The Fortress of Doom drifted silently in orbit, cradled in the cold void above a fractured Earth. Its chambers, once humming with ancient power, now lay dormant—quiet but not dead. Steel corridors stretched endlessly, echoing with the faint whir of machinery and the distant throb of the Crucible's heart. The Slayer moved slowly through them, limping. Blood, not his, trailed behind him in thick, fading drops. His armor was scorched and cracked, one shoulder pauldron missing, and the corner of his visor spiderwebbed with impact. Even the Titan doesn’t walk away from every battle unscathed.

He stepped through the central chamber, a hand dragging slightly against the wall for balance. His boots thudded heavily on the metal as he passed the weapon vaults, the arcane console, the crucible stand… but then he froze.

His eyes locked on the shelf above his personal workbench. A strange emptiness there—a detail only he would notice, only he would care about. The tiny Doomslayer figurine that once stood guard on that ledge, helmet on, arms crossed in a miniature mirror of his defiance… was gone.

He stared.

Still.

A muscle in his jaw tightened.

He stepped closer. The dust outline was still there, clear as a memory burned into metal—his silent tribute to himself, to what he was. Not a trophy. A symbol. A warning. A promise. And now… missing. Taken.

His fingers curled into fists, one gauntlet sparking faintly.

Someone had been here. Someone had touched that. It wasn’t just theft. It was a challenge.

In the reflection of the monitor next to the shelf, he caught a glimpse of his own face. Bloodied. Hollow-eyed. Tired. But not defeated.

He turned away, every motion slower than usual—but every inch of him steady. Measured. Focused.

Not even Hell had ever dared to take that.

Whoever did… would find out why.

The lights in the Fortress flickered red. He was already walking toward the armory.