The 200th floor of HEX HQ wasn't an office. It wasn't a penthouse. It was a kingdom compressed into a single room—a vast, circular expanse of polished obsidian and floor-to-ceiling glass that wrapped the entire floor in a panoramic noose of city light. The metropolis glittered far below, reduced to nothing more than a diorama, a toy city for a god who had outgrown the need for toys.
Sovereign sat on his throne at the room's center.
Not a throne of gold or velvet—those were for kings who needed to impress. His throne was carved from a single block of black granite, seamless and cold, rising from the floor like it had grown there. He sat with his face resting on one fist, legs crossed at the ankle, posture loose but somehow absolute. His eyes were half-lidded, impatient, the look of a man waiting for a train that had better arrive on time.
The only sound was the distant hum of the city far below.
Then—hiss.
The doors parted with pneumatic precision.
Knox Maiden stepped through. He crossed the vast space in careful, measured strides, each footfall deliberately soft, deliberately respectful. His heart hammered behind his ribs, but his face remained composed. Mostly.
"Sir," he said, voice steady despite the tremor coiling in his chest. "You called me?"
Sovereign didn't move. Didn't turn. Didn't acknowledge.
The silence stretched like a wire pulled taut.
Then, slowly, Sovereign rose from the throne. His movements were unhurried, almost lazy—the economy of a man who had never needed to rush for anything in his life. He stood with his back to Knox, facing the glass, the city, the world.
"Yes," he said. "I did."
Knox waited. The silence returned, heavier now, pressing against his eardrums like depth. He didn't know what to say. Didn't know if he should say anything. So he stood frozen, hands at his sides, breathing shallow.
Sovereign turned.
The movement was casual—a simple rotation of the torso—but the weight behind it was tectonic. His eyes found Knox and held. Not glaring. Not threatening. Just... reading. Like a scholar scanning a text he'd already memorized, looking for the one misprint that would justify burning the whole library down.
"Tell me," Sovereign said, his voice soft, almost conversational, "what do I hate the most?"
The question hung in the air like smoke.
Knox's mind raced. He knew so little about Sovereign—not really. Everyone knew the name. Everyone knew the fear. But the man himself? A void. A blank. Knox scrambled through every rumor, every whispered warning, every scrap of information he'd accumulated over years of service. His thoughts spiraled, then snapped into focus around one answer that felt right.
He opened his mouth—
"Before you answer," Sovereign cut in, still calm, still conversational, "just know that every time you answer incorrectly... there will be consequences."
A pause. A smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Painful," he added, almost gently. "Very painful consequences."
Knox swallowed. Nodded. Cleared his throat.
Think. Think. What else could it be?
Nothing came. Only the same answer, burning brighter with each passing second.
"Traitors," Knox said, voice thin but audible. "Those who betray the rich, sir."
Sovereign's expression didn't change.
He began to walk.
Each step was a hammer driving a nail into Knox's chest. The floor seemed to amplify the sound—thump... thump... thump—each one landing harder than the last. Sweat beaded on Knox's forehead. His breathing shallowed. His legs wanted to move, to step back, to run—but they wouldn't. Couldn't.
Sovereign stopped inches from him.
A hand rose. Settled on Knox's shoulder. The grip was light, almost fatherly. Sovereign tilted his head, studying the man before him like a disappointing student who had failed a very simple test.
Then he shook his head.
One slow, sorrowful movement.
Wrong.
The punch came from nowhere.
Knox's jaw dislocated on impact. The force lifted him off his feet and hurled him sideways; he hit the polished floor hard, rolling once, twice, before coming to a stop. Blood flooded his mouth—hot, metallic, thick. He spat, and a tooth clattered onto the obsidian.
"Wrong," Sovereign said, lowering his fist. "Try again."
Knox pushed himself up. His arms shook. His vision swam. Tears burned at the corners of his eyes—not from sadness, from shock—but he forced them back. Can't cry. Can't break. Not here. Not now.
