The tunnel smelled of salt, damp metal, and something fouled from decay. Water dripped from the low ceiling in cold, steady rhythms, pooling into small, uneven puddles that reflected the flickering fluorescent lights overhead. He moved like a shadow stretched thin—silent, deliberate, each step calculated. His black bone staffs scraped against the walls once, twice, and he corrected the motion, letting them rest across his shoulders as he pressed forward. The suit clung to his form, matte black with subtle plating along the chest and arms, built for movement and protection. No insignias. No signs of who he was—just the faint hum of conviction vibrating through every fiber of his body.
A muffled shout ahead. A lone figure emerged from behind a crate. "He's here!"
Bullets cracked. Two of them slashed through the air and tore through him. The first pain flared, a sharp bite, then vanished; the second followed the same path. He barely flinched. The wounds stitched themselves shut in the blink of an eye. Without hesitation, he lunged, his staffs spinning in an elegant arc that slammed the goon against the wall, knocking him unconscious with a wet crack. Fingers brushed the keys hanging from the man's pocket. A key card. He pocketed it and pressed forward.
The elevator doors opened to reveal a dozen more, weapons trained. They fired. The corridors rang with lead and shouts. He moved like liquid shadow, black bones clashing, fists striking, feet sweeping. Bullets tore past him; some found their mark in the air around him, ricocheting harmlessly as he struck, twisted, and countered. Each wound he took dissolved before it could register, leaving him only with the ache of impact, not the threat of death. One goon froze, staring with wide, panicked eyes. "G‑guns…don't…work…on…him!" The metal knuckles came next, scraping the floor as the man lunged with a brutal grin. A dance of fists and bone began, a clash of impact and fury. Each strike he took pressed into him, blood tasting copper on his tongue, but he adapted, countered, and subdued.
When the last one fell, the elevator fell silent. He exhaled, spit staining his teeth and jaw. Healing already closing the worst of the bruises. Fingers searched the panel above. He knew the button—he needed the right one. His eyes landed on a red square, subtle in its placement. He pressed it.
The elevator groaned as it began its descent. He sank onto the body of a knocked-out goon, placing one boot against the chest to keep the corpse from sliding. Rhythmically, he tapped the bones against the floor, each strike echoing faintly in the enclosed metal cage. The sound was deliberate, a cadence, a heartbeat, a war drum of focus. Outside, the shaft was a blur, and inside, the only motion was him. No fear. No hesitation. Pure intent.
The elevator slowed. The doors slid open with a reluctant hiss to reveal a corridor bathed in shadow. Flickering lights cast long, jittering shapes across cracked concrete and twisted pipes. He dragged the inert body forward, pressing it against the frame so the doors could not close, so no one could follow him up if someone tried. His black bone staffs were gripped tight, the tips scraping faintly against the wall as he stepped forward.
Soft breaths filtered through the darkness ahead. He moved toward them slowly, every sense alert, every nerve stretched. The corridor seemed longer than it was, each flicker of the failing lights exaggerating the shadows, until finally the source appeared.
The door stood in front of him, heavy and industrial, edges pitted from years of rust and wear. He placed a hand on the handle, eyes narrowing, and eased the door open. Inside, a single light bulb swayed slightly, casting a dim circle across the center of the room. Machines hummed in monotonous unison, wires coiling like serpents around metal tables and vats. At the center sat a figure. The man was strapped into a chair, limbs restrained. A mask covered his face, the tubing from it puffing and whistling like steam, each exhale mechanical and controlled, like the measured breathing of a machine rather than a human. The sound carried, deep and hollow, Vader-like, reverberating across the walls and through the muscles in his chest.
Everything else faded. All the bloodshed and chaos, the planning and maps, the gunfire and broken bones—none of it mattered. Only the man in the center, hooked to machines, breathing like a dark engine in the quiet room.
And he stepped forward, staffs ready, each strike of metal against metal a soft percussion echoing through the space, heart and rhythm fused to a single purpose.
The single bulb swayed above the room, casting a fragile circle of light across wires, machines, and monitors that hummed like a trapped animal. The man strapped to the chair breathed through the mask, the hiss mechanical, laborious, almost mocking in its steadiness.
"Didn'I say… I wanted peace?" The voice came slow, deliberate, weak, a man trying to sound calm while tethered to life by wires and metal.
