The air was sterile, humming faintly with electricity and antiseptic. Beneath it, something older stirred.
Jeanyx Romanov lay strapped to a suspended platform of reinforced titanium, hovering like a sacrifice above a rectangular pool of black liquid. Its surface shimmered like oil, but there was no reflection—only depth. Depth that devoured.
Thick, leather restraints bound his wrists and ankles. His head was locked in place with a steel ring, bolts clamped against his temples. He could barely move his eyes, but he looked—what little he could.
Glass-paneled observation windows curved around the upper tier of the room like a theater balcony.
Behind them stood generals, scientists, and politicians—men and women whose names echoed through governments and military briefings. Some wore medals. Others wore smiles too small to hide their greed. Many were figures Jeanyx recognized from whispers and history books.
And there, in the center of them all, was General Dmitry Ivanov, watching like a priest ready to light the pyre.
Jeanyx's jaw clenched.
"Ты всё ещё веришь, что это сработает?" he growled.
(You still think this is going to work?)
Dmitry didn't reply. He gave a small nod.
One of the scientists below flicked a switch. The metal frame whirred, then descended slowly toward the pool.
The black liquid rippled—alive.
Jeanyx thrashed, trying to twist his way out, his muscles straining against steel.
"Сука, отпусти меня! Вы все играете с дьяволом!"
(Bastard, let me go! You're all playing with the devil!)
But the restraints held.
He was lowered inch by inch. The first contact came as the viscous liquid licked his heels, then his legs, crawling like tar across his flesh. It was cold, unnaturally so, yet it burned beneath the skin like acid and ice.
Then his waist. Chest. Neck.
And finally—
Submerged.
The monitors screamed.
Jeanyx's heart rate exploded—spiking like a drum in full war rhythm. Every nerve ignited. He felt something worming through his bloodstream, into his spine, under his ribs. Like a thousand spiders birthing inside his bones.
A minute passed.
Then the monitor flatlined.
BEEEEEEEEEP.
Dmitry exhaled slowly, his breath fogging the reinforced glass.
"Он мёртв," he muttered.
(He's dead.)
The room fell into a tense silence.
One of the older generals—gray-haired and wearing more iron than a naval cruiser—turned on Dmitry with fury.
"Ты обещал результат, Иванов! Мы теряем миллионы—солдат, деньги, время!"
(You promised results, Ivanov! We are wasting millions—soldiers, funds, time!)
But before Dmitry could answer—
The air changed.
The temperature dropped.
Frost spread across the interior glass.
Lights flickered.
Then came the sound: a low, deep pulse, like a heartbeat amplified through the bones of the facility.
"Что за чёрт…?" one technician muttered.
(What the hell…?)
All eyes snapped to the monitor.
The heart rate display blipped.
Once.
Then again.
And again.
BEEP… BEEP… BEEPBEEP.
The flatline turned into a steady rhythm—but the waves were wrong. They pulsed not like a human heartbeat—but like a deep-sea sonar, something searching, unfolding.
A red glow bled from the surface of the tank.
It began to boil.
Then—something shot upward from the liquid with a wet, thunderous impact.
A tendril—thick, sinewy, and black as void, laced with red capillaries—smashed through the tank's roof and pierced the viewing room, curling and expanding to seal the only exit with a web of mold and sinew.
Panic erupted.
Alarms howled. Guards drew pistols. Some fired on reflex.
But it was already too late.
More tendrils exploded from the tank, whipping around the lab like striking vipers. One latched onto a screaming scientist and dragged him into the vat, his body disappearing beneath the churning sludge in seconds.
Another impaled a technician through the gut and ripped him upward, bones cracking like dry branches.
And then they came.
From the bubbling surface of the tank, monsters crawled.
Each stood seven feet tall, black and glistening, shaped vaguely like a man—but bloated, disjointed, and horribly wrong. Their bodies pulsed with mold and muscle, heads hunched forward with gaping mouths that split from ear to ear, dripping with decay. Their arms stretched unnaturally long, fingers tipped with claws like obsidian.
They screeched—wet, gargling howls—and began tearing through the room.
One tackled a general, slamming him into the wall, then began tearing his ribs out like meat from a carcass. Another slammed its entire body into the glass of the viewing chamber—then vanished into the mold growing on the wall—
—only to reappear inside.
"THEY'RE IN THE ROOM!"
Gunfire erupted. Muzzles flashed.
A few creatures fell—but two more took their place.
Limbs were severed. Bodies flung. One politician was devoured alive, his legs kicking long after his torso vanished down a creature's gullet.
In under four minutes, the viewing room became a slaughterhouse.
Only Dmitry Ivanov remained, backed against the glass, his uniform soaked in blood—not his own.
Breath ragged. Eyes wide.
Then, the surface of the tank stirred one final time.
A hand emerged—pale jade skin, smooth, elegant. A panjas bracelet clinked softly on the wrist.
Then another.
Dmitry's lips trembled.
"...нет…"
(…no…)
The figure rose from the tank, barefoot on the steel, surrounded by rising steam and the smoldering corpses of the lab's mistakes.
Jeanyx Romanov… was gone.
