The storm left everything behind, only turning the blood on Markus's fists into something bright, almost artificial. Not a trace was removed.
Down by the old train rails he stayed, face hidden under fabric. She had vanished - perhaps he sent her running, or perhaps she never showed up at all. Hard to say now. Inside his skull, sound pulsed slow and deep, shaking water pooled near his shoes until it danced like something alive.
Weight pressed down on him. Skin turned thick, dense, as if poured full of metal meant for machines. Wind brushed past, useless, almost laughable. Yet beneath it all, thoughts sparked unevenly - like an old television struggling to stay lit.
Markus spoke under his breath, words soft like distant wind chimes. That crow sitting still - did you notice how it fits? His thoughts painted the creature dissolving suddenly, spilling dark fluid across empty air. The shape of things mattered more than most realized.
A moment passed. The bird burst apart - no red, just a hush like data failing, its plumage cracking into dark noise then gone.
Frozen in place, Markus showed no sign of blinking. His smile spread slowly - broad, unsettling, hollow at its core. The demand was clear: deliver sorrow. So he shaped something far colder - a work meant to burn into memory
The Melodic Paranoia
Off he went, moving forward. That Melly strut came through - slow, bouncy, almost floating above the wet ground. Each footfall pressed deep into the road surface, real and heavy. The "Stra" energy wasn't only around him - it ran inside, part of his veins now. From inside the walls came sounds he knew were feelings, not speech - just hums beneath skin. A sharp ringing told him someone trembled, yet amusement curled at his lips instead.
A thin thread of gold wrapped tight round his core, flashes of cold sky glowing where his gaze should be," he murmured, sound rising into a pulse that stirred the quiet air beneath each lamp.
Out of nowhere, a dark SUV rumbled up the loose stone drive, cutting him off mid-step. Not people - just extras showing up late to shoot their part. Production crew, federal agents, recovery units - he didn't care what label they wore now. Pawns on wheels, rolling in like clockwork.
Out came three figures dressed head to toe in gear marked with the STRA sign. Not firearms - what they carried were devices meant to silence sound. Quiet tools emerged instead of bullets, ready in their hands.
"Subject Cooper," the lead man shouted. "Compliance is mandatory. Reset the scene."
With a crack that echoed through the room, Markus turned his head sideways. Resetting isn't happening - getting the glow perfect took ages
The Mental Blitz
The first soldier lifted his gadget. Most people would have dropped flat by now. Yet Markus had already pictured the officer's shoes turning heavy like molten metal.
Without warning, the guard dropped suddenly - six inches down through what should have been firm ground. A sharp cry escaped him as his legs gave way beneath an invisible load. Not a single part of Markus shifted; only his gaze held motion, lit now from within by a dull purple flicker, deep and unwell.
Marcus spoke low, his voice barely a breath - off-kilter, he called her.
Into their space he moved, the weight of him making the falling water twist aside, as if unwilling to land on his body. A guard, suddenly afraid, reached for a pistol.
BANG.
A split-second burst turned the trees bright. Not moving, Markus stood still through it. A round struck his forehead dead center, spreading wide on impact - like metal crushed by force. Falling next, it landed in wet earth and made a soft metallic sound.
Frozen in place, Markus never swung. His eyes locked on the guard, picturing how fragile he seemed - like glass about to crack under pressure.
Skin on the guard went clear like ice forming from within, blue lines pulsing beneath as cold locked his breath. Down he fell, every degree of warmth pulled out at once - Markus had simply seen it vanish.
The Lead Role
Footsteps faded behind him, the "Production" crew scattered like loose pages on the ground. Not a savior, never that. The role he wore now - twisted words, stolen lines - belonged to the one who ruins endings.
Out past the edge of the Dead Zone, he stood still. Thick air carried the Hum - not a noise exactly, more like something felt in the bones - Markus began matching it, his voice folding into echoes as if stacked on endless tape loops.
"Cedarwood is a small stage," he said, looking at the glowing veins in the clouds. "I think it's time to expand the set."
A sting flashed behind his eyes - the Redline Edit biting deep. Blood began to seep, bright blue as lightning, sliding down to his mouth. His tongue met the fluid - metallic, strange - and somehow that made him smile more. Not merely tough or fast-minded. Broken by design in how life worked. The shard sat heavy in his palm. Something else now instead of a compass. Aimed it toward the box high up on the wooden post. Not guiding north but doing something different.
Out went the lights," he sang, voice climbing into a sharp, bright peak.
Out of nowhere, the transformer flipped instead of bursting. Not a single beam escaped - instead, light dragged shadows inward, swallowing every corner until nothing remained except Markus, lit as if he were fading at the edge of space.
Beyond rescue, his path led only to closure. The story demanded an ending, not a hero.