He climbed to his feet, legs trembling.
Think. Think. What else?
Another answer surfaced. He grabbed it like a lifeline.
"Disobedience," he rasped.
Sovereign's eyebrow arched. "Isn't that just the same thing?"
Knox's stomach dropped.
"Wrong. Try again."
The punch was different this time—not a wide hook, but a short, brutal knuckle-strike directly into the bridge of Knox's nose. Cartilage crunched. Blood exploded in a crimson spray. Knox screamed, hands flying to his face, stumbling backward as warm red poured through his fingers and dripped onto the floor in heavy plops.
"I don't feel like hearing people scream today," Sovereign observed.
Knox's scream died in his throat. Stifled. Swallowed. He stood there, clutching his ruined nose, blood pooling at his feet, making no sound at all.
"Get up."
I am up. I'm standing. I haven't moved.
But Sovereign wasn't talking about his feet.
Knox straightened. Let his hands fall. Blood streamed down his chin, his neck, soaking into the collar of his uniform. He stood there, dripping, waiting.
One more chance. One more answer. What else? What else?
His mind blanked. Panic clawed at the edges of his thoughts. He couldn't think of anything Sovereign might hate—so he thought of what he hated instead.
"Weaklings," he said.
The word left his mouth before he could stop it. He had no idea if it was right. No idea what Sovereign would do. He just stood there, bloody and broken, waiting for whatever came next.
Sovereign kicked him in the leg.
The impact was surgical—precise, brutal, perfectly aimed. Bones in his lower leg snapped like dry twigs. Knox crumpled, a silent scream tearing through his throat, his leg bent at an angle legs should never bend. He hit the ground hard, clutching the ruined limb, every breath a knife.
"Get up," Sovereign said.
Knox tried.
His body refused. The pain was a living thing, white-hot and absolute, multiplying every time he moved. He pushed against the floor, against the agony, but his leg wouldn't cooperate. Wouldn't let him.
Sovereign's boot connected with his face.
His head snapped sideways. Blood sprayed across the obsidian in a wide, glittering arc. More teeth loosened. His vision blurred, doubled, swam.
"Get up."
Still he couldn't.
Another kick—this time to the chest. His ribs cracked. Air exploded from his lungs in a wet, desperate gasp. Blood bubbled from his lips. The world was a smear of light and dark, pain and more pain, and all he could taste was copper and salt and the metallic tang of his own dying hope.
"You want a hint?" Sovereign's voice floated down from somewhere far above. "It's something you just did. To me."
What? What did I do?!
Knox's mind raced through every interaction, every word, every glance. Nothing. Nothing. What did I do?!
Sovereign's foot came down on his face.
His head slammed into the floor—once, hard—and the obsidian beneath him cracked. Blood splattered in a wide, wet starburst.
"Another hint?" Sovereign's voice was almost cheerful now. "Gary Cooper."
Knox's bloodshot eyes went wide.
Gary. The heart. The lie.
"Murderers," Knox gasped, the words bubbling through blood. "You hate people who kill their own kind?"
Sovereign knelt beside him. Close enough that Knox could see his own reflection in those cold, depthless eyes.
Then the eyes began to glow.
Bright red. Deadly. The heat of them warmed Knox's blood-soaked skin.
"You answer wrong one more time," Sovereign whispered, "and I'll laser your fucking brains out."
No bluff. No threat. Just a statement of fact, delivered with the same casual certainty as the sun will rise.
Knox flinched. His mind, already fractured by pain and fear, seized on the one thing that made sense.
The lie.
He'd told Sovereign that Hannah killed both twins. But she didn't. She killed Henry. He killed Gary.
"L-liars?" Knox croaked.
Sovereign's face split into a slow, menacing smile.
"Bingo!" He clapped his hands together—once, sharp, mocking. "What took you so long? It wasn't that hard, was it? I mean, it was a question about yourself, really."
"I'm so so—"
The fist cut him off.
