The tunnel smelled of salt, damp metal, and something fouled from decay. Water dripped from the low ceiling in cold, steady rhythms, pooling into small, uneven puddles that reflected the flickering fluorescent lights overhead. He moved like a shadow stretched thin—silent, deliberate, each step calculated. His black bone staffs scraped against the walls once, twice, and he corrected the motion, letting them rest across his shoulders as he pressed forward. The suit clung to his form, matte black with subtle plating along the chest and arms, built for movement and protection. No insignias. No signs of who he was—just the faint hum of conviction vibrating through every fiber of his body.
A muffled shout ahead. A lone figure emerged from behind a crate. "He's here!"
Bullets cracked. Two of them slashed through the air and tore through him. The first pain flared, a sharp bite, then vanished; the second followed the same path. He barely flinched. The wounds stitched themselves shut in the blink of an eye. Without hesitation, he lunged, his staffs spinning in an elegant arc that slammed the goon against the wall, knocking him unconscious with a wet crack. Fingers brushed the keys hanging from the man's pocket. A key card. He pocketed it and pressed forward.
The elevator doors opened to reveal a dozen more, weapons trained. They fired. The corridors rang with lead and shouts. He moved like liquid shadow, black bones clashing, fists striking, feet sweeping. Bullets tore past him; some found their mark in the air around him, ricocheting harmlessly as he struck, twisted, and countered. Each wound he took dissolved before it could register, leaving him only with the ache of impact, not the threat of death. One goon froze, staring with wide, panicked eyes. "G‑guns…don't…work…on…him!" The metal knuckles came next, scraping the floor as the man lunged with a brutal grin. A dance of fists and bone began, a clash of impact and fury. Each strike he took pressed into him, blood tasting copper on his tongue, but he adapted, countered, and subdued.
When the last one fell, the elevator fell silent. He exhaled, spit staining his teeth and jaw. Healing already closing the worst of the bruises. Fingers searched the panel above. He knew the button—he needed the right one. His eyes landed on a red square, subtle in its placement. He pressed it.
The elevator groaned as it began its descent. He sank onto the body of a knocked-out goon, placing one boot against the chest to keep the corpse from sliding. Rhythmically, he tapped the bones against the floor, each strike echoing faintly in the enclosed metal cage. The sound was deliberate, a cadence, a heartbeat, a war drum of focus. Outside, the shaft was a blur, and inside, the only motion was him. No fear. No hesitation. Pure intent.
The elevator slowed. The doors slid open with a reluctant hiss to reveal a corridor bathed in shadow. Flickering lights cast long, jittering shapes across cracked concrete and twisted pipes. He dragged the inert body forward, pressing it against the frame so the doors could not close, so no one could follow him up if someone tried. His black bone staffs were gripped tight, the tips scraping faintly against the wall as he stepped forward.
Soft breaths filtered through the darkness ahead. He moved toward them slowly, every sense alert, every nerve stretched. The corridor seemed longer than it was, each flicker of the failing lights exaggerating the shadows, until finally the source appeared.
The door stood in front of him, heavy and industrial, edges pitted from years of rust and wear. He placed a hand on the handle, eyes narrowing, and eased the door open. Inside, a single light bulb swayed slightly, casting a dim circle across the center of the room. Machines hummed in monotonous unison, wires coiling like serpents around metal tables and vats. At the center sat a figure. The man was strapped into a chair, limbs restrained. A mask covered his face, the tubing from it puffing and whistling like steam, each exhale mechanical and controlled, like the measured breathing of a machine rather than a human. The sound carried, deep and hollow, reverberating across the walls and through the muscles in his chest.
Everything else faded. All the bloodshed and chaos, the planning and maps, the gunfire and broken bones—none of it mattered. Only the man in the center, hooked to machines, breathing like a dark engine in the quiet room.
And he stepped forward, staffs ready, each strike of metal against metal a soft percussion echoing through the space, heart and rhythm fused to a single purpose.
The single bulb swayed above the room, casting a fragile circle of light across wires, machines, and monitors that hummed like a trapped animal. The man strapped to the chair breathed through the mask, the hiss mechanical, laborious, almost mocking in its steadiness.
The hiss of oxygen and the faint red pulse of the monitors were all that remained. A heartbeat.
A pause.
A breath.
"You came…" the man rasped at last, each word scraped out from behind the mask. "I would have greeted you more formally… if my body still obeyed me."
Caleb did not answer.
His shadow moved instead — slow, deliberate — as he stepped closer, staff held low but ready.
