from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures confirmed—it's an adolescent thunderbird. The area is in complete chaos."
"I see." Moody nodded grimly. "Contact the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes and the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures immediately. Also, alert the Invisibility Task Force. We'll handle this together."
"There's no need."
Suddenly, Dumbledore stood up, interrupting Moody. Straightening his robe, he regained his composure, his voice calm and decisive. "You handle the Muggle-related issues. Leave the thunderbird to me."
Without waiting for a response, Dumbledore strode past the drenched Auror and exited the room, his expression resolute.
(End of Chapter)
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