Anathel's consciousness drifted in an ocean of nothingness, a silent, shoreless expanse where time itself seemed to have dissolved. He no longer thought, no longer felt, no longer remembered. He was an empty shell, a discarded piece on the chessboard of existence, waiting in vain for a hand to move him. His soul, once tempered by conviction, was now an extinguished flame, an abstract concept lost in the void.
Then, the phenomenon occurred.
An absolute, primal pain tore through the very fabric of his non-being. It was not a localized sensation, but a creation ex nihilo, a tortured genesis of matter. Every atom seemed born in agony, every cell woven with a silent scream. A body a vessel of flesh that had never known the breath of life, the flutterings of a soul, or the wear of time was being forged within him, violating all natural laws of growth. The pain was the tool, the hammer and anvil of this terrible alchemy.
"What... is happening to me? Is this... hell? A forge where souls are remelted?" he thought, or at least, what remained of his consciousness thought.
The process, as brutal as it was inexorable, reached its climax and then faded, leaving behind a different void, charged with a new presence. A white light, intense and impersonal, flooded his mind before an abyssal vertigo swallowed him whole.
The first sensation was a mineral, smooth cold against his palm. Ceramic, perhaps, or aged porcelain. Then came the shivers, the icy drafts caressing naked skin, each breath a cruel reminder of his regained materiality.
His eyelids, heavy as tombstones, finally opened.
The sight that greeted him froze the little blood beginning to circulate in his veins. "What... the hell is this?" he murmured, his voice hoarse and foreign echoing in the damp silence.
Before him, a cracked mirror, smeared with grime and graffiti, reflected the image of a perfect stranger. A young man in his twenties, with fine, pale features framed by disheveled, medium-length light brown hair. But what immediately captured his attention was the pair of eyes staring back a deep, scarlet red, like rubies carved from living shadow. He raised a trembling hand to his face. The skin was smooth, olive, without a single scar, without the mark of past years and battles. A body in perfect condition, muscled with a feline elegance, hinting at rigorous training similar to that of LOVE, but achieved to a disturbing degree of perfection.
"Even... this?" he whispered, touching his chest where Hailen's mortal wound no longer existed. The absurdity of the situation overwhelmed him. He had just crossed the threshold of death, and fate, or some capricious entity, had thrown him into this new, improved body, like an artisan replacing a defective part.
He clung to the sink to stand, his legs wobbly. Around him, the room revealed its full sordid horror. A dozen similar sinks, all in ruin, broken and filthy tiles, toilet doors covered in obscenities and trash. The air was a thick fog of stench urine, excrement, mold, and something more metallic, more acrid. A smell familiar to him: recent death. But his nostrils, abnormally sensitive, amplified every whiff to an unbearable degree. He had known mass graves, but his senses had never betrayed him like this. "This body's sensitivity... It's amplified tenfold. Or is the environment imbued with some subtle corruption?"
A flickering light from the ceiling cast jerky shadows, threatening at any moment to plunge the place into complete darkness. He had to leave. Immediately.
It was then that his ears, also abnormally sharp, picked up what no normal human should have heard from that distance: a sequence of muffled footsteps, controlled breathing, the discrete but characteristic metallic click of weapons ready to serve. A patrol. Approaching with methodological precision.
Before he could react, the rotten door exploded inward.
Six silhouettes rushed into the room, a perfect ballet of contained violence. Their uniforms were of a matte black that seemed to swallow the weak light, designed for shadow and modern warfare. Reinforced fabric, discreet protective plates, modular gear the trappings of elite units sent into zones the law prefers to forget. Their anonymous helmets betrayed no emotion, only the cold threat of assault rifle barrels aimed.
"Hands in the air! Get them up!" barked the one taking point, his voice distorted by a modulator.
Anathel obeyed, slowly, his mind on high alert. He saw the glances, behind the visors, hesitate, settle on his nudity and then rise to his face, visibly perturbed by the incongruity of his presence.
