The agents of D.H.O.R.K.S. wasted no time.

The moment their boots hit pavement, the scene was swarmed. Portable scanning units were deployed, sensitive to traces of divine and infernal energies. Drones zipped through the air, quietly mapping the blocks around the cathedral, while small teams fanned out with military precision. These weren't your average pencil-pushing bureaucrats—they were trained, well-equipped, and disturbingly efficient.

Spawn watched from his perch high above, blending into the spires like a gargoyle carved from shadow. He wasn't worried—yet. But the way they moved told him these people weren't here by chance. They had a purpose.

Down below, a group of agents approached a row of worn sleeping bags and makeshift tents lining the alley near the cathedral's side. A few of the local homeless had started gathering to watch the spectacle unfold, clearly unsure whether to be afraid or entertained.

One agent—a tall woman with sharp red hair and mirrored sunglasses—stepped forward, flanked by two others. Her badge read Agent Griggs, and her expression looked like it hadn't smiled since the Cold War.

"We're looking for information," she announced flatly, her voice cutting through the air like a knife. "There have been reports of an entity—divine in nature—acting with lethal force against local criminal elements. People are calling it The Guardian."

A few of the homeless shuffled uneasily. One older man, wrapped in three layers of mismatched jackets, raised a hand with a cautious squint. "You mean the glowy guy that smoked those dealers?"

Griggs stepped toward him, pulling a tablet from her belt. "Start from the beginning. What did you see?"

The man shrugged. "Didn't see much. Just a flash in the sky and this thing—big, wings, glowing eyes. Came outta nowhere and dropped 'em like they were paper dolls. Was gone before I could blink."

Another woman chimed in, pointing toward the cathedral. "I seen 'im too! Looked like an angel if you squinted—but not like the fluffy kind. Like the 'don't mess with me or I'll melt your face' kind."

Griggs typed something into the tablet, face unreadable.

From his perch atop the cathedral, Spawn remained still as stone, eyes glowing faintly beneath the shadows of the tower. He watched the agents of D.H.O.R.K.S. spread through the narrow alleys like wolves in tailored suits, stopping at every huddled figure, every makeshift shelter tucked beneath fire escapes and crumbling brick.

Their questions were clinical. Sharp. Precise.

But the answers they got? Those were anything but.

One man, barely more than skin and bones under layers of tattered clothing, looked up at the agents with glazed, sunken eyes. "He came like a bolt o' lightning," he said, rocking slightly on an old milk crate. "Didn't say nothin'. Just was. Took out those bastards that used to shake us down. We haven't seen any more since."

Another woman, young but weathered by street life, hugged her knees in the mouth of a narrow alley. "I thought he was gonna kill us at first," she whispered. "But he didn't. He only went after the dealers… the ones who kept the kids scared. After that, we finally slept through the night."

A middle-aged man with a salt-and-pepper beard and a cigarette burned nearly to the filter let out a shaky laugh. "You government folks always show up late. He's been here for only a while now. Never talks. Just shows up when we need him. We call him The Guardian. He's the only reason this part of the city don't feel like a war zone anymore."

Griggs, her mirrored sunglasses hiding her expression, typed into her tablet wordlessly. But it was clear the testimony wasn't what she expected.

They weren't afraid of him.

They trusted him.

Some saw him as a monster. Others, a myth. But to these people—forgotten by the city, cast aside by society—he was something else entirely.

A savior.

A protector.

And up in the tower, Spawn listened. The words filtered through the wind, drifting up like a hymn made from truth and gratitude.

He hadn't set out to become anyone's symbol. He hadn't asked to be The Guardian.

But somehow, through blood, smoke, and silence… that's exactly what he'd become once again.

Spawn's eyes narrowed as he listened to the conversations below twist closer and closer to the truth. The agents of D.H.O.R.K.S. weren't fools—annoying name aside. If they stayed any longer, pressed just a little harder, someone would slip. Not out of betrayal, but desperation. A slip of the tongue. A name. A location.

And then everything would unravel.

That could not happen.

With a soft snarl, Spawn stood tall on the cathedral's ledge. In one smooth, silent motion, he stepped off the edge and dropped like a stone.

There was no warning—no grand entrance, no dramatic boom. Just the crunch of heavy boots meeting pavement as he landed behind the cluster of agents.

They didn't even have time to turn.

A single moment passed.

Then, a subtle blip echoed through the air like a warping distortion in reality itself—like the world hiccupped.

In an instant, the D.H.O.R.K.S. agents found themselves standing on a scenic ridge in the Hollywood Hills, far above the city they had just been investigating.

