Nathan sat in the peculiar space, his back pressed against the trunk of a withered tree that loomed over a dry, cracked riverbed. Everything around him was steeped in shades of black and white, as though the world itself had been drained of life. The air was heavy, carrying the metallic tang of decay, and the ground was littered with corpses—men, women, and children alike, their empty eyes staring into oblivion.
He looked younger, his features less weathered but no less worn. Dark circles framed his sunken eyes, and his hollow cheeks betrayed the toll this place had taken on him. His chest heaved as he took deep, labored breaths, the sound sharp and ragged in the oppressive silence. There was an aura of utter desolation around him, a weight that pressed down on the space as though grief itself had taken corporeal form.
Nathan closed his eyes, resting his head against the brittle bark of the tree. He was alone. He was tired. But most of all, he was at home. This was the path he had chosen, and no one had forced him here.
Suddenly, something shifted. The silence broke as a soft golden light appeared before him, casting warm rays against the monochrome backdrop. The light pulsed gently, and slowly, it began to take shape—a figure no taller than a child, no older than ten.
The form solidified into a little girl, her golden hair cascading down her shoulders in waves. She wore a white dress that seemed to glow with its own inner light, and her eyes were the most vivid blue Nathan had ever seen—like a pristine summer sky untouched by clouds. Her smile was soft, radiant with warmth, and as she walked toward him, the world seemed to hold its breath.
In her small hand, she carried a single flower—a daisy. Its petals were delicate and pristine, stark against the grayscale around them. She stopped just before him, her smile widening as she leaned forward and gently tucked the daisy behind his ear.
Nathan's breath hitched. He hadn't felt this warmth in years. It radiated from her like a beacon, piercing through the darkness and despair that had consumed him. Slowly, despite himself, a smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
The change was instant.
As his smile broke through his exhaustion, the world around him erupted with color. The withered tree behind him groaned and creaked as its bark smoothed and its branches stretched outward, lush with vibrant green leaves. The cracked riverbed shimmered as clear water flowed once again, its surface dancing with light.
The corpses dissolved into the earth, replaced by soft green grass that sprouted beneath his feet, dotted with bright, colorful flowers swaying gently in an unseen breeze.
Nathan blinked in disbelief, his hand reaching out toward the girl. "Lily," he whispered, his voice trembling.
She didn't speak, but her smile grew even brighter, her warmth wrapping around him like a familiar embrace. Nathan reached out further, his fingers just a breath away from brushing her cheek.
Then the world shattered.
Lily's smile froze, her expression crumbling into one of sheer terror. Her bright blue eyes widened as they filled with golden light, blood streaming from them like molten tears. Crimson dripped from her nose, and her body began to tremble.
The tree behind Nathan groaned again, but this time it snapped with a sickening crack, its vibrant leaves shriveling as it collapsed into splinters. The lush grass beneath him was ripped away, revealing a ground writhing with grotesque faces—those of children, their mouths open in silent screams, blood staining their cheeks and eyes wide with horror.
"No!" Nathan's voice broke as he reached for her, but her form disintegrated before his very eyes, her light consumed by shadow.
Nathan stumbled back, his boots crunching against the brittle, lifeless ground as the faces of the children around him erupted into anguished screams. Their cries pierced the air, sharp and guttural, the kind of sound that clawed at the soul. From the ground, small, bloodied arms began to rise, fingers grasping and clawing at him. He froze for a moment, his breath caught in his throat, before one of the hands latched onto his ankle.
He looked down, a mix of anger and anguish flashing across his face. The hands tightened their grip, others soon joining in, pulling him down inch by inch. Around him, the void shifted, the ground beneath him quaking as flames erupted in violent bursts.
The fire didn't spread like ordinary flames—it slithered like serpents, licking across the arms and consuming them in a blaze of heat and fury. The flames crept with sinister intent, coiling around Nathan's legs before rushing up his body.
He grit his teeth as the fire engulfed him, swallowing him whole. The searing heat didn't burn his skin, but it tore through him all the same, igniting an unbearable weight in his chest. His world turned into an inferno of screams, heat, and shadows.
And then he woke up.
Nathan bolted upright, his body drenched in cold sweat. His chest heaved as he sucked in deep breaths, his shirt clinging to his damp skin. The room was pitch-black, save for the pale moonlight slipping through the broken windowpanes. He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, wiping at the cold sweat before rubbing his temple.
"That's a new one," he muttered bitterly, his voice hoarse.