"I came here to kill you," he said.
The man gave a small, broken laugh. It rattled through the mask like gravel in a tin can. "Direct to the point… I suppose you took that from your father."
Caleb's jaw tightened. He didn't stop walking.
The man watched him through the fogged lenses of the mask. His voice softened, almost nostalgic.
"I loved him, you know. I truly did. A man worth admiring. A man worth following. I'm… sorry it had to end the way it did. But I did what I had to do."
Caleb's anger cracked through his teeth.
"You didn't have to— you never needed to— you just wanted to—"
The man cut him off gently. "When you lose someone you love… your mind looks for a place to put the pain. Someone easy to blame."
His breath rattled; the monitors flickered.
"That's why you're here, isn't it… Caleb? Pinning it on me."
Caleb froze. The anger in his chest pulsed hot and sharp.
"You don't know me," he said, voice trembling
"And you're not going to."
He lifted the staff. His stance widened. Muscles coiled.
The kill was coming.
The man's head leaned back slightly, eyes barely visible behind the mask's dull shine.
"I suppose then," he murmured, "I won't give you the luxury."
His fingers twitched — barely a movement — but it was enough.
The machines screamed.
A burst of alarms. A spike of red across every screen. The oxygen hiss turned frantic, then stuttered, then shrieked.
The man's heartbeat convulsed on the monitor.
"Hey—" Caleb stepped forward. "No. No, no— you don't get to do this—"
The man's vitals spiked once.
Twice.
A final convulsion—
Flatline.
A single, unwavering tone filled the room.
Caleb stood there, staff half-raised, like someone had pulled the world out from under him. His breath hitched — not in sadness, but in furious disbelief.
"You don't get to die," he growled. "Not like this!""
He struck the nearest machine.
It shattered.
Sparks hissed across the floor. Tubing snapped. The chair jerked as more systems blew apart under Caleb's strikes. The alarms became a chaotic chorus of dying electronics.
"I came here for you!" Caleb shouted at the corpse, at the mask, at the room, at everything. "I came to finish this!"
Another machine exploded.
Another.
Another.
Until the only sound left was Caleb's breathing — sharp, uneven — and the long, constant tone of a dead heart on a dying machine
Caleb dropped to his knees.
The man's head hung forward, mask hissing its last useless breaths. The monitors behind him bled into a flat line. It should've brought relief. It didn't.
His chest tightened until he could hardly breathe.
He slammed his fist into the metal floor—once, twice, hard enough to rattle the bolts loose.
"DAMN IT!"
The shout cracked through the dark like lightning. When it faded, all that remained was the broken hum of half-dead machinery and the corpse slumped in the chair.
Caleb wiped the sweat from his brow with a shaking hand. "You think killing yourself makes things even?" he muttered, rising slowly.
He stared down at the body. Rage curled in his gut, raw and directionless.
"My father wasn't in one piece when you killed him," Caleb said through clenched teeth. "So why should you get to go clean?"
He stepped forward, staff scraping along the metal floor.
"I'll tear you apart. Piece by piece. Let's see what's left of you after—"
His fingers hooked the edge of the breathing mask.
He ripped it off.
The face beneath wasn't a face.
It melted. Skin sagged, twisted, bones reforming like wet clay trying to remember shapes. Caleb staggered back instinctively.
"What—what the hell—"
The corpse's neck cracked sharply, unnaturally, as though waking from a long, stiff sleep. The head snapped upright, empty eyes finding Caleb in the dark.
Then the lips peeled back into a grin.
"Boo."
A flash of motion—Caleb jerked back but not fast enough. Something stabbed into the side of his neck. A needle, thin as a thorn.
He leapt away, hand clamping the spot, checking his palm—only a tiny white dot.
The man—whatever he was—pushed himself up from the chair, joints clicking like loose gears. His body settled into a new posture: relaxed, playful, obscenely alive.
"Oh man," he laughed, cracking his own knuckles. "Would you believe me if I told you I've never done that one before?"
Caleb steadied himself, breath sharp. "Who the hell are you? Where is White Face?"
"Oh, me?" The man shrugged. "I'm everyone. But not everyone can be me. Lucky you, right?" He wiggled his fingers, amused by his own joke. "But I get it. You don't care. You only want Daddy's killer."
Caleb lifted his staff and took his stance, jaw tight. "Where. Is. White Face."
The shapeshifter exhaled slowly, theatrically.
"Fine. If we're doing costumes—"
He picked up a silver mask from the floor, pressed it to his face, and snapped it into place.
Then he clapped.
