The screen fades in from black to a crumbling newsroom of an Indian television station that looked like the aftermath of a warzone.

  The logo of the station fades out as the cracked camera lenses focuses on the anchor, a man in his mid-40s, his blood flaking against his olive skin. Yet his expression did not waver.

  Behind him, the news ticker continuously flashes the most recent headlines. The atmosphere in the studio is heavy, tension palpable in the air.

  “Good evening to the people of the nation . We are coming to you live with devastating news of a catastrophic attack on our very heart—an attack that has left India reeling and the world in shock." The anchor reported with a clear, measured, unnervingly calm tone despite the situation.

  The camera cuts to footage of the destruction, smoke rising from the Delhi city’s skyline. Buildings have been reduced to rubble, the streets empty save for the remnants of wreckage. News footage of military vehicles, torn apart, in an alley is shown. Sirens wail in the background as soldiers rush to secure the area.

  “Our nation’s inheritor, Raaga, has been killed. In a single, brutal moment, a hand—an enormous, terrifying hand—emerged from the sky, casting a shadow over the city. Raaga fought valiantly, as he always did, but he was overwhelmed by this unimaginable force. Our screens now show the moment he fell, an image that will forever haunt us.”

  The footage cuts to an aerial shot of Raaga standing tall in the middle of a destroyed city block, his fists raised in defiance. Suddenly, the earth trembles as a monstrous glowing arm, gargantuan and blindingly white descends from the sky, grabbing Raaga in a vice-like grip. A flash of light engulfs the screen before the image cuts to static.

  The screen now shows Raaga, his body lying motionless on the ground, his head missing from his body .

  “Raaga, the protector of India, the embodiment of hope and strength gone. Our hearts are broken.” the anchor said, his voice flat, as if reading the weather.

  The camera cuts to another scene. This time, it’s footage of the Indian Prime Minister, a man in his 50s with his families of four are on their knees, hands bound with a black sack over their heads.

  Two figures emerge from the shadow, and with cruel precision aim their weapon.

  The Prime Minister and his family were burned alive, the footage catching the final moments of their life in a chilling close-up as the audio is filled with their muffled screams.

  “In another terrible blow to our nation, our beloved Prime Minister and his family have been captured and executed under charges of corruption.” the anchor said coldly

  The screen changes to show Indian military personnel gearing up in full combat armor, preparing for what seems like a last-ditch effort to save the city. Tanks roll through the streets as soldiers in tactical suits rush to secure positions. Suddenly, the footage becomes chaotic, gunfire and explosions filling the screen. A golden, vine-like tendril skewering a tank in a single strike. Another wraps around the neck of the soldiers, pulling them into the air. Their screams are drowned by the deafening roar of an explosion.

  “Our military, despite their best efforts, were unable to save the city. Reports confirm that they were attacked by a strange, golden vine-like substance—it left even our bravest soldiers defenseless.” the anchor said evenly

  The scene shifts again, this time showing the Costumed heroes arriving at the scene. They enter the city in a tight formation, determined to help. As they advance, the air around them begins to turn a sickly red. They collapse one by one, their faces contorted in agony as they breathe in a poisonous mist. Their bodies drop like ragdolls to the street as the mist consumes them.

  “The United Heroes Association… even they could not withstand the attack. They were brought to their knees by a strange red mist that suffocated them upon their arrival.” the anchor intoned

  The footage shows the bodies of the fallen heroes, their expressions frozen in terror and pain. The scene zooms in on their faces, and the red mist seems to coil around them, like a predatory serpent.

  The anchor adjusted his cracked glasses before continuing

  “We now know who is behind this attack. A group of Inheritors possessing unimaginable power that goes by The Tyrants. The Utopian Board of Heroes has officially assigned code names to the individuals who are part of the terrorist group. The images you are about to see are the footage from their previous assaults on other nations”

  The screen shifts to a series of rapid cuts showing terrifying footage of each Tyrant's members taken during their previous attacks. Their assigned codenames were displayed on top of each footage.

  DIVINE.

  A colossal Titan shimmering with white light and golden hair towering above broken skyscrapers of New York like a god.

  HAVOC.

  A tilted frame of a man in garish combat gear stood by the side of the great wall of China. His clown’s mask smeared with blood, his orange hair blazing.

  A pile of bodies were hanged by the side of the great wall. A text written with blood on the victim's body.

  Corrupt.

  666.

  A black-armored silhouette, sleek and inhuman resembling a demon and a goblin. Its burning wings flaring like blades in the sky, dropping bombs all over Tokyo.

  KROV.

  A tall figure emerging from red fog, a single glowing white eye peek through the blood soaked bandages wrapping his face. Around him countless soldiers slowly succumbed to the poison as they fell one by one on the snowy dirt of Ukraine.

  THE BARONESS.

  And last—a woman crowned in a golden headpiece covering the top half of her face. It resembles an opening lotus flower with her white hair trail behind it, serene amid a battlefield of twisted roots and broken steel that had consumed the Amazon rainforest.

  “These are the Tyrants,” he said flatly.