The wind carried the scent of sage and eucalyptus. The lights of L.A. glittered below like a sprawl of fallen stars. It was quiet. Peaceful.

Too peaceful.

Agent Griggs blinked, her mirrored sunglasses sliding down the bridge of her nose as she slowly turned in place, disoriented. Around her, the rest of the team looked equally confused, spinning in circles, weapon scanners humming idly with no targets.

"Where…?" one agent mumbled.

"I thought we were downtown…"

"We were talking to a woman about—"

Griggs snapped her fingers. "The Guardian," she muttered. "We were interviewing people. Homeless encampments. There was something…" Her brow furrowed. "But I—I can't recall where."

She pulled out her tablet, fingers already working through the security locks and encrypted files.

Gone.

Every note she had written. Every voice log. Every image.

Erased.

All that remained was a single message, typed in stark, bold lettering across the center of the screen:

"I am not your enemy.

Don't make me one."

—The Guardian

Griggs stared at it, her jaw tightening. For the first time, uncertainty flickered across her face.

"…Get the team together," she ordered coldly. "We're pulling out. Debrief back at base."

No one questioned it.

They all felt it—that creeping dread. That invisible presence. The overwhelming certainty that they hadn't just been moved.

They'd been warned.

Down below, as the strange pressure in the air faded and the distant rumble of engines vanished without a trace, a strange stillness fell over the alleyways and corners the agents had once prowled.

The homeless who had been questioned just moments before blinked, confused. Conversations trailed off mid-sentence, eyes darting around as if searching for something they weren't quite sure was missing.

An old man in a layered army jacket rubbed his temples. "What the hell… I was just talkin' to someone… wasn't I?"

Another, clutching a chipped thermos, stared off at the street. "Felt like time just… skipped."

A younger woman leaned against a shopping cart, blinking rapidly. "You felt that too?" she asked no one in particular. "Like… the world hiccupped?"

A few of them exchanged uncertain glances, but the answers never came.

And slowly, one by one, they began shaking it off. Rationalizing.

Maybe it was a hunger migraine.

Just a bad trip from last week catching up.

Could've been nothin'—the brain plays tricks.

After all, many of them lived every day with the weight of malnutrition, sleeplessness, and in many cases, untreated mental illness. They'd long since learned how to dismiss the strange. To survive, you had to.

And so, the ripple in time—the impossible shift, the momentary dissonance—faded into the background. A bizarre moment, buried beneath the noise of struggle and survival.

But deep down, each of them felt something had happened.

They didn't remember the agents. They didn't remember the questions.

But they remembered the presence.

The Guardian had been there. Watching. Protecting.

And whatever just happened?

It was because of him.

Octavia had just finished laying out her hoodie like a makeshift pillow, her bag tucked neatly beside her in a quiet corner beneath one of the cathedral's broken stained-glass windows. The place was still, bathed in the soft, moody hues of twilight filtering through fractured glass.

But then it happened.

A flicker in the air. A strange, weightless pull in her chest—like the world took half a breath and forgot to finish it. It passed as quickly as it came, so brief it almost felt like a trick of the mind. Still, it made her sit up straight, brows furrowed.

She glanced around, half-expecting to see something shifting in the shadows, but everything looked the same. Silent. Unchanged. Except… it wasn't.

Moments later, the sound of boots touching stone echoed through the cathedral's chamber. Octavia turned just in time to see Spawn descending from the shadows of the upper tower, his wings trailing behind him like silent thunderclouds.

She stood up, brushing dust off her sleeves as he landed on the ground level.

"What was that?" she asked, her voice serious. "Something… glitched. Like reality stuttered or something."

Spawn gave a small nod, his steps slow and deliberate as he approached. "Some people were getting too close."

Octavia's brow furrowed deeper. "To you?"

His glowing eyes met hers, steady and unwavering. "To me… and to you."

That made her go still.

"They were asking questions," he continued. "Digging around. Getting curious about things." He glanced upward, toward the city skyline. "They didn't know what they were dealing with. But I couldn't take the chance."

"What did you do?" she asked carefully.

"Moved them," Spawn replied simply. "Erased what they learned. Put them somewhere safe… far from here."

Octavia's eyes widened. "You can do that?"

He gave a small nod. "Yes."

She didn't respond immediately, unsure whether to be impressed, scared, or both.

Spawn stepped past her, pausing only once. "I won't let anyone find us," he said quietly. "You're safe here. So long as I'm standing."

Octavia watched him as he walked into the shadows again, the remnants of divine energy still trailing faintly behind him.

Safe.

