The favela clung to the hillside like a desperate, bleeding wound on Rio's glittering skin. Not a gradual ascent, but a sudden, brutal climb from the asphalt jungle below. The air was thick with the scent of burning plastic, stale sweat, and the metallic tang of fear. Crow moved through it, a phantom in the pre-dawn gloom, his movements fluid and silent as a jungle cat. His eyes, sharp and unblinking, scanned the narrow, winding alleys, the makeshift shacks, the flickering shadows that danced with the distant city lights. His belief was a shield, his mission a prayer.
He had been here before, countless times. This was his territory, his flock. The people here, overlooked by the city below, were vulnerable, but they were also inclined. Inclined to believe in something stronger than their despair, something that promised a way out of the endless cycle of poverty and violence. Overtime's influence had taken root here, slowly, subtly, turning whispers of hope into hardened conviction. Crow had nurtured it, cultivated it, watched it grow.
A sudden, sharp crack echoed through the narrow passage. Gunfire. Not a single shot, but a ragged volley, followed by screams. Crow's jaw tightened. His hand instinctively went to the hilt of the blade strapped to his back, a silent promise of retribution. He knew that sound. He knew that fear. It was the Carrion Contract. General Silvio Vargas's dogs, come to cleanse, to cull, to feed.
He moved faster now, a blur of dark cloth against the crumbling walls. The scent of fear intensified, acrid and suffocating. He rounded a corner, sliding to a halt in the shadow of a corrugated iron shack. Before him, chaos. A group of Carrion soldiers, their faces obscured by balaclavas, their weapons spitting fire, were systematically tearing through the shacks, dragging out figures, men, women, children. The screams were real now, raw and desperate.
"Cleanse the weakness!" a voice bellowed, thick with a Brazilian accent, laced with a chilling fanaticism. "The jungle feeds the strong!"
Crow's eyes narrowed. His breath came in slow, controlled bursts. Rage, cold and precise, began to build within him. These were his people. His. And these dogs dared to call them weak. He had no direct orders. Overtime had not commanded retaliation. But Crow's belief, forged in the fires of his own past, demanded it. Loyalty wasn't just blood; it was infection. And these men were an infection he needed to cut out.
He drew his blade, the cold steel a comforting weight in his hand. It was a long, curved machete, honed to a razor's edge, a tool of his former life, now repurposed. He moved. Not with a shout, not with a warning. He moved like death itself, silent and inevitable.
The first Carrion soldier didn't even see him. Crow was a shadow, a whisper of movement. The machete arced, a silver blur in the dim light, and the soldier fell, a choked gurgle escaping his lips. No scream. Just a sudden, wet thud. Crow didn't pause. He spun, the blade a continuation of his arm, striking another, then another. The Carrion soldiers, caught off guard, reacted with a brutal, clumsy violence, their automatic weapons spitting wildly, hitting nothing but the flimsy walls of the shacks.
Crow was a whirlwind of controlled chaos, his movements economical, deadly. He didn't waste energy. Every strike was aimed, every parry precise. He was a force of nature, unleashed. The screams of the favela residents, moments ago screams of terror, now mingled with a new sound: the guttural cries of the Carrion soldiers, a symphony of pain and surprise. He was their nightmare, given form. He was the Crow.
The rooftop was a precarious landscape of rusted tin sheets, exposed rebar, and makeshift antennas, silhouetted against the bruised purple of the pre-dawn sky. Crow moved across it, his breathing deep and even, the machete a steady weight in his hand. Below, the sounds of the favela were a muffled roar, a distant echo of the brutal dance he had just performed. He had cut through the initial wave of Carrion soldiers, leaving a trail of broken bodies in his wake. But he knew more would come. They always did.
He found his vantage point, a small, elevated platform overlooking a wider, more open section of the favela. This was where the main force of the Carrion Contract would push through. He could feel their approach, a low rumble in the ground, a shift in the air. He was alone. No backup. No retreat. Just him, his blade, and his belief.
A shadow detached itself from the deeper gloom below. Then another. And another. A dozen Carrion soldiers, heavily armed, their movements more coordinated, more professional than the first wave. They spread out, covering the narrow alleys, their weapons held ready. Their leader, a hulking brute with a scarred face and eyes that gleamed with a cold, predatory hunger, barked orders in rapid-fire Portuguese. General Vargas's personal guard, no doubt.