  “Coordinators of atrocities including the White House disappearance, the Great Wall of China’s destruction, and the Tokyo Droid Massacre.”

  The anchor leaned forward, voice hardening

  “The Utopian Board has confirmed that the one guiding them is an Inheritor known only as—The Pretender.”

  A thin fracture split across the anchor’s forehead. It crept downward like a spider’s web. Still, his voice did not falter.

  “The Pretender can become anyone. Not just mimicking appearances , but voices … powers… even memories.”

  Another crack splintered his cheek. A shard fell from his jaw and struck the desk with a porcelain clink.

  No blood. Only smooth, pale surfaces beneath—like polished stone.

  His words carried on, calm, unbroken.

  “This attack is only the beginning. They will not stop here. Citizens are advised to remain indoors. Do not assist strangers. Do not answer cries for help. If you believe the Tyrants terror has reached your shores—”

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  The fissures spread in silence, racing across his face, his neck, his chest. Then, all at once—

  He shattered.

  The anchor collapsed into a storm of glittering fragments, scattering like glass. From the wreckage rose something tall, immaculate. A figure in a white three-piece suit, black vest, white tie. His head was hidden beneath a faceless mask, smooth and unbroken save. The upper portion flares out into three jagged points, evocative of a royal crown.

  He tilted his head. When he spoke, the voice was cold, flat, an imitation of humanity.

  “Give up.”

  The screen fades to black, and the haunting image of The faceless mask fills the screen one last time. The sound of a distant explosion echoes, and the message appears in bold letters:

  “Do not Resist.”

  ____________________________________

  In a cramped room lit only by the pale glow of the monitor screen displaying the news. The Pretender alone occupied the chair, hands resting on the keyboard, posture rigid.

  The Baroness sat poised beside him, knees drawn together, silent as stone.

  Krov slouched, his single eye glowing faintly in the dark.

  666’s armored fingers tapped an invisible rhythm against the desk, metallic and soft.

  Havoc leaned forward, clown mask unreadable, breathing too loud for the silence.

  At the far end, Divine loomed, massive shoulders filling half the space of the table, his blue eyes fixed coldly on the screen.

  None of them spoke. The air was heavy, electric, thick with something unspoken. Only the computer whirred on, the glow of the blank screen reflecting in six unblinking eyes.

  “Gg—”

  Then The Pretender twitched. A noise broke from his throat—glitching, warped.

  Every head turned towards him.

  The sound warped into a guttural choke.

  “Bleeergrh—”

  The Pretender convulsed inside his own mask.

  CRASH!! Panic erupted.

  In a heartbeat the room split apart—everyone but The Baroness and The Pretender scattering into corners, weapons raised, each facing the others in a jagged Mexican standoff.

  Krov crouched near the door, twin blades ready, eyes burning white through his bandages.

  666 had both hands up, fingers cocked like pistols, snapping them from one target to the next.

  Divine, huge and frantic, snatched the nearest sofa pillow and clutched it to his chest like a shield.

  Havoc whipped out… a banana. He gripped it with deadly seriousness, stem curled under his finger like a trigger.

  The air was electric. Four monsters staring each other down like it was the end of the world.

  “Hands where I can see them!” Havoc barked, banana trembling in his grip.

  “Back off!” Divine roared, Southern drawl cracking under panic.“I ain’t dyin’ here!” He yanked the pillow tighter.

  “I do not want to hurt you people… but I will!” Krov’s voice sliced sharp, his Russian accent dripping like steel.

  “Easy! Easy!” 666 snapped, finger-guns jerking from face to face.

  The shouting overlapped, chaos in a pressure cooker. The Pretender gagged again beside the desk. Bile seeped from the edges of his smooth white mask, spilling down his neck, dripping across the keys with a wet slop.

  Through it all, The Baroness remained composed and serene. She turned at last toward The Pretender, her golden headdress catching the screen’s pale glow.

  The Pretender’s gloved hand shook violently, rattling against the desk. His posture was rigid, trembling.

  The Baroness leaned closer.

  “Are… are you okay?” there was hesitation in her voice.

  The Pretender turned to her. His faceless mask reflected the gold of her headdress, blank and unreadable—but she felt the fear radiating from it. Empty on the surface. Human underneath.

  Behind them, the shouting spiraled.

  “Stand down!” Havoc roared, banana shaking in his grip. “Drop your weapons!”

  Divine scoffed. “Boy, if you don’t stop messin’ around, I swear—I’ll shove that damn banana up your ass!”

  Havoc froze and looked down. Stared at the fruit in his hand. A banana. Just a banana.

  He dropped it. It hit the floor with a soft thud. His voice cracked with horror.

  “You… you animal! What did you do to my gun?! You really are the Tyrants!” Havoc pointed at Divine accusatorily.

  “I ain't a Tyrant! You are!” Divine barked back, brandishing his pillow like a shield.

  “You’re in the news too, you fuck!” 666 yelled

  “No I ain’t!” Divine protested.

  “You will not fool me, I know your cowardly tricks American!” Krov thundered. “You are clearly Divine, judging by your rotund build!”