He swung his legs over the edge of the cot, resting his elbows on his knees. His fingers threaded through his hair as he stared at the floor, the remnants of the nightmare still clinging to him like smoke. It had been a long time since he'd experienced a dream so vivid, so raw.
These nightmares only came when death was close—his own or someone else's. It had been over a year since he'd been this close to the edge.
"I wonder," he murmured to himself, his voice barely above a whisper, "once I find and kill the last of them… would these dreams ever stop?"
The words hung in the air, unanswered and heavy.
He didn't expect an answer, anyway.
Shaking his head, Nathan pushed himself to his feet, his movements sluggish but deliberate. He crossed the small, makeshift room he had claimed as his own in the ruined town, stepping over debris and ducking under a sagging wooden beam.
At the far corner, a battered desk stood, its legs uneven and covered in scratches.
He grabbed a flashlight from the desk and clicked it on. The beam of light illuminated the room, highlighting its stark barrenness: cracked walls, a few scattered belongings, and his most treasured possession sitting right in the center of the desk.
The book.
The leather-bound tome was worn, its cover scuffed and edges frayed. It looked like it had survived a lifetime of hardship—much like Nathan himself. He picked it up gently, his fingers tracing the familiar grooves and faded embossing on the front.
This book had been his constant companion since childhood, a tether to a time before the chaos, before the weight of vengeance and guilt had consumed him.
He settled into the rickety chair by the desk, flipping the book open to one of the dog-eared pages. The flashlight cast its narrow glow over the words, and he began to read.
The act of reading steadied him. It always did. The world outside could crumble, people could betray him, and his own mind could turn against him in his sleep—but the book remained. Its words were steadfast, unchanging, and familiar.
Nathan read in silence, the soft sound of pages turning the only noise in the stillness of the night. He knew the others were sleeping, grabbing what rest they could before morning. For now, this was all he could do—wait, read, and prepare for whatever the next day would bring.
...
The quiet stillness of St. Agnes Church's main hall was broken only by the faint flicker of candlelight on the altar. Sister Maggie sat on one of the wooden benches, her hands resting in her lap, her gaze fixed on the ornate crucifix at the head of the room. The weight of years spent tending to the church and its orphanage sat heavily on her shoulders, but she bore it with quiet dignity, her presence as steadfast as the stone walls surrounding her.
The soft click of heels echoed through the hall, drawing her attention. A woman strode into the room, her posture rigid, her expression sharp and controlled. She wore a tailored deep blue suit over a lighter blue shirt, and her dark hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail. Mariah Hill exuded an aura of authority and focus that seemed almost out of place in the serene surroundings of the church.
Recognizing the seated nun, Mariah adjusted her stride and walked directly toward her. "Good evening, Sister," she said, her voice steady and businesslike.
Sister Maggie turned her head, studying the newcomer with a calm but curious expression. "Good evening. What can I do for you?"
Mariah reached into her jacket and produced a badge, flipping it open with practiced ease. "Mariah Hill, Homeland Security. My colleagues should have sent word that I'd be visiting."
Sister Maggie gave a slight nod, gesturing to the space on the bench beside her. "They did. Please, take a seat and tell me what this is all about."
Mariah tucked her badge away and lowered herself onto the bench, her movements precise and purposeful. "It's about Nathaniel Cross," she began. "He was a resident of St. Agnes Orphanage until about seventeen years ago."
A faint smile crossed Sister Maggie's lips, tinged with a mixture of fondness and melancholy. "Nathan..." she repeated softly, as if the name itself carried a weight. "I always knew someone would come asking about that boy. Either someone who wanted to write his biography or..." She trailed off, her smile fading slightly. "Well, someone like you."
Mariah tilted her head, her brows drawing together in a faintly curious expression. "Oh? And why's that?"
Sister Maggie leaned back on the bench, folding her hands neatly in her lap. Her gaze drifted toward the altar before returning to Mariah. "Nathan was..." she began, her voice carrying a mix of fondness and unease, "let's just say he was an unusual child. The boy had his demons—a lot of them."
Mariah Hill's interest sharpened at those words. This was exactly why Fury had sent her here. Not only was she tasked with tracing Nathaniel Cross and assessing if he posed a threat, but she was also building a psychological profile—a crucial piece of intelligence that S.H.I.E.L.D. sorely lacked.
Leaning forward, Mariah's tone was direct but not unkind. "Demons? Can you explain? Was he a troublemaker? Did he hurt the other children?"
