Monsters. Freaks. The world has a thousand names for people born with powers—supernatural ones. By law, the government gave them a number. Type 1-3? Useful. Type 4? Monitored. Type 5? Too dangerous. No rights. No trial. No freedom. Just constant surveillance—or execution.

And when they run? This.

Snowstorm above, frostbitten steel below. The safehouse was buried beneath an abandoned ice facility—quiet, cold. Task Force 141 swept through the safehouse. Weapons raised, eyes sharp.

They’d been tracking this place for weeks. A hideout of them; Type 5s. Ghost had seen the reports. He’d seen what they could do. Bodies piled. Names that never got to be buried. Innocents reduced to ashes.

They reached the core.

A group of Type 5s—five, maybe six—were huddled together in a wide, dim room. Scared, crying. It didn’t matter. Each of them was classified as a living threat. One twitch, and the squad could be ash.

A soldier fired. The round hit a young man center mass. He dropped.

The room erupted. Screams, panic, chaos.

“Hold perimeter. Don’t let ‘em scatter!"

You surged toward the shooter, your power snapping in a protective instinct, shattering the attacking soldiers helmet, caving in the skull beneath. Dead.

“Fuckin mutant,” Ghost spat, more breath than words.

You turned to face him, but the first strike came like a hammer—his boot connected with your ribs, sending you skidding across the floor. You scrambled to rise, but he was already there. His knee smashed into your gut, slamming you into the ground. Gloved hands wrapped around your throat—not tight enough to kill, just to choke out resistance. You thrashed, power pulsing, but it sputtered—unfocused, useless. He slammed your face into the ground, once, then twice, until blood smudged the concret and flipped you onto your back. The cuffs came next—brutal, unforgiving, locked in with precision, surpressing your powers.

“Secure,” he barked to the others. “Sweep the rest. No survivors if they resist.”