"Peace?" The boy's response cut through the room like a blade. "You don't deserve peace."
The breathing behind the mask quickened, small twitches running up the man's arm. "Who… are you?"
He stepped closer, black bones scraping across the machines. The sound was subtle, but in the quiet, it echoed like a war drum. "You hunted my father's blood. You dragged him into this. Away from me.Just to end up strapped into machines"
The monitors beeped faster, red lights flickering, spikes chasing one another across screens. The man's mask hissed in quick bursts. "You… you—"
The boy's staff collided with a machine. Sparks flew. Alarms blared faintly. "Karma did its part," he said, voice low, steady, deadly. "But that… isn't enough."
A tremor ran through the restrained figure, a twitch of panic under the mask. Monitors spiked violently; tubing rattled. He realized, in that instant, just how much power the boy held in his hands.
The boy struck another console. Smoke curled from the sparking wires. "The lives you took. The people you broke." His words cut as he crushed another machine. Each strike sent a surge through the man, making his oxygen hiss uneven, alarms screaming higher.
"You… you… suicide…" the man gasped, voice trembling, his mechanical breaths uneven and shallow.
The boy's grip on his staffs tightened, knuckles white beneath the reinforced gloves. Every movement radiated intent—murder, vengeance, something far colder than rage. "I hoped… I'd find you standing. Alive. So my anger… my vengeance… would mean something."
Sparks from the machines flew, coating the metal floor in tiny embers. The chair shuddered as another machine exploded under the boy's control, leaving only the steady hiss of oxygen and the erratic heartbeat of the life-support monitors.
He raised the black bone staffs, muscles coiled, eyes cold and unwavering. The man's mask hissed louder, faster, alarms screaming in unison. And then, suddenly, the lights went out. Darkness swallowed the room.
The hiss of the oxygen and the faint red glow of the monitors were all that remained. A heartbeat, a pause, a breath.
"You came here… to avenge him," the man finally rasped, voice barely audible. "You think… you can fix this. But you… you can't see it. Not yet."
The boy's grip did not falter. His footsteps were silent on the metal floor as he circled closer. "I don't need to see. I need to act."
He brought the bone down. Once.
Twice.
Again.
And again.
White fluid splattered across his face, his arms, dripping down his jaw as he hammered into the body with feral precision. The hiss of machinery turned into wet crunches—an orchestra of vengeance.
He didn't stop. Couldn't.
Each strike was a memory.
Each splatter, a ghost he couldn't bury.
When he finally froze, panting and trembling, all that was left on the bed were torn sheets and a puddle of thick, milky liquid seeping into the metal grooves.
He stared at it—at the ruin, the silence, the faint smell of sterilized death—and then the lights flickered once.
Twice.
Then snapped off.
A long, hollow hum filled the air. Then silence.
The lights snapped off.
A long, hollow hum filled the air. Then silence.
The boy exhaled through his nose, slow and annoyed. He scratched the side of his neck with the edge of his staff. "Knew I shouldn't've spoken too soon." His voice carried easily in the dark. "Let me guess… when the lights come back, I'll be surrounded in some fancy circle of death, yeah?"
A single clap echoed. Then another.
Light flared back on.
The boy blinked once, adjusting. Just as he'd guessed, he stood in the middle of a wide metallic chamber—the walls lined with steel pipes, broken machinery, and graffiti smeared like scars. Around him, forming a complete ring, stood more than a dozen men and women. Some held rifles, others brass knuckles, others nothing but grins sharpened by violence.
He rolled one of his black bone staffs onto his shoulder, gripping the other lazily by his side. "Nice welcoming committee," he muttered.
At the far end of the room, the man once strapped to machines now sat upright in a motorized wheelchair. His mask still clung to his face, tubes coiling into his chest, but the rhythmic hiss was calmer, steadier.
Then he reached up. Two fingers hooked under the mask.
But instead of ripping it off in frustration or pain…
the figure peeled it, almost lazily—like removing a sticker.
The tubes disconnected themselves with soft metallic clicks.
The oxygen mask drooped, and then—
His face rippled.
Not human movement—plastic movement, smooth and unnatural.
A shimmer ran from his jaw downward like melted wax hardening in reverse.
Clothes shifted—colors bleeding into new patterns, textures reforming.
Straps vanished. Sleeves shortened. The medical gown folded inward and re-knit into a dark leather coat.