In his place stood something else.
He… or they… stepped forward slowly, water and black residue dripping from long, graceful fingers.
Long black hair with violet tips cascaded down his shoulders, framing a face too beautiful to name—sharp jawline, soft lips, eyes glowing with bright violet fire. He wore a flowing black kimono, embroidered with violet chrysanthemums, open slightly at the chest, and over it a dark haori coat that shifted with every motion like silk in a nightmare.
Around his throat was a black choker, and hanging from it, a silver necklace of a raven perched on a crescent moon.
Dmitry took a step back.
"...Jeanyx?"
The figure tilted their head.
Then they spoke.
"Я — нечто большее."
(I am something more.)
And smiled.
Steam curled around the chamber, thick and warm like a dragon's breath. Black mold webbed across every inch of wall and floor, pulsing slowly as if breathing. The silence was not peaceful—it was waiting.
Jeanyx stood still at the center of the room, his violet eyes flickering like twin embers in a snowstorm. The tank behind him still hissed, its surface now calm, but not empty.
Something called to him.
He turned.
Slowly, curiously.
Then without hesitation, he stepped toward the tank, raised his pale jade hand, and plunged it into the inky liquid.
The black mold, once wild and volatile, clung to his skin lovingly—like lost children to a returned parent. It began flowing into him, threading through his veins, crawling up his arm, his shoulders, his spine, until the entire tank was drained dry.
And when the last drop vanished—
Three pairs of black, decayed angelic wings burst from his back with a thunderous CRACK. The sound echoed like gunfire across metal walls. They unfolded slowly, ominously, each feather made of shadowed bone and smoke, some weeping trails of mold like ash.
Jeanyx stood taller now—more than human. Less than god.
He flexed a hand, and the entire lab groaned, pipes bending, bolts straining, the very metal surrendering to gravity around him as if pulled by unseen force.
Then he released his grip.
The walls relaxed.
He looked at his palm, curling his fingers. "Huh… Is this what real power feels like?" he murmured aloud.
But his voice didn't echo normally.
It reverberated, like the whisper of thunder inside a cathedral. Jeanyx tilted his head slightly, surprised by the warmth bubbling in his chest. It wasn't burning—it was comforting.
Warmth…?
"I haven't felt warm in years," he whispered.
He closed his eyes and reached inward, chasing the feeling like a phantom ember in a blizzard.
But the moment he touched it—
Agony.
His body spasmed.
His hands shot to his head, clutching his temples as a searing migraine exploded behind his eyes, dropping him to his knees. His wings convulsed behind him, scattering black feathers like burning paper.
Above, Dmitry—who had watched the transformation with a mix of awe and terror—took the opportunity to flee.
He didn't get far.
Two molded creatures stepped from the shadows and grabbed his arms, forcing him back into the viewing area. They didn't attack. They held him. They made him watch.
Back on the floor, Jeanyx screamed.
His skin began to boil.
Steam hissed as his pale flesh melted away from his face, his hands, his chest—not burned, but shed, like bark peeled from a tree.
Beneath was bone—blackened, scorched, glowing at the seams like volcanic rock.
His screams fell silent.
He collapsed.
Then—
Black and violet fire erupted from his skull.
It danced like a crown, rising and falling with a rhythm that wasn't natural. Jeanyx—now a skeletal figure, still wearing the panjas bracelets on his charred wrists—stood.
And the mold crawled back up his arms, wrapping his bones in black gloves adorned with spiked steel cuffs, merging with the bracelets and forming new armor across his forearms and shoulders.
Then the memories hit him.
They surged through his mind like floodwaters through a dam—not his memories, but hers.
His grandmother.
A woman who had once stood beside the Tsar of Russia. A woman whose face had faded in portraits. Whose name was erased from books. Who had been barren… until she made a deal.
With Mephisto.
A devil cloaked in red and sin, who offered her the power to bear children in exchange for her soul—and a curse.
He made her his Ghost Rider.
The Ghost Rider.
A spirit forged in Hell's fire, a divine executioner bound to seek vengeance against the wicked. Its wielder is consumed in cursed flames, their soul fused to a demonic entity. They are judge, jury, and executioner—able to summon chains of fire, conjure hellish steeds, and unleash the Penance Stare: a gaze that forces the damned to endure every ounce of pain they've ever inflicted.
That power had trickled through her bloodline—distorted by generations.
Until Jeanyx.
Now, with the mold fusing to something deeper… the curse had awakened, unbound.
And Jeanyx smiled.
Not with lips—but a grin made of bone.
Dmitry, now pale and pinned in his seat by the molded, stared as Jeanyx raised one bony hand.
A chain manifested—black and steaming with violet fire. It unfurled in his grip with a hiss and flicked through the air like a serpent.
Jeanyx cracked it once, and the room trembled.
Then he snapped it forward, wrapping it around Dmitry's torso and pulling him forward through shattered glass, across the wreckage of the viewing room.
Dmitry coughed blood as the chain dragged him face to face with the skull—Jeanyx's skull—burning like a dying star.
"Ты заслужил это…"
(You earned this…)
He lifted his hand.
Violet fire surged in his eye sockets.