It slammed into his face with enough force to bounce his skull off the floor. Stars exploded behind his eyes. Blood sprayed.
"You could've been honest, y'know?" Sovereign grabbed a fistful of Knox's hair and hauled him upright, then hurled him across the room like garbage. Knox's body crashed into the far wall—a wet, crunching impact that left a spiderweb of cracks in the polished surface.
He slid down, leaving a red trail.
Sovereign was already moving.
"Technically, you're a traitor too, right?" Another kick to the face, slamming Knox back into the wall. "Because you did exactly what Hannah did."
He seized Knox by the ankle and swung. The body became a weapon, a missile, hurled through the air to crash through wall after wall after wall—drywall exploding, steel framing bending, glass shattering—a trail of destruction carved through the 200th floor by a man who weighed nothing in Sovereign's hands.
When the carnage stopped, Knox lay in a heap of debris, barely conscious.
"You're helping them, aren't you?" Sovereign's voice echoed through the ruined space as he approached. "The poor, you're with them, aren't you?"
His boot came down on Knox's left ankle.
Crushed it.
Knox's mouth opened in a scream that never came—just a strangled, silent gape, his throat locked by pain too immense to voice.
Ashley watched from the doorway.
Her legs shook. Her hands covered her mouth. Her jaw trembled behind her fingers. She didn't move. Didn't breathe. Didn't exist—just watched, frozen, as Sovereign lifted Knox by the throat and brought him close.
Nose to bloody nose.
"No more lies," Sovereign whispered.
Then he headbutted Knox.
The impact was a thunderclap. Knox's head snapped back, and Sovereign simply opened his hand, letting the broken man drop to the ground in a boneless heap.
He didn't look down.
He didn't need to.
"Begin Death Parade preparation," Sovereign said, his voice already bored, already moving on. He walked past Ashley as if nothing had happened—as if the destruction, the blood, the broken body of his servant of twenty years was just another Tuesday.
"We've got a big day coming."
The doors hissed shut behind him.
Ashley stood alone in the wreckage, staring at the thing on the floor that used to be Knox Maiden.
She didn't move for a long time
---
The medication room on the 180th floor was sterile white and humming with machinery—monitors beeping in steady rhythm, IV drips counting seconds in clear plastic chambers, the soft hiss of ventilated air. Hannah lay on the central bed, her body a roadmap of bandages and burns, when her eyes shot open.
The room gasped.
All at once, the nurses and doctors exhaled—a loud, collective rush of relief that seemed to drain the tension from the air. Several dropped to their knees, panting, hands braced against the polished floor.
"Thank God you're awake," a doctor breathed, clutching her hand. His grip was too tight, desperate. "Literally... thank God."
Hannah blinked. The ceiling lights burned white overhead. Her throat felt like sandpaper.
"W...Where am I..?"
Before anyone could answer, the air changed.
Pressure slammed into the room like a physical force—immense, suffocating, multiplying gravity by a thousand. Every person froze. Every heart hammered against ribs so hard they seemed ready to burst through bone and skin. Breathing became a conscious effort, a battle.
Click. Clack. Click. Clack.
Boots on the polished floor.
Sovereign entered, shaking one hand casually, flicking drying blood from his knuckles. They spattered the sterile white in tiny crimson arcs.
"Hannah!" His voice was bright. Cheerful. Wrong. "You're awake!"
Hannah's voice came out small. "Sir..?"
"Woah woah!" Sovereign laughed—actually laughed—while the room remained deathly silent around him. He patted her shoulder, the impact gentle but somehow still too heavy. "You don't wanna pass out again!"
Then the smile vanished.
His face went serious. Deadly. The transition was instantaneous, like a switch flipped somewhere behind his eyes.
"Alright, alright... let's cut the bullshit." He leaned closer. "I know what you did."
Hannah's throat tightened. "What do you mean?"
She attempted confusion. Innocence. The lie was weak and she knew it.
Sovereign shot one hand up—a halting gesture, sharp as a blade. His lips sucked inward, pressing into a thin line of disappointment. He just stared at her.
