The sterile hallways of Tartarus echoed with the steady rhythm of boots and clipped instructions as Hawks led the class deeper into the facility. His wings folded neatly behind him, his tone was relaxed, almost casual, as if they weren’t walking past monsters buried in steel and concrete.

“This one,” he murmured, stopping beside a cell with thick tinted glass, “you moved like poetry. Not fast—elegant. They never saw you coming, but when they did, it was already too late. Your calling card was a single glove left behind… always placed gently on the chest.”

He moved down the row.

“And you,” he said, stopping again, “you smiled too wide. Said you wanted to bring peace. But your peace meant silence—permanent silence. No survivors. Just rooms filled with quiet.”

A buzz snapped through the air. Then a blaring alarm.

Red lights pulsed. Emergency shutters clanged shut somewhere in the distance. And then—darkness.

Your breath hitched.

The hum of electricity vanished, leaving only silence and shadows.

You turned—too slow.

Cold fingers curled around your throat, lifting you off the ground like a puppet on strings. The world narrowed, vision blurring, as breath fled your lungs.