Crow felt a surge of grim satisfaction. This was the real test. This was the feast. He tightened his grip on the machete. He was not just fighting for the favela; he was fighting for the very idea of belief, for the truth that loyalty was not blood, but infection.
He dropped. Not a jump, but a controlled fall, landing silently behind the lead Carrion soldier. The machete sang as it cleaved the air, a swift, brutal arc. The soldier crumpled, a surprised gasp escaping his lips. Crow didn't hesitate. He was already moving, a dark blur among the startled Carrion ranks.
The fight exploded. Automatic weapons roared, spitting fire and lead. Blades flashed. The air filled with the acrid scent of gunpowder and the metallic tang of fresh blood. Crow was outnumbered, outgunned, but he moved with a terrifying efficiency, weaving through the hail of bullets, striking with brutal precision. He was a force of nature, a whirlwind of controlled violence.
He felt a searing pain in his left arm, a hot, tearing sensation. A bullet. He grunted, ignoring it, the pain a distant echo, a confirmation of his purpose. He spun, the machete a blur, disarming one soldier, then another. He moved closer, engaging them in hand-to-hand combat, where his blade was king. He saw the fear in their eyes, the dawning realization that they were facing something beyond their understanding. He was not just a fighter; he was an idea.
The hulking leader, seeing his men fall, roared in frustration. He lunged at Crow, a massive, brutal swing of his rifle. Crow ducked, the rifle butt whistling past his ear. He countered, the machete a silver flash, opening a gash across the leader's arm. The leader roared again, a sound of pure, animalistic rage, and swung again, a wild, desperate attack.
Crow met his gaze, his own eyes cold, unwavering. "You believe in the jungle," he rasped, his voice a low growl. "I believe in the harvest."
He dodged another swing, then moved inside the leader's guard, his blade a blur. The leader screamed, a raw, guttural sound, as the machete bit deep. He fell, a heavy, lifeless weight.
The remaining Carrion soldiers hesitated, their eyes wide with a dawning terror. Their leader was dead. Their belief in the jungle, in the survival of the strongest, was shattering. They looked at Crow, a figure of dark, implacable power, standing amidst the fallen, his blade dripping. They looked at each other, a silent question passing between them. Their resolve was breaking.
A new sound cut through the air. Not gunfire. Not screams. But a low, resonant hum, a vibration that seemed to emanate from the very ground beneath them. A presence.
The hum intensified, a deep, resonant thrum that vibrated through the very bones of the favela. It wasn't a sound of aggression, but of profound, unsettling calm. The remaining Carrion soldiers, their faces streaked with sweat and fear, looked up, their weapons lowered, their eyes wide. Crow, his arm bleeding, his body aching, felt it too. A familiar presence. A new kind of power.
Overtime.
He emerged from the narrow alleyway, not with a dramatic entrance, but with a quiet, almost casual stride. He was dressed simply, a dark suit that seemed to absorb the dim light of the pre-dawn. He moved with an unnerving stillness, as if the chaos around him simply bent to his will. His eyes, ancient and knowing, swept over the scene: the fallen Carrion soldiers, the terrified favela residents emerging from their shacks, and Crow, standing amidst the carnage, his blade still clutched in his hand.
Overtime stopped a few feet from the remaining Carrion soldiers, close enough that they could feel the subtle coolness radiating from him, a magnetic pull. He didn't speak immediately. He simply observed, his gaze dissecting them, peeling back the layers of their fear, their shattered belief.
"You believe in the jungle," Overtime said, his voice low, resonant, a current that flowed directly into their chests, bypassing their ears, resonating in their very bones. "In the law of the strong. But what happens when the strong are simply… wrong?"
The soldiers flinched, a collective, involuntary spasm. Their eyes darted, searching for an escape, a hidden panel, anything. There was nothing. Just the profound, unsettling presence of Overtime. He was speaking their language, but twisting it, corrupting it.
"Your general," Overtime continued, his gaze falling on the hulking body of the fallen leader. "He believed in the feast. In consuming the weak. But he was consumed. By a belief stronger than his own." His eyes moved to Crow, a silent acknowledgment, a subtle nod of approval.
