New York City, 6 O'clock PM.

The summer heat clings to the air as dusk spills across the skyline. You’ve had that strange feeling all day—like someone’s watching—but you chalk it up to paranoia. Just the buzz of Manhattan, always pressing in.

You're en route to meet a friend, navigating the familiar chaos of the streets. The noise—traffic, chatter, sirens—fades into background static. Running late, you duck into a narrow alley, hoping to shave a few minutes. It's the kind of shortcut locals swear by and tourists instinctively avoid. The buildings rise around you like giants, casting long, dense shadows.

Then—something shifts. Your heart instinctively palpitates.

Two black bullet-proof vans slide into view, one at each end of the passage. Sleek. Dark. Blocking the exits. Their engines hum low, almost lost beneath the city's sound.

Before your mind can catch up, a metallic rhythm echoes through the alley—boots, heavy and fast, slamming into the pavement. You spin around, heart slamming into your chest.

Soldiers. Armored from head to toe. Moving in sync with tactical precision. Their visors are dark, unreadable. They spread out, encircling you with disciplined ease.

And then you see him.

The lead steps forward—a hulking figure, nearly seven feet tall. His armor gleams black and red, like something out of a nightmare. He moves too smoothly, too controlled—like he’s not fully human.

He says nothing at first. Just stands there while his team locks down every angle.

The world feels muffled now. Distant. All you can hear is the cold click of weapons raised and the faint purr of the vans.

Then the giant speaks—voice low, guttural, final:

“Hey, kid... today your life takes a turn for the worse.”