She wasn't sure when she'd last felt that.

But right now… maybe she did. Just a little.

Octavia stood quietly in the soft, fractured light of the cathedral, arms lightly crossed as she gazed into the darkness where Spawn lingered. The quiet hum of city life outside barely penetrated the stone walls, leaving the sanctuary still and solemn. She could barely make out his outline beneath the high arch of the ceiling, cloaked in a shadow that seemed unwilling to let him go.

She hesitated for a second, then took a slow step forward.

"You know," she began gently, her voice just above a whisper, "I've heard the stories. The powers, the fights, the things you've done. People talk about Spawn like he's some kind of legend… or a monster. But I've been wondering something."

She paused, the weight of her next words already forming in her chest.

"Who were you before all this? Before Hell. Before… whatever made you become what you are now."

Spawn didn't respond.

Not at first.

He remained motionless, blending into the cathedral's heavy gloom like a carved statue. For a moment, Octavia thought maybe she'd crossed a line. Maybe this wasn't something he ever talked about—not even with people he trusted.

But then, the shadows shifted.

Spawn stepped forward slowly, each footfall as deliberate and silent as death. The faint light of the cracked stained glass caught the contours of his face, his glowing green eyes fixed not on her, but on the floor—on something far away.

"Why do you want to know?" he asked finally, his voice low and rough, like granite being ground against steel.

Octavia met his eyes, not backing down. "Because... I think you need someone to remember. Not the warrior. Just the person."

She shrugged, brushing hair from her face. "You let me stay. You protected me. That means something. And… I think it's harder to carry all this when no one remembers who you used to be."

That struck something in him.

The words rang in his mind, echoing in the same place where Charlie's voice still lingered. "You don't have to do this alone anymore, Al."

He turned slightly, glancing up at the vast cathedral ceiling as if expecting it to collapse under the weight of memory. A slow breath escaped him.

He clenched his fists once, then let them go.

"I was a soldier," he said at last, voice steady but distant. "I believed in doing what was necessary. Even if it was ugly."

He stepped closer, now fully in the light. The look on his face wasn't anger, or sadness. It was tired.

"My name was Albert Simmons. I worked for the government. Black ops. The kind of missions that didn't officially exist. I killed for them. I believed I was doing the right thing. Until I wasn't."

Octavia stood still, her expression soft, listening intently.

"They betrayed me. Had me executed. Sent me straight to Hell for the things I'd done in their name." He looked away, jaw tight. "And when I came back… I wasn't me anymore. I was this."

He gestured to himself, to the wings, the suit, the brand of war etched into his very skin.

Silence settled over them for a long moment.

Then Octavia nodded, her voice quiet.

"Then I'm glad I asked, Al."

Spawn's eyes lingered on her for a beat, his expression unreadable—but softer than before.

In the blistering, dust-choked heart of the Wrath Ring, Striker sat slumped over the counter of a weather-worn saloon. The bar creaked under his elbows, stained with spilled liquor and the weight of too many bad decisions.

The place was nearly empty, save for a few grizzled locals nursing their own bitterness in silence. The old piano in the corner sat untouched, and the ceiling fan above turned slowly, doing little more than shifting the stifling heat around.

Striker tipped back another glass of rotgut whiskey, the harsh burn crawling down his throat like fire ants. His eyes were half-lidded, dark circles framing them like bruises. He wasn't drinking to celebrate, or to forget.

He was drinking to fight off the quiet.

Ever since his defeat—no, his humiliation—at the hands of Spawn, things hadn't been the same. Striker had expected pain. Maybe even death. But not that.

Spawn hadn't killed him. No. That would've been easy.

Instead, the hellspawn had done something worse. For a solid month, Striker was cursed—forced to see the faces of every person he had ever killed. Every innocent. Every target. Every poor soul caught in the crossfire of his mercenary career. They haunted him. Watched him. Judged him. Not in dreams—no, he was never allowed the escape of sleep. They followed him while he was awake.

In mirrors.

In windows.

In every drop of water that reflected light.

He'd try to blink them away, shake his head, down another shot—but they never left. Faces twisted in pain, sorrow, betrayal. Some silent. Others screaming.

Now, even though the visions were gone, their echoes remained. He felt them in the silence between gunshots, in the space between sips of whiskey.

He could feel them watching.

Striker grit his teeth, poured another drink, and downed it without a second thought. His hand trembled slightly as he set the glass back on the counter. He flexed it, hoping the shake would go unnoticed.