  “Did you just call me fat, you commie bastard,!!” Divine roared.

  The insults ricocheted like gunfire, filling the room with noise and panic.

  But The Baroness remained calm, her gaze fixed solely on The Pretender, ignoring the chaos. She leaned in, voice gentle, almost maternal.

  “You need to take off your mask. It’s making it hard for you to breathe.”

  “I—I…” The Pretender stammered. The voice was different now—softer, lighter. Almost… feminine.

  The Baroness reached forward. Her fingertips brushed the smooth, porcelain surface. The Pretender flinched but The Baroness pressed on. Carefully, she lifted the mask away.

  What she revealed stole the breath from her lungs.

  Not a faceless monster. Not a demon in white.

  Just a girl.

  Barely in her twenties, with tangled black hair clinging to her pale white face. Freckles dotted her nose and cheeks. Her eyes, ringed black from exhaustion stared up at Baroness with raw fear. Her lips trembled, still stained with vomit.

  Fragile and terrifyingly human.

  The Baroness exhaled softly. She reached into her coat and produced a silk handkerchief.

  “Here,” she murmured. “Use this.”

  The Pretender hesitated, then accepted it, dabbing her mouth with shaking hands.

  The Baroness studied the trembling Pretender, she couldn't find a hint of the monster she saw in the news.

  Slowly, she reached up to her own headpiece, with deliberate care, she removed it. The white hair was a wig attached to the headpiece.

  She was not a gilded icon. Not a monster.

  A latin woman, late thirties, regal features and deep green eyes. Dark maroon hair tumbled loose to her shoulders. She was proud, statuesque, and still.

  Seeing The Baroness' true face seems to ease the fear from The Pretender even by a tiny bit.

  Though the Chaos around them continue to crashed

  Crack! A bottle shattered, Havoc now wields a jagged wine bottle like a sword.

  “Surrender now! And I will not be forced to use lethal methods” he cried.

  Krov glanced at his own gleaming swords, then back at Havoc’s pathetic shard.

  “No.”

  “THAT'S ENOUGH!!” The Baroness’s voice cut through everything, sharp and commanding.

  The room froze and all eyes turned towards the uncovered face of The Baroness who stood firm, regal and steady. Her eyes filled with commanding presences.

  In contrast, behind her The Pretender stood cowardly like a shy puppy. Her eyes darted in fear at each of them.

  “Who… is that?” Krov’s eyes widened upon the revelation of The Pretender as nothing more than a trembling girl in a stained white suit.

  “Is that the Pretender?” 666 asked, voice wavering.

  “She’s a woman?” Divine muttered, stunned.

  “She's white?” Havoc added, also shocked.

  The Baroness raised her chin. Her voice softened, but carried like a queen’s decree.

  “I don’t know who she nor I know who any of you are.” She let her voices settles in before continuing.

  “ And... I don’t even know who I am.” She added with a lower tone.

  Silence. Thick and suffocating.

  Her gaze swept the room.

  “I’m certain,” she said firmly, “ all of you have the same problem as I do.”

  “You’re confused. I understand,” the Baroness said, her voice unwavering. “But threatening each other or fighting won’t solve anything. So please… lower your weapons.”

  A tense silence followed. No one moved, yet their grips tightened—fingers curling around steel, glass, or cotton.

  Then, slowly, Krov stepped forward. His long blade glinted in the pale light as he lowered it to the floor and put his arm above his head.

  “I will listen to you,” he said simply. Then, after a pause, added, “For now.”

  Havoc glanced at 666. Locking eyes with each other . No words were spoken, but something passed between them—a silent agreement.

  Havoc lowered his bottle and placed it gently on the floor. 666 followed suit, finger guns lowering without a word.

  That left Divine.

  They all turned to him.

  He stood stubbornly, arms crossed, still clutching a pillow like it was sacred. Finally, he exhaled through his nose and rolled his eyes.

  “Fine,” he muttered, annoyed. With a theatrical toss, he flung the pillow back onto the sofa. “Y'all happy?”

  “What…what now? " The Pretender muttered nervously.

  The Baroness took a breath.

  “Now… we figure out what’s going on. Why are we here… or…” Her eyes drifted toward the large shattered window behind her.

  “Where even is here?” She turned to look outside.

  Everyone followed her gaze to look outside the windows.

  Nothing, just an endless white void.

  It's like outer space but without the stars nor the planet, stretching forever in every direction.

  Floating around in the distance emptiness were fractured pieces of a ruined world. The Tokyo Tower, split down the middle, drifted silently in the pale light. The Pyramids of Giza, cracked and crumbling, rotated slowly as if weightless. Shattered skyscrapers, broken monuments, ruins of cities—they were all scattered like forgotten memories, floating in the endless white.

  And where they stood now—a familiar room, The Resolute Desk gleamed at the center, surrounded by plush chairs and a velvet sofa. Portraits of past presidents lined the walls, and the air smelled faintly of leather and old books.

  The room they were in… was the Oval office itself, the white house drifting through the void like a floating island.