The lights roared back on.
Caleb froze.
The entire chamber stretched outward—an abandoned underground transit depot. Rows of towering metal containers, rusted trams on dead rails, crates stacked to the ceiling. Staircases encircled the room like ribs, and on every one:
Men.
Dozens of them.
All wearing dark suits marked with a white ring on the chest.
The silver-masked man spread his arms.
"By now you should realize this is a trap. Though I get it—you're not exactly in your right brains."
Caleb's eyes darted from platform to platform, counting bodies, exits—none.
"You probably felt invincible," the man continued, strolling casually. "Walking in here thinking you'd kill White Face like it's a side quest."
He tilted his head.
"But come on. Your own father—the almighty Suicide Man—died to him. You're not even a quarter of the man he was."
Caleb didn't breathe.
The man tapped the mask's cheek with a finger.
"If I were your father, I'd be rolling in my grave for raising such a narrow-minded—"
Caleb hurled his staff like a spear.
The man bent backward, the weapon slicing past his mask—
—and Caleb was already airborne.
He struck with the second staff, sparks blasting from the impact. The thrown staff ricocheted off a crate, snapping back like a boomerang and cracking the man across the side of the head.
"Oof—nice!" he cackled, staggering.
Caleb closed in, slamming the butt of his staff into the man's ribs. A crunch—the creature's body bent around the blow, torso stretching like rubber.
Then his arm twisted—elongating, scales rippling across it—and snapped around Caleb's extended wrist like a serpent.
"What—?"
Caleb tried to pull free.
The man spun. Hard.
Caleb flew—crashing through a metal crate, splintering its side. He slid out, coughing, vision buzzing at the edges.
"Haha! Look at you!" The shapeshifter sauntered forward. One hand morphed into a chitinous claw, the other into a cybernetic limb humming with energy. "You hit hard, kid. I'll give you that. But me?"
He slammed his robotic fist into the crate beside Caleb, denting it inches from his head.
"I hit harder."
Caleb rolled away just as a whip-like tail sprouted from the man's spine and lashed the ground where he'd been.
"Stay still!" the man laughed, lunging.
"No thanks," Caleb spat, spinning his staff and cracking it across the creature's jaw. The shapeshifter's face split, briefly revealing fangs and pale bone underneath before it knitted back together.
"Ohhh that was good! Do it again!"
Caleb gritted his teeth, breath heavy. "You talk too damn much."
"And you bleed too damn much."
The shapeshifter blurred—too fast—and hammered Caleb with a series of blows: a wolf's paw, a mechanical piston, a tendril that snapped like a whip. Caleb blocked what he could, tanked the rest, managing to land a few desperate hits of his own.
But the last strike—a hammering blow—sent Caleb spiraling into one of the massive metal drawers. His vision flickered, ears ringing.
The shapeshifter strolled toward him, delighted.
"Aw, don't quit now," he said, voice echoing off the steel. "I was just starting to have fun."
Caleb's vision swayed. Warm blood trickled down the back of his neck, soaking into his collar. His breathing hitched, light-headedness threatening to buckle him.
He clenched his teeth—hard.
And healed.
Flesh stitched, bone reformed, the dizziness fading just enough for him to grab his staffs and plant his feet. He raised his head.
Something moved on the upper stairwell.
A figure—steady, unhurried—walked into the dim light.
Caleb's pulse spiked. His breath grew rough, angry.
The shapeshifter followed his gaze and chuckled.
"Aww," he cooed, "look at your eyes light up."
The figure descended a step.
All white attire.
White gloves, white boots, white suit.
A mask—perfectly smooth, perfectly blank.
A breathing tube ran from the mask down to a compact tank strapped to his back, pulsing softly.
White Face.
Caleb's entire body tensed.
He hurled a staff with everything he had. The bone rod cracked the air as it shot upward, aimed to break the masked man's skull clean in half.
White Face didn't flinch. He didn't move at all.
An octopus arm shot across the railings—elongating from the shapeshifter's shoulder—snatching the staff mid-air. He twisted and kicked it downward, landing beside White Face with a neat flourish.
"Tsk, tsk," he said, wagging a finger. "It's very inappropriate to just change your focus to someone else when someone is already fighting you. Don't you think, kid?"
He tilted his head. "I suppose Daddy didn't have time to teach you ethics either."
Caleb snatched his rebounding staff from the air and scanned the platforms. Every stairway up to White Face was sealed off by goons raising weapons, forming tight choke points.
Some weren't even normal men—Caleb recognized enhanced builds, armored skin, charged gauntlets.