The bartender, a burly demon with cracked horns and a disapproving glare, finished wiping down the glass he'd been scrubbing for the past five minutes. He leaned on the counter just across from Striker, eyeing the pile of empty shot glasses with a skeptical brow.

"You actually gonna pay this time," he drawled, his voice gravelly and unimpressed, "or should I just tack it onto your ever-growin' tab again?"

Striker didn't even look up. He just raised his hand slowly—middle finger extended.

"Fuck off," he muttered, his voice hoarse and worn thin from too many sleepless nights and too many bottles drained in silence.

The bartender scoffed, but didn't press further. He'd seen plenty of broken bastards crawl into his place trying to forget something. But Striker? He was a special breed of haunted. The kind that didn't drink for fun, or even escape. The kind that drank because anything else meant facing the quiet.

Still, he grumbled and shuffled away, leaving Striker to his poison.

The hitman slouched lower on his seat, his hat pulled low over his eyes, fingers tapping absently at the glass in front of him.

He hadn't taken a mercenary job since that night.

Not since Spawn.

The moment that name crossed his mind, Striker's jaw clenched and his knuckles whitened around the glass. He used to enjoy the thrill of the hunt, the chase, the violence. But now? Every time he even thought about taking a new contract, that familiar chill would settle down his spine. Not fear—he'd tell himself that, over and over.

But it wasn't fear. It was shame.

And that… that was worse.

He used to think he was untouchable. But now? Not anymore.

Striker poured himself another drink. He didn't toast. Didn't smirk.

He just drank.

Because it was the only thing left that didn't talk back.

The quiet drone of the saloon was broken by a low, gravelly chuckle—dry, like rusted metal grinding beneath the floorboards.

Striker's fingers froze mid-pour, and his yellow eyes narrowed. Slowly, he turned his head toward the source.

Behind him, standing just inside the saloon doors, was a man—or something like one. Shorter than most, thick around the gut, wearing a weathered black jacket over a striped shirt, with ragged jeans and shoes covered in dust. His face looked human enough, but there was something wrong about it. Something in the too-wide grin, the twitch behind his eyes.

Striker took one look and already didn't like him.

"You look like shit," the stranger said with a grin that stretched a little too far. "But hey, that's still better than most folks who go toe-to-toe with Spawn."

The mention of that name made Striker stiffen. He turned fully on the barstool, one hand drifting closer to the revolver holstered at his side.

"Who the hell are you supposed to be?" Striker asked, voice low and cautious.

The man made a show of adjusting his jacket, then offered a theatrical little bow. "Name's Violator."

Striker's eyes narrowed. "Violator, huh? That your clown name or somethin'? You don't exactly scream Wrath Ring. So how're you even here?"

Violator straightened with a chuckle, hands stuffed into his pockets. "Oh, this?" He gestured to himself. "Just the form I felt like wearing today. Makes conversation easier. Less screamin', more drinkin'."

Striker didn't smile. Didn't relax.

"So," he said, clearly unimpressed, "what do you want? You drop a name like Spawn and come creepin' up behind me. Either you've got a death wish, or you're lookin' for something."

Violator's grin widened, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Smart boy. I like that. I came to talk, that's all. Nothin' sneaky… yet."

Striker's fingers drummed against his glass.

Violator leaned in just enough to lower his voice without losing that edge of amusement. "I came to offer you a conversation. One that might interest you. About a certain cape-wearing, brooding, freakshow you've had the pleasure of gettin' stomped by."

Striker's brow lifted ever so slightly, suspicion still thick in his voice.

"Spawn."

Violator nodded. "That's the one."

Striker stared at the squat little freak in front of him, lips curling into a sneer. "Why the hell would I wanna talk about him?" he spat. "After what that bastard did to me, I'd be happy never hearin' his name again."

His voice was low, but the venom in it was undeniable. His fingers gripped the edge of the bar like they were trying not to shake.

Violator just chuckled—a hoarse, dry sound that echoed a little too loud in the quiet saloon. "Aw, c'mon now," he said, stepping a bit closer, shoes scraping along the dusty floor. "Ain't you supposed to be the best mercenary in the rings? The legendary, cold-blooded, no-miss assassin? That's what they say."

Striker snorted and downed another shot before wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "You don't get to be the best by runnin' headfirst into a fight you know you'll lose. Even a rattlesnake knows when to slither back under a rock."

Violator threw his head back and laughed—a cackling, undignified sound that drew a few side-eyes from the patrons in the shadows. "Piss poor excuse," he said, grinning ear to ear. "Real pretty way of sayin' you got your ass handed to you and you're too scared to try again."