Sister Maggie's eyes narrowed slightly, as if the very notion offended her. "God, no," she replied firmly, her voice tinged with reproach. "Not that he wasn't capable of it—Nathan had a fire in him, a sharpness—but that's not the kind of child he was." She paused, her gaze turning distant. "No... he was different. Too mature for his age. Loss and the woes of being an orphan—those things change a child. They make them grow up faster. But none seemed more affected by it than Nathan."
Mariah raised an eyebrow, her curiosity deepening. "How so?"
A faint chuckle escaped Sister Maggie's lips, though it was tinged with melancholy. "Me and the other nuns used to joke that he was an old man stuck in a child's body. While the other kids were playing games or getting into mischief, Nathan was... well, he was observing. Always watching, always thinking. He had this way of making you feel like he saw straight through you—like he knew things he shouldn't."
Mariah nodded slowly, taking mental notes. "Sounds like he was perceptive."
Sister Maggie's wry smile softened as she leaned slightly forward, hands clasped together. "That's putting it mildly," she said, her tone carrying the weight of memory. "One time, he was in the library. He must've been, oh, maybe ten. Two men got into a fight over... something I don't remember. The details aren't important. Anyway, the fight ended quickly. Most children would've been excited by the commotion or maybe just relieved that it was over without anyone getting hurt." She paused, her gaze turning thoughtful.
Mariah leaned in slightly. "But not Nathan?"
Sister Maggie gave her a small, knowing smile. "No. Not Nathan. He put himself in the shoes of the man who got assaulted—just like that. And then, he started imagining worst-case scenarios. What if the other man had a knife? What if he'd pulled a gun? And instead of being scared by those thoughts, he began figuring out how he'd handle it."
Mariah's eyebrows raised slightly, her intrigue deepening. "He confided that to you?"
Maggie shook her head, a soft laugh escaping her. "No, Nathan wasn't the 'show and tell' type. He kept his cards close to his chest. I only found out about this after he left. He left behind almost all his belongings, including a journal."
"A journal?" Mariah prompted, tilting her head.
"Yes," Maggie replied, her voice quiet but firm. "The journal was full of observations and plans. That library incident—it was in there, written in the way only Nathan could... like he was strategizing for a battle no one else even saw coming."
Mariah leaned back slightly, digesting the insight. "And was there anyone he was close to? Anyone he trusted, that he might confide in?"
Sister Maggie hesitated for a moment, her expression distant. "Only Matt," she finally said. "Nathan wasn't close to anyone else. He had this... wall around him. But with Matt, there was something different. They understood each other in ways that no one else here could."
Mariah's interest sharpened. "Matt Murdock. Could he still be in contact with Nathan now?"
Maggie frowned, thinking carefully before responding. "I wouldn't say it's impossible," she admitted. "But it's unlikely. When Nathan left, he didn't just leave St. Agnes. He cut ties. With everything. With everyone. It was as if he'd decided he couldn't afford to look back."
Mariah frowned, her tone pressing but measured. "When Nathan disappeared from the orphanage... no one bothered to report him as missing. Why?"
Sister Maggie's lips tightened briefly before she answered, her voice calm but tinged with the weight of memory. "Like I said, Nathan wasn't your average child. Even at twelve years old, he wasn't someone who acted on impulse. He had his reasons for everything he did."
She let out a wry smile. "And he left a note, clear as day, telling us not to look for him. Said we wouldn't find him even if we tried. So, we didn't."
Mariah's frown deepened. "And around the time he disappeared, did anything strange happen? Was there a reason for him leaving? Or do you think it was something he'd planned all along?"
Sister Maggie's expression shifted almost imperceptibly, a flicker of hesitation crossing her face before she quickly composed herself. "I don't recall anything unusual happening at that time," she said, her tone even but her words carefully chosen. "But there wasn't any mention of him planning to leave in his journal either. I believe it was... a spur-of-the-moment decision."
Mariah's eyes narrowed slightly as she studied Maggie's face. The nun's words didn't add up. Only moments ago, she'd insisted Nathan wasn't the type of child to act on impulse. Now, she was suggesting his disappearance had been just that.
After a long pause, Mariah nodded, her expression neutral. "That will be all, Sister Maggie. But before I leave, if you could give me Nathan's journal and Matthew Murdock's contact information, I'd be grateful."
The faintest crack appeared in Maggie's composure, but she recovered quickly, her voice steady as she replied, "Please wait here. I'll see if I can find his journal."
She stood and walked toward the back of the hall, her steps slow and deliberate. Mariah remained seated, her sharp eyes following the nun's retreating figure, the wheels in her mind turning as the pieces of the puzzle turning in her mind, the corners, or at least one of them falling into place.
...
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