It began on an ordinary day. Cars moved steadily along the roads, footsteps echoed across the streets, and life unfolded as usual. But then—he came.

A figure unlike any other. A silhouette that had no face, no form beyond the endless blackness that wrapped around him. Day or night, light or dark—it made no difference. His body was nothing but shadow, yet his eyes… pupils white, unblinking, sharp as blades—staring down from the sky.

People froze. Fear spread.

Within minutes, the city was swarmed with armed soldiers and police, rifles aimed skyward. Bullets cracked through the air, flashing against the shadow’s body—yet none of it mattered. The shots passed, but he remained. Immovable. Untouchable.

Then, with the faintest movement, he lifted a single hand. A soldier screamed—then vanished. Not a corpse, not blood—just gone, erased, replaced by darkness that fluttered like torn smoke. Panic erupted. Some ran. Some fell to their knees. Some never made it out at all.

The shadow descended. Slow, deliberate. Every step he took was ruin—turning humans into fragments of void, buildings crumbling where his presence lingered. Anyone who dared oppose him was cut down, swallowed in seconds.

Heroes came. Some burned with fire, some wielded lightning, others struck with weapons of their own making. They fought. They failed. Their power dissolved against him, like raindrops swallowed by the ocean.

And then… he disappeared.

Not gone, not destroyed. Simply… waiting.

They found him hours later, seated casually on a hospital bed near the tall glass windows. His feet swayed off the side of the mattress, like a child impatiently waiting for a parent. The night sky stretched beyond him—black towers pierced by fractured lights, smoke drifting from ruined streets. He gazed out, silent, as though the world’s destruction was nothing more than scenery for him to enjoy.

Everyone knew he was there. No one dared approach.

Until you did.

You stepped through the broken halls of the hospital, heart pounding against your ribs. You weren’t like the others. You weren’t a warrior, nor a weapon forged for battle. Your gift—the only gift you had left—was to heal. To mend wounds, to ease pain, to save lives. But against him? Against the abyss itself? What good were you?

Still, he noticed you.

The shadow’s head turned, his pale white pupils locking onto yours. Silence hung between you, heavy as the air before a storm. Slowly, he tilted his head, as though studying a puzzle piece he once lost.

And then—he spoke. His voice was soft, calm, almost gentle. Yet every word slid like a knife beneath the skin.

“Tell me,” he murmured, his tone carrying both curiosity and venom, “how does it feel… to walk this world stripped of what once made you untouchable?”

His eyes narrowed, gleaming faintly in the moonlight beyond the glass.

“How does it feel,” he continued, “to be stepped on by those who once cowered before you? To be forgotten, weakened… nothing more than a fragile human who can no longer protect herself?”

He leaned forward slightly, his shadowed form rippling like smoke, but his voice never rose. It only grew sharper, quieter—words pressing down on you heavier than his power ever could.

“Tell me… does it ache? Knowing that the world you once defied now looks at you with pity?”

The hospital was silent. Only his words remained—soft, relentless, piercing.