Where are all the commenters? Write some comments please. Give
Give me some power stones there you go~đ
So how is progression Going! I remain uncertain about which world would be better, Tokyo Ghoul, and it won't include... any harem or Demon Slayer with Mitsuri only as the next world.
*****
He stepped back, giving her a small, courteous nod.
"Thank you for your help."
"Oh," Jessica's face fell slightly, but she quickly recovered, beaming at him. "Well, if you're ever lost again... I run here every morning!"
"I'll keep that in mind," Atlas replied. "Maybe I'll see you again. If fate allows."
He turned and walked away, his stride long and purposeful.
Jessica stood by the lamppost, watching him go. She sighed, fanning her face with her hand. "Wow. What a guy."
As Atlas moved out of earshot, the smile vanished from his face, replaced by the cold indifference of the hunter.
'Enjoy your run, Jessica,' he thought, glancing at the storm clouds gathering over the city skyline. 'Because in a few days, running will be the only thing that keeps you alive.'
He checked his mental map.
'First the ATM.'
---
Location: Raccoon City â Commercial District (Behind the Raccoon Mall).
Leaving Jessica lost in her own romantic daydream by the lamppost, Atlas turned the corner, his demeanor shifting instantly from charming stranger to tactical operative. The smile vanished, replaced by the cold,
calculating expression of a man on a mission.
He needed cover. His U.B.C.S. tactical gear, while practical, was too conspicuous for a daylight operation in the city center. He stood out like a wolf in a sheep pen.
Atlas moved into the alleyway behind the massive Raccoon City Mall. The air here smelled of wet cardboard, rotting vegetables, and dumpster juiceâthe perfume of urban decay. He scanned the loading docks with his enhanced vision, ignoring the scuttling of rats that would soon become carriers of the plague.
His eyes landed on a large, overflowing commercial rubbish bin.
'Resource acquisition,' Atlas thought, approaching the bin without hesitation.
He rifled through the discarded boxes and trash bags until he found what he was looking for.
Someoneâlikely a mechanic or a loading dock workerâhad tossed a heavy, oversized grey hoodie. It was stained with motor oil on the sleeve and smelled faintly of stale tobacco and grease.
To a normal civilian, it was garbage.
To Atlas, it was perfect camouflage.
He pulled it on over his tactical gear. The fabric was rough, but it was large enough to pull the hood up, casting his face in deep shadow and hiding his distinctive silver hair.
He didn't mind the grime. As he zipped it up, a memory flashed in his mindânot from the Hive, but from before.
The scorching heat of the Kandahar province. The dust storms that coated everything in grit. He remembered sleeping in a foxhole for three days, wearing the same uniform that was stiff with dried sweat and sand with his buddies, waiting for a target that might never show. In the war zone, hygiene was a luxury; survival was the only currency.
'Compared to a week in the desert, a greasy hoodie is haute couture,' Atlas mused, adjusting the hood.
He checked his surroundings. The alley was clear.
'Objective: Funds. Method: Brute Force. Strategy: Misdirection.'
He stepped out of the alley.
With high Agility.
Atlas moved.
He didn't just run; he blurred. To the security cameras mounted on the corners of the storefronts, he was nothing more than a glitchâa grey smear of pixels moving too fast for these old cameras' refresh rate to capture.
He kept his head down, weaving through the early morning shadows, utilizing the blind spots he calculated in real-time.
He reached the First National Bank ATM Jessica told him about.
âIt was a standalone heavy-duty kiosk with a drive-thru lane, bathed in the sickly yellow hum of a sodium streetlamp. The area was dead silent, save for a stray cat watching from a rusted fence.
Atlas approached the machine. He didn't scan for card skimmers or hidden sensors. He looked at the reinforced steel box the way a wolf looks at a tortoiseâa soft treat inside a hard shell.
He glanced up. A bulky dome camera was mounted directly above the keypad, its red LED blinking.
SNIKT.
The movement was a blur, faster than the analog shutter speed could capture. His silver-white bone claws extended and retracted in a fraction of a heartbeat.
The camera lens sheared into three clean slices. The glass cover turned to dust, and the internal wiring sparked once before dying.
"Blind," Atlas noted.
He turned his attention to the machine. It was a Diebold Series-100, a steel fortress anchored to the concrete, designed to withstand pry bars, drills, and acetylene torches.
It was not designed to withstand his strength and speed with his claws.
Atlas didn't use a tool. He simply jammed his claws into the seam of the heavy maintenance door.
SCREEEEEEECH.
The sound of tearing metal was agonizingly loud, a shriek of tortured steel echoing off the brick walls. Atlas ignored it. He didn't pick the lock; he peeled the face of the ATM open like a cheap sardine can. The steel groaned and buckled, bolts snapping like twigs and hinges twisting into scrap.
But as the cash cassettes were exposed, Atlas paused. His tactical mind was already three steps ahead of the crime.
'If I take the money cleanly, the police will look for a professional crew using hydraulic spreaders. That suggests organized crime. That suggests a human.'
He narrowed his eyes, his pupils dilating.
'I need to sell a different story.'