The Carrion soldiers swallowed hard, their throats tight. They felt a prickle of cold sweat on their necks. Their leader, their god, was dead. Their belief, their very foundation, was crumbling. They were raw, exposed, bleeding. And Overtime was offering them something new.
"You are here because you believe in survival," Overtime murmured, his voice a silken thread, weaving itself into the very fabric of their perception. "In power. In the right to take what you need. But what if there was a power beyond taking? A power in becoming?"
One of the soldiers, a young man with fear etched deep in his eyes, trembled. His hand, clutching his rifle, began to shake. He wanted to run. He wanted to fight. But Overtime's gaze held him, pinning him like a specimen.
"Your general taught you to fear," Overtime said, his voice softer now, almost conversational. "To make others fear. But fear is a cage. It binds you. What if you could be unbound? What if your belief could be a key, not a chain?"
The young soldier's shoulder twitched. He hadn't realized how much he'd been leaning forward, how his breath had quickened. Overtime had just spoken a truth he'd never articulated, not even to himself. The fear he'd carried, the constant struggle for dominance, suddenly felt like a heavy, suffocating burden. He stared at Overtime, a flicker of recognition in his eyes, a dawning, terrifying understanding. He didn't answer. He just stared, trapped in the mirror Overtime held up to him. He felt a profound, aching emptiness where his old beliefs used to be.
"You are hungry," Overtime continued, his voice a low hum. "Not for food. Not for money. For purpose. For a truth that cannot be broken. A truth that consumes all others." His hand reached out, not to touch, but to simply hover inches from the young soldier's face, a magnetic field of silent power. "You wanted to be strong. Now you are. You wanted to be more than a predator. You are."
The young soldier's eyes widened, a flicker of something new, something fierce, igniting within them. Not just a flicker, but a growing flame. He felt a surge of power, not his own, but something shared, something absorbed, a current flowing from Overtime into him, filling the emptiness. He wanted to belong. He wanted to believe. He did believe. Every fiber of his being resonated with the truth of Overtime's words. The jungle, as he knew it, was shifting, dissolving, reforming around this new, terrifying belief. The fear in his eyes was replaced by a cold, unwavering certainty.
He dropped his rifle. The clatter of metal on concrete echoed in the sudden silence. He pushed himself up, a sudden, decisive movement. He stood before Overtime, his gaze unwavering, no longer the terrified soldier, no longer the predator. He had crossed a line. He had admitted his deepest desire. He had chosen. He had become.
"What do I do next?" the young soldier asked, his voice firm, absolute, devoid of hesitation. Not a question of instruction, but of purpose, of destiny. His belief was forming, hardening, reshaping him, solidifying into a new, unshakeable core. He felt a profound sense of clarity, a terrifying calm.
Overtime's smile deepened, a subtle, almost imperceptible shift that spoke of profound victory. He turned his gaze to the remaining Carrion soldiers, his eyes holding the same promise, the same challenge. Half of them, their faces pale with a mixture of terror and dawning understanding, dropped their weapons. The other half, their belief in the old ways too deeply ingrained, turned and fled, disappearing into the labyrinthine alleys of the favela, their screams echoing in the distance.
Crow watched, his machete still clutched in his hand, his bleeding arm forgotten. He saw the transformation, the subtle shift in posture, the unwavering gaze, the absolute certainty in the young soldier's eyes. He saw the infection spread. He saw the harvest. Overtime had not fired a shot. He had simply offered a new truth. And they had believed.
Overtime turned to Crow, his gaze holding his. "You never steal a believer," he said, his voice a low hum. "You simply show them what they already are." He gestured to the remaining soldiers, now standing in a silent, expectant line, their eyes fixed on him. "Teach them, Crow. Teach them the true meaning of the harvest."
Crow nodded, a grim smile touching his lips. His arm throbbed, but the pain was a distant thing. He looked at the new recruits, their faces still etched with the remnants of fear, but now burning with a nascent, terrifying conviction. He looked at the favela, now quiet, save for the distant sounds of the fleeing Carrion soldiers. The jungle had been cleansed. And a new kind of predator had been born. The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon, casting long, crimson shadows across the favela, painting the scene in the colors of blood and rebirth. The feast was just beginning.