Darkness.
Then—pain.
A deep, crushing weight settled over Riven Steele's chest, pressing into his ribs, suffocating him. His mind was sluggish, drowning in a fog that clung to his thoughts like chains. He opened his mouth to breathe, but his throat was raw, his tongue thick like sandpaper.
He gasped. The air hit his lungs like fire, cold and sterile. His fingers twitched, struggling to move.
Somewhere in the distance, a mechanical voice droned:
"Cryostasis disengaged. Neural degradation at twelve percent. Please remain still."
His body jerked involuntarily, his muscles screaming as he fought against the numbness. His eyes fluttered open, but everything was blurred—shapes shifting in the dim, flickering light. Where was he? How long had he been—
THUD.
Pain exploded in his forehead as he slammed into something solid. He recoiled, groaning. The space around him was tight—cramped metal walls pressing in from all sides.
A stasis pod.
Memory snapped back like a whip. The battle. The war. The last stand of heroes. The fall—
Riven sucked in another breath, heart pounding. He forced his fingers to move, reaching up, searching—his hands found the emergency release latch, and with a hiss, the pod's door cracked open.
Cold mist poured out as he collapsed forward, landing hard on a steel platform. His limbs trembled beneath him, muscles weak from years—decades?—of cryosleep.
He tried to push himself up, but the room spun, his vision darkening at the edges. He gritted his teeth. Focus.
The facility was eerily silent. Red emergency lights cast long shadows over rows of abandoned stasis pods, most dark and lifeless. The air smelled of rust and something acrid, something dead.
Riven clenched his jaw and forced himself to his feet. His balance wavered, but he caught himself against a nearby console. Screens flickered, ancient monitors displaying distorted text.
He wiped condensation from the nearest one and squinted at the readout.
DATE: UNKNOWN
SYSTEM STATUS: ERROR
LAST ACTIVITY LOG: CORRUPTED
His stomach twisted. That wasn't right. This was a Sentinel Vault, a hidden facility meant to protect the last of the world's greatest heroes. There should be records—logs, data, something.
He typed in a command: ACCESS HERO REGISTRY.
The screen blinked once. Then again.
NO FILES FOUND.
A chill crawled up his spine.
That wasn't possible.
Even if the world had turned against heroes, even if the government had erased their names from the public record, the Sentinel Database was untouchable. It held the identities of every hero who had ever lived—those who had fallen, those still fighting. Their legacy was impossible to erase.
And yet—
NO FILES FOUND.
His breathing turned sharp and uneven. He checked again, his fingers moving faster. Different commands. Different searches. But each result was the same:
Heroes do not exist.
Riven staggered back, his pulse hammering against his skull. His head spun, his stomach threatening to empty itself.
This wasn't just about files.
Something had erased them.
Not just from the database. Not just from the world.
From history itself.
His hands clenched into fists. No. No, he had fought too hard, lost too much, for this to be the end. If the world had forgotten, he would remind it.
He turned toward the exit, his body still aching but his mind clear. He needed to see it with his own eyes.
The moment he stepped outside, the wind cut through his thin stasis suit, sending a sharp chill through his skin.
The city loomed before him, dark and lifeless. Towering skyscrapers stretched into the night, their glass facades reflecting the glow of neon billboards—ads for corporations he didn't recognize. The streets were eerily quiet, no patrols, no news drones. But the most unsettling thing?
There were no statues.
No murals.
No symbols of the heroes who once protected this place.
Riven turned in slow circles, scanning every corner, every building. Even the Sentinel Watchtower, once the beacon of justice in the city's heart, was gone. No ruins. No rubble. Just an empty skyline where it had once stood.
His breath came fast and shallow.
It was as if it had never existed at all.
A faint buzz filled the air, and he turned sharply. A streetlight flickered overhead, its glow barely illuminating the cracked pavement. A massive screen mounted on the side of a skyscraper blinked to life.
A news broadcast.
Riven's chest tightened as a well-groomed anchor smiled into the camera, her voice smooth and professional.
"Tonight, authorities have once again dismissed the growing conspiracy theories surrounding so-called 'superheroes.' While some citizens claim to remember these fictional figures, experts assure us that no historical records exist to support such delusions."
His body locked up.
"The truth remains: there has never been an age of heroes."
A high-pitched ringing filled his ears. He barely noticed his hands trembling.
This wasn't just history being rewritten.
It was reality itself.
And if it had erased everyone else—
Why was he still here?
A sudden noise broke his thoughts. The distant hum of approaching engines. The sharp whir of scanning drones.
They had found him.
His legs moved before he even processed the thought, his instincts roaring to life. He darted into the nearest alleyway, pressing himself against the shadows.
He wasn't sure who they were yet.
But if they were hunting him, they already knew the truth.
And they would make sure no one else ever did.
He wasn't supposed to be there, and if they found him, they'd erase him too.