The private jet Chrysi cut through the Atlantic night, a golden fortress of speed, technology, and privilege, carrying Damian White, billionaire, survivalist, and mastermind behind the Hunters Guild. For fifteen years, he had built wealth, skills, and an organization meant to stop the New World Order, preparing for the day when the world would turn against him. Tonight, he reviewed flight data, financial reports, and security updates on the illuminated screens, unaware that the world had already moved.
A faint metallic click echoed from behind. Damian's head snapped toward the sound, but before he could react, hatches along the fuselage hissed open. Men in civilian clothing—Delta Force-01 operators—emerged from hidden compartments. Every step was deliberate, every movement rehearsed, every action lethal. Damian's heart remained steady; he had trained for ambushes, for combat in every environment, but nothing could fully prepare him for the cold professionalism of men who had already decided his fate.
The first operative snapped cuffs around his wrists with surgical efficiency. Damian flexed, muscles coiling, but the cuffs were reinforced, precision-engineered. His mind immediately assessed options: escape, disarm, delay. All useless against numbers, training, and positioning.
"Mr. White," said their leader, Commander Voss, calm, almost courteous, a predator disguised as a gentleman. "You've built an empire. All that money, muscle, and preparation… and yet, here you are. Completely powerless." His thin smile stretched across a face devoid of empathy.
Damian's jaw tightened. "You think mocking me will make me break?" His voice was steady, controlled.
Voss gestured toward the cabin monitors. They flickered to life, showing Damian's empire collapsing in real time: bank accounts frozen, subsidiaries seized, employees arrested, Hunters Guild safe houses breached. Operatives were disappearing, captured or killed, leaving nothing behind.
"All your work, your discipline, your faith…" Voss said, pacing, his tone almost casual. "Vanished. And you? You're just a man hiding behind money, muscles, and ideology. A little fat man trying to feel important."
Damian said nothing. Rage was irrelevant. Silence, observation, calculation—that was his weapon. He memorized every movement, every posture, every angle. Escape was not immediate; survival required patience.
Then the storm hit. The Atlantic sky tore apart, dark clouds swirling violently, electricity arcing through the heavens. Lightning struck the Chrysi, screaming metal and exploding circuits. Alarms blared, red warning lights reflected in Damian's bloodshot eyes. The aircraft shuddered violently, pitching, spinning, every second stretching into eternity.
The Delta operatives struggled to maintain control, their calm precision unraveling. Damian braced against the cabin floor as pain tore through ribs, shoulder, and leg. Sparks rained from the ceiling, fire licking the fuselage. Time slowed. Metal twisted. Instruments shattered.
The Chrysi broke apart midair, flames and debris scattering into the night sky. Damian slammed against the floor, blacking out briefly as the ocean's roar mixed with thunder and the screams of men who had thought themselves untouchable.
When he came to, Damian was on black volcanic sand, rain and salt dripping from torn clothes, the smell of smoke and scorched metal still burning his nose. The wreckage of the Chrysi lay scattered across the beach, twisted steel and splintered panels disappearing into the dense jungle. Blood ran down his arm. Pain exploded in every joint, ribs stabbing with every breath, his ankle twisted grotesquely.
He rose slowly, scanning the hostile island. Dense jungle loomed, trees dripping with rain, thick undergrowth hiding unknown predators. Insects buzzed, sharp cries echoed, the wind carried strange scents. Every step was agony, yet instinct and training propelled him forward. The Delta operators, the men who had humiliated him, were dead or assumed dead, swallowed by fire and chaos.
Damian took a deep, shuddering breath, tasting salt, blood, and rain. Faith, discipline, and willpower were all that remained. The Hunters Guild had failed. The Luciferian New World Order ruled unchecked. But Damian White survived. Alone, broken, hunted, yet alive. And survival, he knew, was only the first step in a war that had no mercy, no pause, and no forgiveness.
He looked at the horizon, dense jungle stretching for miles, the storm still thrashing, the island alive with unseen threats. And he smiled, grim, determined. Pain, hunger, fear—they were allies, refining him, reminding him that he was built for this. Damian White would survive. And when the world came for him again, he would be ready.