A sleek white Ford pulled up to the curb, its engine purring softly before falling silent.
The house it stopped in front of was nice—really nice. Not mansion-level rich or anything, but definitely upper-middle-class comfortable. It was a two-story place, maybe ten years old but maintained so well it could've passed for brand new. On either side, carefully tended gardens exploded with color—seasonal flowers arranged in neat beds that probably required more effort than most people would want to admit. A smooth stone path wound between perfectly green lawns, leading from the quiet suburban street right up to a polished front door that practically gleamed in the evening light.
Yeah, whoever lived here was doing alright for themselves. More than alright, actually.
The car door swung open with that heavy metallic creak that only older vehicles make, cutting through the peaceful suburban silence like a knife.
A man climbed out.
He was wearing a military uniform—standard issue, slightly wrinkled from a long day's wear. The name tag on his chest read "T. Willson," though it was half-hidden in shadow. But it was his face that told the real story. Pale. Drawn. Dark circles under his eyes that screamed I haven't slept properly in weeks—maybe months. He looked like a man who'd been carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders and was about ready to collapse under it.
This was Thomas Willson.
Once upon a time, he'd been just another grunt in the U.S. Army. Another name on a roster, another face in the crowd. Nothing special. Nothing remarkable. Just doing his job and keeping his head down.
But then fate decided to mess with him.
He got promoted. Someone higher up noticed his work, recognized his skills, and before he knew it, his name was being transferred to a new command. A very specific command.
General Thaddeus "Thunderbolt" Ross.
And from that moment on? His life went completely off the rails.
Thomas had been pulled into a high-level, top-secret research project. The goal was ambitious—some might even say insane. They wanted to recreate the Super Soldier Serum.
But here's the thing about playing God with science you don't fully understand: sometimes you don't get a hero.
Sometimes you get a monster.
A big, green, rage-filled monster that didn't give a damn about orders, military discipline, or anything else except smashing whatever pissed it off.
And just like that, Thomas Willson's life became inextricably tied to the Hulk.
For three years—three entire years—he'd followed General Ross around the globe, hunting the very thing they'd accidentally created. Chasing a walking disaster from country to country, always one step behind, always cleaning up the destruction left in the Hulk's wake.
It was exhausting. Soul-crushing, really.
Then, about a month ago, everything came to a head in New York City.
Dr. Bruce Banner had come back. The guy was desperate, searching for a cure, trying to fix what had been done to him. And honestly? Thomas had felt bad for him. Seven PhDs. Seven. People used to call him a modern Einstein. Brilliant mind, groundbreaking research, the whole nine yards.
And now? Now he was a fugitive, hunted by the same government he'd once served. A genius trapped inside a nightmare he couldn't wake up from.
But even that wasn't the worst part of what happened in New York.
No, the worst part was when that psycho Blonsky, one of Ross's handpicked soldiers—decided to go completely off the deep end. The bastard actually injected himself with Hulk's mutated blood. On purpose.
And surprise, surprise, it didn't turn him into a hero. It turned him into something even worse than the Hulk. Bigger. Uglier. Stronger. And completely, utterly out of control.
In the end, the only way to stop Blonsky's rampage was to let Banner transform. To unleash the Hulk and let the two monsters duke it out in the middle of Manhattan.
The fight leveled an entire city block. Skyscrapers came down like dominoes. Streets were torn apart. Cars tossed around like toys. And when the dust finally settled and the screaming stopped?
Hundreds dead. Maybe more. The city looked like a war zone.
And the Hulk? Gone. Vanished into thin air, leaving nothing but destruction and unanswered questions behind.
General Ross got court-martialed for the whole mess. Temporarily stripped of his rank. But let's be real—it was basically a slap on the wrist. The military brass covered for him. They always did.
But someone had to take the real fall. Someone had to be the scapegoat.
That someone was Thomas.
The funny thing? Ross had actually tried to protect him. Pulled strings, called in favors, did everything he could to minimize the damage. Thomas never asked why. Maybe he didn't want to know. Maybe he was just too damn tired to care.
He was just... grateful.
And now there were rumors floating around—whispers from higher-ups about promoting him to General. A big deal. A huge deal. And everyone knew it was Ross pulling strings again, rewarding loyalty with opportunity.
Thomas stepped through his front door and closed it behind him with a soft sigh—the kind of sigh that comes from bone-deep exhaustion.
