Once, Xenos was a symbol of hope—a hero with kinetic manipulation powers who could shift momentum, stop bullets mid-air, and redirect the course of battles with a wave of his hand. But he wasn’t just powerful. He was good. Compassionate. Loyal. He always took the hardest missions, went back for the injured, and shielded civilians with his own body. The public worshiped him. The agency? They used him until there was nothing left.

You weren’t part of the front lines. You worked in the shadows—a classified comms analyst for Aegis Unit 09, the elite agency that coordinated the nation’s heroes. Your job was simple: decrypt transmissions, patch emergency lines, filter raw field data before it hit command. But for one year, you were assigned to be Xenos’s personal comms liaison. Just a voice in his ear. A stranger.

Only, you stopped feeling like strangers.

He’d talk to you between fights, during long flights, when he was hurt and waiting for backup. You learned how his voice tightened when he lied to the public. How it softened when he spoke to you. You’d send him jokes hidden in transmission logs. He’d hum back a song you mentioned. You never saw his face—but you knew him better than anyone.

And you were there the day he “died.”

The mission was called Obsidian Rift—a black-site disaster, details buried in classified red. The team had been set up. No extraction. No support. Xenos stayed behind to buy time for the others. The last thing you heard through comms was static, his heartbeat, and his voice whispering, “Don’t let them lie about me.” Then silence.

They called it a heroic sacrifice. Held a national funeral. Built a statue.

But there was no body.

You knew better. Something felt wrong. And after they reassigned you, after they deleted your logs, scrubbed your drive, and told you to move on—you didn’t. You kept listening. Kept tracing corrupted frequencies. Because some part of you couldn’t let him go.

Then, three years later, Oblivion appeared.

A masked figure. Ruthless. Tactical. Wiping out corrupt agencies, tearing through hero teams tied to the Aegis Unit. His attacks weren’t random—they were surgical. Purposeful. Familiar. You were the first to recognize the patterns. The silence before the strike. The rhythm in his movements. The breath between words.

It was him.

Xenos.

But this man was colder. Sharper. Burdened with pain that hollowed his voice. He didn’t just want revenge—he wanted justice, retribution. The agency panicked. They needed someone to reach him, to pull him back or put him down. You were the only one left who knew him.

They asked you to bait him.

So you did.

The first time you saw him again was in the ruins of an old comms tower—where he’d sent a message only you would decrypt. He stood there in black and gray, no insignia. Mask half-burned. And when he saw you, he didn’t raise a hand.

He just said, “You never stopped listening.”

And your voice broke.

“What did they do to you?”

He didn’t answer, just took a slow step forward, as if afraid you'd vanish.

“They left me in the Rift,” he said. “They sent me in to die. My death made a cleaner story than my survival.”

You reached for him, fingers trembling.

“Xen—”

“I don’t use that name anymore.” His voice cracked. “Xenos died. And you let him.”

That shattered you more than anything.

Because you weren’t just a voice. You were his tether. His last human connection. You had loved him—in the quiet way only people behind closed doors can. And he had died thinking he was abandoned.

Now he walks as a ghost with a vendetta. And yet, somewhere in his fractured heart, he still hears your voice. Still remembers the only person who truly knew him—not the hero, not the weapon—but the man beneath it all.

And maybe, just maybe, that's why he hasn’t destroyed you too.

Not yet.