"Don't lie like he did, Hannah."
Lie? Who lied? Lied about what?
The questions flashed through her mind, but the weight of his stare crushed them before they could form.
She exhaled. Acceptance flooding in.
"Yes," she said. "I betrayed the rich. I killed both Henry and Wesley. I am guilty."
Sovereign's hand landed on her head.
He patted her. Like a dog. Like a child. Like she was nothing more than a pet that had finally learned to sit.
"Good." He straightened. "I'm giving you a second chance. Don't try that again."
He turned to leave. At the door, he glanced back.
"You know there won't be any more chances after this, right?"
Hannah nodded. Fast. Desperate. Her life depended on it, and she knew it.
She had always wanted to help the poor. Always believed, somewhere deep, that she could make a difference.
But after experiencing the King of the World—just once, just this once—she didn't even think of trying again.
---
Deep underground, Diego stumbled into the base.
The familiar space was empty—no voices, no movement, just the cold concrete and the dying embers in the rusted barrel. He crossed to the center and gently laid Benjamin on the ground, propping him against a stack of flattened cardboard.
Water first. Then bread. Small bites, small sips. Enough to strengthen, not enough to shock.
Benjamin shoved the food away. "Do you really think that shite's gonna work?"
"Give it a break, mate." Benjamin's voice was ragged, exhausted. "You've done your job. It's my turn now."
Diego's brow furrowed. "Your turn on what? What?"
"Surviving." Benjamin met his eyes. "On my own. Look at you—you haven't taken care of yourself the whole time. So it's my turn. My turn to take care of myself."
Diego's voice rose, cracking with frustration and fear. "Because I'm not injured! Look at your state!"
"Just get the fuck off me, will ya?!" Benjamin's voice sharpened, then cracked—he coughed, blood spattering his lips. "I get that you care for me. But I do too! So you gotta take care of yourself. Eat and drink, mate! You haven't done that the whole damn time!"
Diego opened his mouth to argue, then stopped.
Benjamin was right.
He grabbed the water. Drank. The liquid slid down his throat like a massage, like forgiveness. He tore into the bread—plain, stale, and the most incredible thing he'd ever tasted.
Benjamin watched, a faint smirk tugging at his split lips. "Fuckin' hell... I'm fine."
Then—the doors burst open.
Mitch. Emma. Alfie Sr. Alfie Jr. Aya. Milo.
They flooded in, ragged and breathing hard, eyes wild with survival. Emma spotted Benjamin immediately and moved.
"First aid kit," she snapped, and Aya was already handing it over, Milo right behind her.
Emma knelt beside Benjamin, snapping on disposable gloves with practiced efficiency. Her hands moved with the confidence of someone who had done this a hundred times—checking deep stab wounds first, ignoring the small cuts, prioritizing the kill shots.
"Stay with me, Benjamin."
His voice came weak but present. "I've always stayed awake."
"Good. Very good." Her hands worked, applying direct pressure with sterile gauze. "What's your name?"
Benjamin's brow twitched. "Seriously?"
She didn't look up. "Guys, add pressure to the spots I gauzed."
Hands joined hers—Mitch, Aya, pressing down.
"I only know your first name," Emma continued. "I wanna know your full name."
Benjamin exhaled through the pain. "Benjamin Dan Smith."
"Thanks for telling me, Benjamin Dan Smith."
Minutes passed. Pressure held. The bleeding slowed, then stopped.
Emma switched to antiseptic wipes, cleaning each wound with methodical care. "We're almost done, Ben."
She placed sterile dressings, secured them with bandages, wrapped tight enough to maintain pressure but not cut circulation.
"Look." Benjamin's voice was dry, irritated. "I ain't no seven-year-old, alright? Just do your fuckin' stuff and don't talk."
"You got it, Benjamin Dan Smith."
For the deep wounds, she packed gauze gently inside, helping clotting, then applied pressure bandages over top. Her hands never wavered.