Immediately, a smell hit him. Something warm. Comforting. Home.
His wife was in the kitchen, her back to him, humming quietly to herself as she cooked.
When she heard him come in, she turned around. A small smile appeared on her face, but... it wasn't quite right. There was something strained about it.
Thomas knew why.
Earlier today, he'd caught the edge in her voice when she'd spoken to him. The barely concealed mockery. The frustration. And honestly? He couldn't blame her.
Ever since he'd joined Ross's unit, everything had changed. He'd become distant. Absent. Especially after the Hulk incidents started escalating. In the past year alone, he'd probably seen her what—once? Twice? Their marriage had basically become two strangers living in the same house.
And now that he was finally home? He was buried in damage control meetings, classified debriefings, and endless paperwork. No time for them.
He knew it was his fault. He knew she had every right to be angry.
So instead of making excuses or trying to explain, he just walked over to her and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close.
She tensed up at first—surprised by the sudden affection after so long.
But then her eyes landed on something sitting on the kitchen counter.
Two tickets.
Paris.
Her expression softened. Just a little. Just enough.
"Okay," she said quietly, the sharpness fading from her voice. "Come on. Sit down. I made your favorite tonight."
They ate together in comfortable silence, the soft glow of the dining room lights making everything feel almost normal. Almost like old times. For a few precious minutes, Thomas let himself believe that maybe things could go back to how they used to be.
Then his secure comm device went off.
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
The sound cut through the peaceful atmosphere like a gunshot.
Thomas froze, fork halfway to his mouth.
He knew that sound. It was the alert that only went off when something catastrophically important was happening. The kind of alert that hadn't made a peep since the Hulk disaster in New York.
His wife's eyes met his across the table. She didn't say anything, but he could see the resignation already settling in.
Without a word, Thomas stood up, pushed his chair back quietly, and walked to his study.
The reinforced metal cabinet in the corner—military-grade, secure, overkill for a home office—unlocked with a heavy clunk when he entered the code. Inside sat a laptop that looked like it weighed about twenty pounds. Thick, bulky, nothing like the sleek commercial stuff you'd buy at Best Buy.
This was military hardware. Secure transmissions only. There were only twelve units like this in the entire world, all connected to a closed, encrypted network that only their specialized unit could access.
The screen flickered to life, casting a pale blue glow across Thomas's face.
One unread message.
He clicked it open.
FROM: [ENCRYPTED]
Thomas,
I've found the Hulk. He's in India right now.
He's too dangerous to be left alive. Hire someone to finish the job.
Password: 832892. Use it to access the intelligence archive.
Bank Account: 3210832109. Funds will be transferred shortly. Password is 8932.
Delete this email after reading.
—A Well-Wisher
Thomas stared at the screen.
All the color drained from his face. His heart started pounding in his chest—thud, thud, thud.
No. No, no, no...
Behind him, soft footsteps. His wife had followed him into the study, drawn by the sudden shift in atmosphere. She took one look at his face, the grim resignation written all over it—and she knew.
She knew something was very, very wrong.
"Honey," Thomas said weakly, his voice barely above a whisper. He couldn't even look at her. "It looks like... we'll have to postpone the Paris trip."
For a moment, there was absolute silence.
Then something inside her just... snapped.
The ceramic plate in her hand—the one she'd been holding when she followed him in—went flying across the room. It smashed against the wall behind him, exploding into a dozen pieces that scattered across the floor like shrapnel.
"GO SLEEP WITH YOUR GENERAL ROSS!" she screamed, her voice raw and shaking with fury.
"Or maybe you already are!"
Her eyes were blazing. Wild. Not with tears, but with pure, unleashed rage.
"Don't contact me again. My lawyer will send the divorce papers."
And without waiting for a response—without giving him even a chance to explain or apologize or beg—she turned on her heel and stormed out.
The front door slammed behind her so hard the windows rattled.
Then... silence.
Thomas stood there, frozen like a statue.
He looked at the computer screen. The damning message still glowing there, demanding action.
He looked at the empty doorway where his wife had just walked out of his life.
His fists clenched at his sides, trembling. His jaw tight enough to crack teeth.
But he didn't chase after her.
He didn't call her name.
He just stood there, alone in the wreckage of his life, and slowly sank into the chair in front of the laptop.
The war had claimed another casualty.
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