The Penance Stare began to burn.
But then—
A voice.
Not external. Not earthly. It echoed inside his mind, as smooth as silk and as ancient as death.
"Now, now… is that any way to greet me?"
Jeanyx paused.
He looked around. "Who are you?" he asked aloud. "Show yourself."
There was no one.
Then—
Something slid down his back, wrapping around his shoulder like a creeping vine.
It was black and red, oozing with a gelatinous sheen, shifting like muscle under blood. From it emerged a face, one that looked human only in mockery:
A wide mouth filled with jagged teeth, gums twitching with hunger, a serpentine tongue, and eyes—massive, white, and shaped like a twisted teardrop, curling over a skull-like brow.
It whispered in a gurgling, feminine tone.
"I am All-Black… the first."
Jeanyx tilted his head.
"I don't know what you are."
"Symbiote," she purred. "We are parasites to most. But with the right host… we become gods."
Her goo slithered around his skeletal arm, fusing like armor.
"I followed the mold when a team collected it from Romania. Curious thing. I watched. Waited. And when they placed me into that tank…"
She pressed closer.
"...I saw you."
"You bonded with me?"
"I chose you," she hissed. "And now you are ours."
The air was still thick with blood, fire, and mold. Dmitry trembled in his binds, his wrists raw from struggling against the tendrils that gripped him like iron restraints. His mouth moved uselessly, searching for words that wouldn't come. Before him, Jeanyx stood—if he could still be called that—wreathed in black flames and violet light, crowned in the infernal elegance of power layered upon power.
Then the voice returned—purring, syrup-smooth, and playfully cruel.
"If we're truly going to be partners," All-Black whispered, curling her voice like smoke into Jeanyx's mind, "I'd humbly like to seal our bond… by eating this one."
Her tone dripped with glee, eyes flickering hungrily toward the bound general.
There was a beat of silence.
Jeanyx tilted his skull slightly to the side, as if debating whether it was worth the trouble. Then he shrugged with an audible crack of his spine and replied, "Sure. Go ahead."
What happened next was not what he expected.
A tide of symbiotic matter surged over his skeletal frame like black lightning. Flesh, muscle, and armor wove together in fluid horror, and the flame around his skull blinked out as he was engulfed. In moments, his form exploded upward—twisting, contorting—until he became a monstrous humanoid behemoth. Hulking shoulders, elongated claws, a maw that stretched with twitching teeth… a grotesque titan carved from nightmares.
Jeanyx blinked once inside her thoughts.
Then twice.
"Oh hell no," he snapped, his voice echoing only inside her mind, filled with irritated disbelief. "I am not being seen like this."
All-Black paused mid-motion, genuinely caught off guard. Her claws curled with thought as her voice turned amused, "You don't like it?"
"I look like a melted cryptid and a chewed dog toy had a child." He growled. "Can't you just… change my appearance? Something dignified. Something that doesn't scream 'slimy murder clown.'"
For a moment, the giant form stood still, mold dripping from its fangs. Then, slowly, one massive clawed hand lifted to her chin, tapping thoughtfully. The muscles shifted, churning with fluid grace.
"Hmmm… that could work."
The monstrous silhouette began to melt, folding inward. Limbs shortened, claws retracted, proportions shifted from brute force to lethal elegance. The mold hardened in layers, like armor reshaping into clothing. The symbiotic mass carved itself into something closer to human… or something trying to be.
From the smoke and ruin emerged a dark ethereal figure. Female in form, though no less terrifying.
She stood at Jeanyx's height, barefoot but poised like a dancer in a dream of blood. Her frame was a breathtaking hourglass wrapped in a flowing black kimono layered with a crimson himono, embroidered with spiraling thorn-vines that shimmered like veins. Shoulder-length black hair tipped in deep red framed her pale face, and her eyes—now a bright, blood-flecked red—shimmered with otherworldly hunger.
Her legs ended in ankle-high, leather-heeled boots, and on her arms were mismatched gloves—a black one on the left, a red one on the right, both lined with spiked bracelets pulsing faintly with heat. She shimmered like she didn't entirely belong to this plane—half-wraith, half-deity, all-consuming.
She tilted her head toward Dmitry, smiling sweetly.
Then she opened her mouth.
And kept opening it.
Her jaw split unnaturally wide, the corners of her lips ripping with a wet shlick as her cheeks tore open past human limits. Her throat pulsed, a dark void lined with rows of jagged, asymmetrical teeth, like broken glass arranged into a predatory spiral.
Dmitry screamed.
It didn't help.
All-Black leaned forward and, without ceremony, bit clean through his head, severing it from the neck with one lurching motion. The scream died in an instant. Blood spurted into the air in a crimson arc, staining the front of her kimono as she chewed once… twice… and swallowed.
Her mouth reformed with a skin-crawling snap as the tears stitched themselves shut, returning her face to its haunting beauty.
She daintily wiped a drop of blood from her lip with her red glove.
And then, with a small breath—
"Burp~."
Jeanyx, still present within her, sighed.
"You're enjoying this way too much."
"Don't pretend it didn't feel good."
Jeanyx didn't answer.
But he didn't disagree.