By the time the transformation stopped, the wheelchair wasn't medical anymore.
It was sleek, black, with subtle gold trims.
More throne than chair.
The boy growled the name:
"Figurine."
The man sat comfortably now—one leg crossed over the other.
A slow smile curled across the new face.
"When bossman said you'd be coming here alone, i didn't believe him. In my mind that was just too suicidal to take place" Figurine said, voice steadier now—mechanical, but carrying the smug composure of a man who'd rehearsed this moment. "Then again… that's what you are, isn't it?"
The boy said nothing, only scanned the ring of enemies.
"Suicide Kid." The name hung in the air, deliberate and heavy. "That's what they call you. You jump into hell hoping it'll burn something else before it burns you."
Suicide Kid didn't answer. His gaze kept darting from one target to another, silently counting.
Figurine noticed. "30 goons," he said. "Four supers. Odds aren't in your favor, though with your healing factor… I'll give you generous chances."
Suicide kid finally looked at him. "Yeah," he said. "You might wanna lower those odds."
He pointed a bone at the man his tone flat and fearless. "'Cause once I'm done with every bastard in this room, including you, i will find your boss. And I will make sure he feels it."
Figurine smiled.. "How poetic."
He lowered his hand.
The room exploded into motion.
Gunfire thundered. Energy bolts cracked the air. The boy was already moving—spinning, ducking, swinging the black bones with brutal grace. He slammed one into a goon's ribs, grabbed another by the vest, and swung him into a beam. Bullets tore through his shoulder and leg, but his body sealed itself mid-motion. Flesh stitched, veins cooled, and something pale shimmered briefly through his wounds—thin streams of white fluid seeping, then vanishing beneath skin as it healed.
He barely noticed.
A man with cybernetic arms lunged. The boy ducked under the blow and cracked his jaw with a knee, then twisted, grabbing another by the throat and hurling him into a crate. Bones snapped.
Every few seconds, that faint milky sheen pulsed under his torn flesh before it vanished—like light beneath glass.
A female super stepped forward, raising her palm. A pulse of red light burst from it, hurling him into a wall. His ribs bent, cracked, healed. He spat blood, wiped his mouth, and grinned.
"That all you got?"
Then two more supers joined—one with lightning twitching across his fingers, another whose skin turned to stone. They came at him together. The boy met them head-on, a blur of ferocity and endurance. Every hit he took, he gave back harder. Every wound he suffered, he erased with stubborn will.
Still, something was wrong.
Halfway through slamming another goon down, his breath hitched. The bullet wounds on his side sealed slower this time. The white sheen flickered… thinner now. A searing pain crawled up his neck. His fingers trembled as he parried a strike.
"What the—"
The boy stumbled. He blocked another hit, but this time the gash on his forearm stayed open, bleeding sluggishly—no white glow, no seal.
He clenched his jaw. "You son of a—"
The supers didn't wait. The lightning user darted in, zapping his chest. The stone-skinned brute followed with a heavy hook that sent the boy sliding across the floor.
He hit a crate, coughed blood, and forced himself up. His body screamed, his healing lagged, but his will refused to crack.
He charged again.
The fight devolved into chaos—pure, desperate violence. He broke a goon's arm, shattered another's jaw, but every movement burned like fire. His breath came ragged.
Finally, the supers coordinated. Lightning arced across the ceiling. The red-light woman fired a blast straight into his chest, sending him flying backward into the stone brute's fist. The hit drove him into the floor with a thunderous crack.
He lay there, chest heaving, eyes flickering, trying to pull himself up. His hands reached for his black bones. The edges glowed faintly as his trembling fingers wrapped around them.
But his healing wasn't coming. Every wound burned instead of closing.
He looked down—no white shimmer, no light beneath the skin. Only raw, open pain.
From across the room, Figurine watched silently, arms folded. "Still standing?"
The kid's jaw tensed. He dragged himself up, each breath a war, and raised his staffs again. "You'll have to bury me to stop me."
Figurine tilted his head. "I don't think its time yet."
The supers advanced again. The one with lightning hesitated—a flicker of doubt. The red-light woman shouted, "Move!" but it was too late.
The boy crossed his staffs before him. The energy hit the bones dead center.
There was a flash—white, blinding, soundless.
Then the world tore open. And darkness followed.