"So, a lower sector rat knows about me—someone from Sector 3?" Ynol's voice dropped to a deadly whisper. "I know you're still breathing. Three seconds to show yourself, or I'll paint these trees with this kid's brains." Dex strained against the crushing weight of Ynol's aura, his muscles locked in invisible cement. Then a voice sliced through the tension like a blade. "You SHREDDED my new body," Felix snarled, materializing with eyes blazing. "And now? I'M. FUCKING. FURIOUS." His perfect features twisted into something inhuman. "Oh, hey Dex. That corpse? Just a shell. THIS is my true form. Dragging it across the void was—" Ynol exploded forward, his strike vaporizing everything behind Felix into nothingness. The air screamed. Felix caught the blow with one hand, the impact sending shockwaves through the sector. "Careful," he hissed through a predatory smile. "One more like that and Sector 7 vanishes from existence."
Lightning crawls across Felix's skin like living blue fire as the scene rips away to Michael, who's pinned against a tree, blood streaming from his nose. "I just wanted to reach the fucking middle sector!" he screams, spitting crimson. The Pet—nine feet of muscle and meat —lunges with a sound like tearing metal. Michael dives, feeling claws slash through his jacket. Desperate, he slams his palm to the ground and roars: "ATLAS! LORD OF AGONY AND ENDURANCE! YOUR BLOOD RUNS IN ME—GIVE ME YOUR STRENGTH!" Power explodes through his veins like molten steel. "DIE!" Michael howls, swinging with such force the air cracks. The Pet blocks, but the impact launches Michael backward—exactly as planned. The beast shrieks with rage, its prey escaping, and turns on Michael's fallen henchmen, ripping them apart in fountains of gore. "Barely fooled that thing," Michael gasps, dragging himself into shadows. "It'll track my blood-scent soon." Then—voices from around the corner: "A god's descendant joined us? Angels or Shadows would be stronger." Another voice says "Minor god only. The leader alone knows which one."
Michael's blood runs cold—"A fucking god's descendant in the Insane Bastards?" The men's footsteps falter at the scrape of his boot, but they don't turn. Instead, they glide toward their hideout, predators leading prey to slaughter. Michael's lips curl into a savage grin. These bastards think they're the hunters? He strikes like a viper—blades flashing, arterial spray painting the trees crimson. Bodies drop with wet thuds as he rips through flesh and bone. "GODDAMMIT!" he snarls, frantically scrubbing gore from his only cloak. Lost in the midnight forest, disoriented and panting, a blinding crack splits the sky. Thunder detonates like a bomb. "What the FUCK?" he roars at the storm that materialized from nowhere. Drawn to the chaos, he stalks toward the lightning—then freezes. Black-robed figures converge on the storm center, moving with unnatural purpose. "Dark cloth, freakish storm—this reeks of death," Michael hisses, every instinct screaming danger. He backs away, hand on his blade, and disappears into the shadows.
"This is officially the worst fucking night of my life," Michael spat blood onto the ground. A shadow materialized before him, solidifying into a hooded figure that seemed to drink the moonlight around it. "Michael." The voice slithered like ice water down his spine. "One question. That's all." Michael's hand shot to his blade. "Go to hell." The figure vanished—then Michael's wrist was wrenched backward with a sickening crack. Hot breath against his ear: "I could snap your spine like kindling. Choose. Wisely." Pain blazed up Michael's arm. "What. Do. You. Want?" he hissed through clenched teeth. "Someone called '####.' Ring any bells?" The pressure increased until Michael's vision swam with red. "No!" he gasped. "Anyone new in your ranks? Someone... unnaturally good at staying alive?" Dex's face flashed in Michael's mind, but he snarled, "Nobody." The figure released him suddenly. As it melted back into darkness, Michael collapsed to his knees, certain he'd just looked death in the face—and that it would return.
For three long breaths, Michael didn't move. He stood there, alone in a forest suddenly stripped of wind and insect-song, feeling the cold sweat soak through his shirt. Then, as if on cue, the Pet howled in the distance—a sound both mechanical and alive, echoing through the sector like a prophecy.He ran. Or rather, he staggered, boots thumping blindly through mud and roots, mind flicking through the encounter on endless repeat. If the black-robed figure was asking about '####', and about new members with survival instincts, that meant Dex was not only on the radar—he was a fucking target. Michael's every training module screamed at him to ditch the idiot and save himself. But some moldy part of his conscience whispered counterpoint: If you leave Dex to die, you may as well bag your own head now.The terrain dropped suddenly, and Michael tumbled down a slick embankment, tangling in thorns at the bottom. His jacket was a ruin. He spat blood, staggered to his feet, and checked his pockets for supplies. One stim stick left, maybe an hour of stamina if he used it right then with nothing he mind but fear ,Michael ran. His muscles tore, healed, and tore again. The rain came back, washing blood and terror down his face. He thought of dark hoods, of cold hands, of names that didn't belong to anyone. Finally , he found some rest beneath a tree , there he slept peacefully,
The view is switched back to Felix and Ynol , we see Felix is dashing around while Ynol is screaming with pain.