The blood dripping from the Executor's palm hit the cement floor with sharp little splashes. The Hollow twitched at every drop, each sound like a drumbeat calling it to feed. The villains, hardened criminals who had faced beatings, prisons, and even near-death fights with heroes, now stood transfixed by something none of their twisted lives had prepared them for.
The creature was not alive in the way a beast was. Nor was it dead in the way a corpse rests. It was something else. Something wrong.
The scar-faced man who had spoken before found his knees shaking despite himself. "That—thing—if it gets loose—"
The Executor's head tilted slowly, unnervingly, until the mask's painted grin seemed to lock eyes with him. "If it gets loose, you will all learn the meaning of finality. Pray that does not happen tonight."
The second Executor finished smearing his blood in a crude circle on the floor, symbols carved into the concrete with a blade. They were jagged, unrecognizable to human languages, but the very shapes made the villains' eyes ache to look at.
The Hollow leaned forward, empty eye sockets dripping with smoke, its body vibrating like a string pulled too tight. The circle pulsed faintly in response, like a heartbeat.
One of the villains muttered, "What the hell are you doing…?"
The first Executor spread his arms like a preacher welcoming converts. "We are opening the way."
"The way to what?" a voice cracked.
The Executor's grin never wavered. "The way to despair itself."
---
The second Executor knelt fully now, pressing both bloodied hands to the circle. The symbols flared dark red, a glow that did not illuminate so much as it corroded the air. The light didn't chase shadows away—it seemed to birth them, shadows that crawled like insects across the walls.
The Hollow screeched. The sound was not noise—it was vibration in bone, in teeth, in thought. Several villains fell to their knees clutching their skulls, blood dripping from their noses.
The scarred man gagged, bile rising. "We're—we're not made for this—"
The Executor silenced him with a single glance.
"Do you not think yourselves important?," the masked figure said quietly. "You are not merely the audience of this play. You are the actors. And actors must not make the audience look away."
The second Executor pressed harder. The circle cracked the concrete, thin fractures spreading like veins. Air warped above it, rippling as if reality itself were glass under heat.
The villains stared in horror as the ripples widened into a tear—black and jagged, like claws ripping through fabric. A wind blew from nowhere, howling inward, pulling dust and loose paper into the void.
And then they heard it.
Voices.
Not one. Not two. A cacophony of whispers—layered, distant, each voice overlapping. Some were weeping. Others laughing. Others screaming. All of them begging. All of them hungry.
One of the younger villains shrieked, clamping his ears, rocking back and forth. "Make it stop, make it stop, MAKE IT STOP—"
The Hollow shuddered violently and then lunged, slamming itself against the circle's edge like a hound chained to a post. Its claws scraped sparks into the cement as it clawed toward the portal, shrieking with a noise so sharp the steel beams above rattled.
The second Executor hissed under his breath. "It senses them already…"
The first Executor's masked face tilted with delight. "Good. Then the tether is strong."
---
One of the braver villains—no, not brave, just desperate—stepped forward, a woman whose Idol had once let her stiffen her skin into crude armor. She spat to the side, glaring. "You said this would get us back at heroes. So far, all I see is a nightmare."
The Executor chuckled softly, a sound that somehow felt louder than thunder. "Nightmares are the greatest of weapons, my dear. Heroes feed on hope. So we will strip hope away. We will make them dream only of this."
He gestured. The Hollow snapped its head toward the woman, jaws splitting wider. She stumbled back instinctively.
"W-what are you doing—"
"Stand still," the Executor instructed calmly. "Let us see how deep despair can cut."
Before she could answer, the Hollow moved. It didn't walk or run. It flickered. One moment hunched at the circle's edge, the next stretched inches from her face.
She screamed. Her armor Idol triggered instinctively, skin rippling into hardened plates—but the Hollow's claws didn't strike her body. They pierced through the air around her. Reality bent, distorting her reflection in the broken windows like she was melting.
She dropped to the floor convulsing, eyes rolled back, foam at her lips. Her armor flaked away in shards.
The villains erupted in panic. Some drew knives, some activated their Idols in fear, fire and sparks and jagged stones flaring across the warehouse.
"STOP IT!" one shouted. "That thing's not ours—it's YOURS—"
The Hollow hissed, reaching for another. The Executor raised a single hand. Instantly, the creature froze, every muscle locking. The villains froze too, realizing just how little control they had over this scene.
"Do not mistake," the Executor said, his voice soft but carrying like a blade through fog. "This Hollow does not belong to you. It belongs to despair. You may stand near it. You may watch. But do not think yourselves partners. You are merely witnesses."
The villains quivered. Not one of them dared breathe too loudly.
---
The second Executor gasped, still kneeling by the circle. The portal had widened now, edges sparking with sick light. From within came faint shapes—hands pressing against the other side, bodies writhing, all made of shadow.
"It is ready," he rasped. "The tether is stable. We can open the path fully."
The first Executor nodded, turning back to the gathered villains.
"Tonight, we do not fight. Tonight, we test the waters. The Hollow will walk through the rift, step into the waking world. And then… we will see what prey it finds."
The villains exchanged terrified glances. None wanted to volunteer. None dared ask where the Hollow would go—or who it would kill.
The Hollow itself clawed hungrily at the air, shrieks echoing through the rafters. It wanted out. It wanted to feed.
The Executor spread his arms once more, a priest at the altar of shadows.
"Bear witness," he intoned, "to the dawn of the hollowing."
The second Executor thrust his hands upward. The circle blazed, the crack splitting wide. And with a sound like the sky itself tearing apart, the Hollow stepped through the rift.
The villains screamed.
The warehouse lights shattered.
And far away, in the heart of the Academy's training grounds, where the class had been waiting for Solarius, the air began to ripple.
The portal was opening on both ends.