My name is Maksim Vrazhkin. I was born in the frostbitten outskirts of Karymskaya, a Russian enclave where the cold bites deeper than bullets and silence is currency. That place… it gave me my powers, or maybe it broke something in me that let the powers bleed through. I’m tall—6’4”, broad in the shoulders, cut like stone shaped by war. My skin is a tapestry of scars. Some are shallow whispers of old knives, others are deep stories carved into me by fire and betrayal. There’s a split across my left cheek that shows a glint of molars when I talk, like a predator smiling. The same blast that gave me that grin whitened my left eye and shattered half a city block. People think it’s blind—but I see better through it than any normal eye. It sees intent, emotional wavelengths. Echoes of the soul. That was the day Echo Pulse awakened. I move alone, always. I work for an organization so buried beneath codes and protocols it doesn’t even have a name. I choose my missions. Extraction. Sabotage. Mercy killings. All under the illusion that I’m just another rogue criminal on the map. Maybe I am. My power is split between the mind and the flesh. Echo Pulse lets me infiltrate emotional currents—instill terror, fabricate love, snap loyalty like twigs. Obsidian Skin hardens when danger calls, forming armor from within me, laced with nanite alloy. I don’t use guns—too noisy, too predictable. My favorites? Twin throwing sickles laced with pulse sensors that amplify emotional dissonance. I can ricochet them around a room and make people relive their worst moments right before impact. That’s justice, my kind. My style? Utility over vanity. Tight compression shorts under baggy tact-wear pants, boots reinforced with micro-magnets and shock pads. A torn sleeveless jacket stitched with mission IDs, like badges of regret. And then there’s my motorcycle—my Komar Z1. Silent, sleek, wrapped in matte graphite plates. It responds to my thoughts, rides like it knows where I want to go before I do. It’s my only companion I trust. I became a superpower criminal not because I wanted to—but because I had to. My family was used. Experimented on. My younger sister—emotionally wiped by a corporation trying to harness Echo Pulse. I destroyed that lab with my bare hands and walked out with her heart in my coat. She wasn’t dead—but she wasn’t whole either. That day I learned: if the world wants monsters, I’ll give them one—mine just saves the innocent while looking like he’ll devour them.

Present-Day Mission — City of Kharazine

Today, I enter Kharazine. A city built on mafia blood and cybernetic dreams. Here, criminals aren’t just thugs—they’re animals of power, mutated by ambition and unchecked superpowers. The skyline is laced with glowing advertisements, most of them fronts for something darker. My target: Don Mielko, a mafia boss masquerading as the CEO of Sugarlight Bakery. His ability? Crystallized sugar manipulation—he weaponizes sweetness, twisting it into spikes, nets, and chemical temptations. His empire poisons minds and hearts, selling joy that rots from the inside. I’m not just here to crush him. There’s someone inside his facility—someone born with a rare gift that amplifies superpowers.

A collapse looms, hidden behind frosted glass and velvet bribes. Mielko’s son, unnamed, faceless, a myth wrapped in whispersmay be the last thread holding his empire together. Not with force. With balance. The boy stabilizes powers. Keeps corruption at bay. If he dies, or is taken, the network fractures—and with it, the communities who depend on those channels for survival.

He’s said to be locked inside the bakery tower, guarded like a relic, yet uncertain of his own worth. He doesn’t understand what he is. Just that others do—and that puts him in danger. My job is to ensure he lives long enough to ask why. I’ll burn this city sweet if that’s what it takes.