Every route cut off.
He glared upward.
"Come down here!" Caleb shouted. "What? You scared of dealing with a kid?!"
The shapeshifter burst into a delighted grin and leaned toward White Face as if listening. White Face whispered something—barely audible, filtered through the respirator hiss.
The shapeshifter nodded and stepped forward.
"Listen here, kid," he said, spreading his arms. "As you can see, Bossman has a little… breathing issue. So I'll be your mediator."
A cruel pause.
"Translation: you're not worth even his breath."
Caleb's jaw twitched. The goons closed in around him, shoving him back into the center of the depot floor. He turned, looking for space—none. Circles of bodies tightened.
The shapeshifter clapped his hands.
"Good news, kid! Bossman's giving you a special offer."
Caleb narrowed his eyes.
"Since killing kids isn't in his résumé," the shapeshifter continued, "he's willing to let you go." His grin stretched. "Buuut—only if you survive for the next thirty minutes."
Goons shifted, weapons humming. Supers cracked knuckles or ignited their powers. The floor became a cage.
Caleb looked up at White Face—the blank mask staring down like a judge.
The shapeshifter spread his arms theatrically.
"That wouldn't be hard for The Suicide Man. So it shouldn't be hard for the Suicide Kid!"
Caleb lifted a staff and pointed it directly at White Face.
"I won't 'survive,'" he said, voice razor-sharp.
"I'm coming up there. And I'll make these bones meet your white mask—right at the jaw."
The shapeshifter gasped dramatically.
"I love the confidence!"
He turned to White Face.
White Face raised a single hand.
The shapeshifter beamed.
"Bossman says that's a yes! Excellent!"
He hopped back, clapped twice, and shouted:
"Well then—let the thirty minutes begin!"
All the lights crashed to full brightness.
Weapons clicked.
Feet shifted.
Dozens of killers leaned forward in unison—
And Caleb tightened his grip on both staffs, breath steadying as the entire room rushed him.
Gunfire thundered. Energy bolts cracked the air. The boy was already moving—spinning, ducking, swinging the black bones with brutal grace. He slammed one into a goon's ribs, grabbed another by the vest, and swung him into a beam. Bullets tore through his shoulder and leg, but his body sealed itself mid-motion. Flesh stitched, veins cooled, and something pale shimmered briefly through his wounds.
A man with cybernetic arms lunged. The boy ducked under the blow and cracked his jaw with a knee, then twisted, grabbing another by the throat and hurling him into a crate. Bones snapped.
Every few seconds, that faint milky sheen pulsed under his torn flesh before it vanished—like light beneath glass.
A female super stepped forward, raising her palm. A pulse of red light burst from it, hurling him into a wall. His ribs bent, cracked, healed. He spat blood, wiped his mouth, and grinned.
"That all you got?"
Then two more supers joined—one with lightning twitching across his fingers, another whose skin turned to stone. They came at him together. The boy met them head-on, a blur of ferocity and endurance. Every hit he took, he gave back harder. Every wound he suffered, he erased with stubborn will.
Still, something was wrong.
Halfway through slamming another goon down, his breath hitched. The bullet wounds on his side sealed slower this time. A searing pain crawled up his neck. His fingers trembled as he parried a strike.
"What the—"
The boy stumbled. He blocked another hit, but this time the gash on his forearm stayed open, bleeding sluggishly. He clenched his jaw.
The supers didn't wait. The lightning user darted in, zapping his chest. The stone-skinned brute followed with a heavy hook that sent the boy sliding across the floor.
He hit a crate, coughed blood, and forced himself up. His body screamed, his healing lagged, but his will refused to crack.
He charged again.
The fight devolved into chaos—pure, desperate violence. He broke a goon's arm, shattered another's jaw, but every movement burned like fire. His breath came ragged.
Finally, the supers coordinated. Lightning arced across the ceiling. The red-light woman fired a blast straight into his chest, sending him flying backward into the stone brute's fist. The hit drove him into the floor with a thunderous crack.
He lay there, chest heaving, eyes flickering, trying to pull himself up. His hands reached for his black bones. The edges glowed faintly as his trembling fingers wrapped around them.
But his healing wasn't coming. Every wound burned instead of closing.
No healing.
Nothing.
Pain only.
From above, the shapeshifter whistled.
"Oof. That one's gotta hurt. —Is it hurting?" he teased.
Caleb tried to rise—and collapsed onto all fours.
The attackers stepped back, watching him tremble.
Boots thudded in front of him. White boots.