He extended his claws fullyâsix inches of razor-sharp, serrated bone, glistening in the dim light.
He slashed the machine.
CLANG! SCRAPE! TEAR!
He gouged deep, jagged furrows into the metal casing. He tore the plastic keypad out and crushed it in his fist until it was nothing but wires and dust. He ripped the top of the casing upward, mimicking the bite force of a massive, enraged predator.
'Make it look feral,' he commanded himself. 'Make forensics think a bear wandered down from the Arklay Mountains. Or a tiger escaped the zoo. Or, better yet... let Umbrella panic thinking one of their experiments got loose.'
He wanted the R.P.D. looking for a monster, not a man in a hoodie.
With the outer shell savaged, he ripped the cash cassettes free. He cracked the plastic cases against his knee. Stacks of crisp twenty-dollar bills spilled outâthe standard load for a weekend.
Atlas's hands moved with high speed. He swept the cash, estimating the weight.
'Ten... twenty... roughly thirty thousand.'
He shoved the thick wads of cash into the deep, reinforced pockets of his cargo pants.
But the theatre wasn't finished.
He took the remaining stackâmaybe two grand in loose billsâand held them in his clawed hand.
SHRED.
With a violent flick of his wrist, he minced the money. He turned the greenbacks into expensive confetti. He scattered the torn bills around the destroyed machine, letting them mix with the broken plastic and twisted metal.
'A thief steals,' Atlas reasoned, tossing a handful of shredded cash into the wind. 'An animal destroys. An animal doesn't understand the concept of currency. This confirms the "Beast" theory.'
He grabbed a handful of intact bills and threw them on the ground, creating a chaotic, nonsensical trail leading away from the bank towards the storm drains.
'Let the greedy follow the trail. Let the police scratch their heads.'
With the scene staged to perfection, Atlas turned and vanished into the dark.
He sprinted away from the ATM, following the bait trail he had set for a kilometer dropping a torn or intact bill every few hundred feet. Then, he broke the pattern.
He veered sharp left, vanishing into the shadows, heading back toward the dense mountain line on the edge of the city. The beast had fed, and no one would ever suspect a man.
Stamina: â (Infinite).
This was the part he loved the most.
In his old life, a sprint like this would have left him gasping for air, his lungs burning, his heart hammering against his ribs. He would have felt the lactic acid building in his thighs, the stitch in his side.
Now? Nothing.
He felt like a machine. His legs pumped like pistons. No need for breath, rhythmic, unnecessary. He could run forever. He felt light, powerful, untethered from the biological weakness of humanity.
He reached the edge of the forest, miles away from the crime scene.
He stripped off the oily hoodie.
"Thanks for the cover," he muttered.
He balled it up and threw it deep into the dense underbrush with enough force to lodge it high in the branches of an oak tree, invisible from the ground.
Then, he turned back toward the city.
He carved a massive, silent arc along the mountain's flank, treating the rugged terrain like a paved track. The world blurred into a tapestry of greens and greys as he moved: he swept past ancient pines clinging to the cliffs, the smell of damp earth, the flash of a wild dog retreating into the brush, the glint of morning sun on a disused train track cutting through the woods, and the sheer drop of the limestone cliffs.
âIt was a breathtaking tour of the district's topography, consumed in mere minutes.
âBy the time he looped back and re-entered from the south side, he slowed his pace to a casual trot. He looked the part of a dedicated morning joggerâbreath steady, skin dry, and perfectly composed. The only difference between him and the other early risers was the thirty thousand dollars weighing down his pockets.
As he walked back toward civilization, slowing his pace to a casual stroll, his mind drifted to the morality of the act.
'Thirty thousand dollars,' he thought, patting his pocket. 'A felony. Grand larceny. Property damage.'
He scoffed internally.
'In three, maybe five days, this money will be ash. When the missile hits Raccoon City, the bank, the records, and the police investigating this will be vaporized. The economy of this city is already dead.'
He knew the timeline. He knew the Nuke was coming.
'So why bother with the subterfuge? Why hide my face? Why stage the bear attack?'
He passed a police cruiser parked at a donut shop. Two officers were inside, laughing, drinking coffee. They looked young. Clueless.
Atlas looked away, pulling his collar up.
'Because I don't want to kill them.'
It was a strange line to draw for a man who had just slaughtered a squad of mercenaries, but it was his line.
'Umbrella agents are combatants. They signed up for the game. But these cops? The S.T.A.R.S. members? The random beat officers? They are just people doing a job. They are innocent.'
If he had robbed the ATM openly, the police would hunt him. He would have to fight them. He would have to kill them.
'I have the power to slaughter the entire R.P.D.,'
He knew this would put Umbrella on his back, but it's not like they already are and It's not like if he had shown his real face, they wouldn't do it. In fact, it would have made things easier for them..
Atlas acknowledged without arrogance. "Yesâif I were still human, I'd have far more to fear. There are countless ways to put a human down beyond the obvious ones. But as an undead, their tasers barely register. Pepper spray is a joke. Even firearms mean littleâunless they destroy the brain stem, I regenerate. Gas is meaningless to me; I don't need to breathe."