"Boss, he doesn't match the description," whispered a soldier, his voice muffled but audible to Anathel's heightened senses.
"I see," growled the leader, his weapon not wavering a millimeter. "Identify yourself. How did you enter a locked-down operational zone?"
Anathel let out a small sigh, theatrical weariness in his tone. "Even if I knew, you wouldn't believe me. Could you lower those weapons? I'm unarmed. I am... no one."
"Don't get smart! Nothing says you're not his accomplice!" thundered the leader.
"Accomplice of whom?" asked Anathel, genuine curiosity piercing his mask of detachment.
But his attention was already elsewhere. Beyond the circle of soldiers, in the darkness of the hallway, he perceived something else. A presence. A single pair of footsteps, so light they barely grazed the floor, advancing with lethal assurance. The gait of a predator at the peak of its craft. A coldness terribly familiar to him.
"Hey! Are you listening?!" yelled the leader, exasperated.
Anathel ignored the provocation, his gaze piercing the shadows beyond the doorway. "Too late."
Chaos erupted in deafening racket.
Three dry detonations, three blinding flashes. Three soldiers collapsed, their warm blood splattering the cold tiles. Before the survivors could comprehend, a shadow was among them. It appeared behind the leader, the barrel of a silenced pistol pressed against the seam of his helmet and jugular.
"Drop your weapons." The voice was calm, low, and carried an authority far more chilling than the shouts.
The two remaining soldiers, paralyzed, let their rifles fall. The sound of metal hitting the floor was covered by two more gunshots, precise and surgical. They fell in turn, moaning, hit in weak points of their armor.
"You son of a..." The leader didn't finish his curse. One last, muffled shot, and his body joined the pile of his men.
The shadow straightened up, inspecting his weapon with methodical coldness before approaching the wounded to administer the coup de grâce. Two brief detonations ended their death rattles.
Alone, naked amidst the carnage, Anathel couldn't help but let out a light applause, an ambiguous smile on his lips. "Bravo. An... efficient execution. My respects."
The stranger turned towards him. The faint light revealed a man with ebony skin, marked by a violent scar that slashed across his forehead, traversed a closed eyelid, and bit into his cheek. His thick, disorderly black hair framed a face hardened by countless conflicts. But his one good eye was an icy, almost electric blue, gleaming with artificial or modified intelligence. A cynical smile twisted his mouth. His dark coat, worn and strapped, barely moved, as if part of him.
He pointed his weapon, no longer with the professional threat of the soldiers, but with the dangerous curiosity of a hunter facing a bizarre prey. "Your turn. Who are you? And why play the naked philosopher in a cesspool?"
"Philosophical questions deserve a more dressed setting, don't you think?" Anathel retorted with a shrug. "Let me clothe myself, and I'll answer you."
Blue-Eye scrutinized him, his weapon not lowering a millimeter. His analytical gaze seemed to evaluate every micro-expression, every muscular tension of Anathel's naked and seemingly vulnerable body. "Go ahead. But one wrong move, and you join your new friends on the floor."
"Charming." Anathel moved towards the bodies, carefully choosing that of the leader, whose size seemed close to his. He undressed the corpse with macabre efficiency, delicately wiping his feet on a clean uniform before putting on the black undershirt and tactical pants. The clothes were slightly too big, but they would do. He pulled on the heavy boots, then stood up, transformed into a dark, anonymous silhouette.
"Satisfied?" he asked, spreading his arms.
"Now, answers," demanded the stranger, his blue eye glowing with an inquisitive gleam in the gloom.
Anathel stared at him, and for the first time, dropped all affectation. His own scarlet gaze seemed to darken, imbued with a millennial weariness and a troubled knowledge. "Who am I?" he repeated, his voice becoming strangely neutral, resonating in the fetid air. "Let's say I am an artisan of a particular trade. An adjuster of destinies. An... assassin. Nothing more, nothing less."
The silence that followed was heavier than all the gunfire, laden with the unspoken and the promise of mysteries far deeper than those of a simple skirmish in abandoned toilets.