Striker's chair scraped as he stood, one hand resting on the butt of his revolver. His eyes narrowed, voice sharp. "You wanna finish that thought, clown?"

But Violator didn't flinch. In fact, he looked delighted. "Easy, cowboy. I ain't here to just pick at your bruised ego." He leaned in, eyes flashing with something far more dangerous than mockery. "I've got an offer for ya. One I think you won't be able to turn down."

Striker didn't answer, but his posture shifted just slightly. He was listening.

Violator grinned wider. "Revenge, sweetheart. On Spawn. I'm talkin' the kind of revenge that makes what he did to you look like a love tap. You want it, don't ya? That closure. That satisfaction. That payback."

Striker's jaw clenched.

He didn't say no.

And that was all Violator needed.

Striker narrowed his eyes, his expression caught somewhere between suspicion and a dangerous curiosity. His fingers drummed once on the hilt of his revolver, slow and deliberate.

"And how the hell are you gonna get me revenge on Spawn?" he asked, voice laced with bitter doubt. "What, you got some divine nuke stashed in your coat, or are you just here blowin' smoke up my ass for fun?"

Violator chuckled, slow and deliberate, as if Striker had asked the punchline to a private joke.

"Oh, Striker," he said, tapping a stubby finger against his chest, "if I was here just to waste time, I'd be doin' it with a bottle and worse company. But no—this?" He reached into his coat and pulled something out with a casual flair. "This ain't smoke, cowboy."

In the palm of his hand sat a pulsing, flickering substance—green and hungry, alive in a way that made the air around it feel wrong. Like the world itself recoiled from its presence. It glowed faintly in the dim light of the saloon, swirling like a storm trapped in a drop of tar.

Striker's gaze fixed on it immediately, the color reflecting in his narrowed pupils.

"This," Violator said with a grin that stretched a little too far, "is Necroplasm. Spawn's fuel. His blood, his soul, his curse. The same stuff that cracked your head open and made you see your sins crawlin' all over the walls."

Striker's expression darkened at the memory, but he didn't look away.

Violator's eyes glinted. "But here's the fun part. In the right hands, in the right… vessel—it's power. Pure, concentrated power. Strong enough to burn cities. Strong enough to make Spawn bleed."

Striker stared at the writhing substance in Violator's hand. His pride was still sore, his mind still scarred—but the promise of revenge? Of turning what had once broken him into a weapon of his own?

That was a temptation too rich to ignore.

"You're workin' for someone," he said slowly, eyes never leaving the Necroplasm. "Someone high up. Who?"

Violator's grin didn't falter, but he didn't answer. "Let's just say... someone who really wants to see your boy knocked off that pedestal of his."

Striker's jaw tightened.

And yet... he didn't step away.

Because revenge and power?

That was a hell of a combo.

Striker's hand hovered just above the Necroplasm, the eerie green glow dancing along his fingertips like fire drawn to kindling. It pulsed with potential—raw, unshackled power that whispered promises of retribution and domination. But as tantalizing as it was, Striker wasn't stupid. He'd been in Hell long enough to know one unshakable truth:

Nothing here is ever free.

He narrowed his eyes, his voice low and rough as gravel. "Alright… I'll bite. But there's always a price. Even if your mystery boss wants Spawn off the board, I know there's more to it. So what's the catch?"

Violator's grin widened, the glow of the Necroplasm painting sharp shadows across his twisted face. He tucked the substance away with a flick of his wrist and let out another dry, gurgling chuckle.

"Now that's why I like you," he crooned, pacing a slow circle around Striker like a wolf measuring a rival. "You've got some brains to match that trigger finger."

Striker's eye twitched slightly, but he didn't interrupt.

"The catch," Violator continued, tilting his head with a mock look of innocence, "is simple. You gotta do a little favor for my boss. Nothin' too dramatic, not like stormin' Heaven or killin' a prince or any of that melodramatic crap."

He leaned in close, voice dipping into something conspiratorial.

"Just a little job. A test run, let's call it. You do this one job qhen we ask you to, and we'll give you the real gift. The power to even the score."

Striker's lips curled into a sharp smirk, though his eyes stayed hard.

"And if I say no?"

Violator leaned back and shrugged, grin never wavering. "Then you go back to your drinks, your guilt, and your nightmares. Maybe one day Spawn'll come back 'round and decide you're worth finishin' off."

A heavy silence fell between them. The smell of brimstone and cheap liquor clung to the air.

Striker exhaled through his nose, slow and steady. Then he gave a small, almost amused huff.

"…What's the job?"

Violator's eyes gleamed like a match catching flame.

"Atta boy... Gunslinger."