Caleb lifted his head.
White Face was approaching, silent as snowfall. The shapeshifter landed beside him with a delighted grin.
Caleb rasped, "Go to hell—" and tried to launch a swing.
White Face raised a hand.
Agony detonated through Caleb's neck—the same spot that stung earlier. His entire body seized. He hit the ground twitching, gasping, unable to even clench his fist.
Then everything went numb.
An octopus limb wrapped around his ankle and hoisted him up, dangling him upside down in front of White Face.
The shapeshifter flicked Caleb's forehead.
"Congratulations! You survived! Well… ten minutes, give or take. Bossman decided that's enough. He doesn't want you dead."
White Face leaned closer. Caleb gathered spit and fired it—
—right onto the man's perfectly white shoes.
Because he was upside down.
White Face didn't move.
He simply stared.
Caleb growled through his teeth, "This… isn't over."
He focused, trying to force his wounds to close.
The shapeshifter watched, then sighed with exaggerated pity.
"Oh, kid… you really don't get it."
He wiggled a finger. "Your freak-healing? It's gone."
Caleb tried anyway. His muscles spasmed. Blood dripped.
The shapeshifter tilted his head toward White Face, listening to him breathe through the mask.
"You sure, boss?" he asked quietly.
White Face nodded.
"Well… if you say so."
With ease, the shapeshifter flipped Caleb upright and slammed him against a metal crucifix-like frame. Limbs bound. Torso pinned.
Caleb thrashed weakly—just enough to pull a bone staff toward him. In one last burst, he ripped it free and swung—
Crack.
The bone clipped White Face's mask, leaving a thin fracture across the smooth surface.
It was the closest Caleb had ever come.
White Face lifted a hand.
Caleb's entire body locked. Muscles froze. Pain exploded across every nerve.
The shapeshifter clicked his tongue.
"Nice try, kid."
They strapped him tight.
The shapeshifter whispered near Caleb's ear, almost tenderly,
"Good news? You won't die."
He patted Caleb's cheek.
"Bad news? Something else inside you might."
White Face stepped forward.
Caleb, bruised and shaking, glared up at him—
—and White Face raised both hands.
White veins ignited across Caleb's skin, starting from the puncture in his neck. Every line burned like fire threading through glass. Caleb felt something inside him twist, churn, and tear loose.
His eyes rolled white.
A thick, milky fluid poured from his mouth as he choked and screamed—his body shriveling, hollowing, as that pale substance was dragged out of him by invisible force.
The pain was beyond anything he'd ever endured.
Beyond bones breaking.
Beyond dying.
White Face didn't flinch.
He simply watched.
And Caleb's screams filled the room.
Until something snapped, something in the air.
A thin string of webbing whipped in through a broken duct vent, trailing a small metallic sphere behind it. It dropped silently, landing right beside White Face's boots.
He didn't notice.
But the Shapeshifter did.
"What the—?" His eyes narrowed. He followed the string upward, and that's when he saw it—faint firelight flickering along the web. His face drained.
"Boss—!"
He lunged, wrapping his octopus-like limbs around White Face just as—
KA-THUMP!
The bomb detonated.
A shockwave kicked dust and crates into the air. Caleb's extraction halted instantly; the white fluid already pulled from his body splattered down his chest like sickly vomit. His head sagged forward. Everything spun.
He coughed, choking on the metallic taste of blood.
Then—
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
More bombs. All connected to streaks of web. Each one ignited on contact.
But they weren't lethal.
They were smoke bombs.
In seconds, the entire room sank into a thick, rolling fog. Shapes blurred. Lights died behind heavy clouds of gray. Caleb heard shouts—confused, panicked. Then screams. Bodies hitting walls. Steel breaking.
Something was cutting through the goons like a phantom.
Caleb tried to raise his head, but his vision was a smear. He felt himself slipping off the metal crucifix, lifted by invisible hands, carried through the smoke.
He was laid gently on the floor.
A voice—young, sharp, distinctly female—cut through the haze.
"He's alive. Barely." A hand pressed to his neck, checking the faint pulse. "It looks like the injected something in him"
Caleb tried to focus, but everything wobbled.
"Okay, okay—stay with me," she muttered
He felt her fingers on his skin again, flipping him slightly.
Then the sting of another needle at his neck.
"If you're awake," she said, voice close to his ear, "this one's gonna hurt."
The injection burned like fire. It shot through his veins, searing every nerve. His back arched, a groan slipping past his lips before his whole body trembled uncontrollably.
And then—
everything went black.