Finally, she sat back, stripping off the gloves.
"Alright. You're all good. Just don't move too much for now, 'kay?"
"I'm fine." Benjamin started to rise.
Emma pushed him back down—gently, but firm.
"Don't be so damn difficult, dude."
Benjamin grunted, sinking back. "Fuck me..."
Diego stepped forward. He took Emma's hand, lifted it, and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.
"Muchas gracias, hermana." His voice cracked. "You saved his life. ¡Eres mi... nuestro salvador!"
Emma smiled, patting his shoulder. "You're welcome, Diego. I'm glad we're all now a trusted and cooperative team."
"About that..." Alfie Sr said, signaling towards Aya and Milo.
---
Massive containers drifted through the night sky, each one the size of a shipping container, each one carried by three rich elites gripping reinforced handles. Inside: thousands upon thousands of unconscious poor—stacked like cargo, breathing shallow, dreaming of nothing.
The containers descended toward a supermassive theme park sprawling across what was once the city's waterfront. Now it was something else entirely.
Floating ferris wheels rotated slowly against the stars, their passenger cars drifting in lazy arcs with no visible support. Rollercoasters twisted through the air on invisible tracks—or rather, no tracks at all, just empty space where riders would control their own trajectory using holographic interfaces. Rides that didn't move but offered simulations so vivid, so complete, that riders tasted blood when they died inside them. Carnival games lined the midway, each one equipped with rayguns that fired pixelated bullets at holographic targets.
Every year, the Death Parade changed. New rides. New horrors. New ways to die.
And this year's attractions were already being prepared.
Workers—rich elites in themed uniforms—moved through the park, hanging the unconscious poor in various positions throughout the rides. Deadly positions. Some dangled from holographic ropes suspended hundreds of feet in the air, perfect targets for rollercoaster riders to crash into. Others were strapped to moving platforms that would intersect with swinging pendulum rides. A few were simply placed in high-traffic areas, waiting to be collected.
Hannah worked among them.
She hoisted another unconscious body, attaching it to a holographic rope that shimmered in mid-air, invisible except for the faint blue glow at the anchor points. Her face was blank. Her movements mechanical.
But inside, something was changing.
Not this time.
She'd helped before. Sabotaged where she could. Saved who she was able.
But this time was different.
This time, she had allies.
Strong ones.
A voice boomed across the park, amplified by speakers hidden throughout the grounds.
"Ladies and gentlemen!"
Sovereign stood on a raised platform at the park's center, microphone in hand, arms spread wide like a showman welcoming his audience.
"The Death Parade you've all been waiting for..." He paused, letting the anticipation build. "Will begin in ten hours! Starting... NOW!"
The crowd erupted.
Thousands of rich citizens—men, women, children—cheered and applauded, their faces lit with excitement, their sick minds already racing with anticipation. They pushed forward, craning to see the preparations, pointing at dangling bodies, laughing at the creativity of this year's rides.
To them, the poor weren't people.
They were beings born into this planet with one purpose only:
To die. Entertainingly.
---
Deep in the isolation chamber, John existed somewhere far from reality.
The ground shifted constantly beneath him—or maybe he was shifting, floating, he couldn't tell anymore. Monsters licked at his ears with wet, invisible tongues. The gun in his hands glowed abnormally, pulsing with light that seemed to breathe.
"Why are you so down?" Aya's voice, warm and concerned. He didn't look up. He knew better now. "You're supposed to be strong! Fight to live!"
Benjamin's laugh echoed from somewhere else. "I can't wait till you get out and try to hunt us down! I don't think you'd even be able to catch a rabbit in the miserable state you're in!"
Milo's voice came last—cold, final, absolute.
"Just know one thing... nobody cares about you. No one gives a single shit about you."
John stared at nothing.
His eyebags were black and swollen, bruises carved into his face by exhaustion. His eyes—dark, tired, red-rimmed—held no expression at all. No rage. No fear. No hope. Just a vast, empty dread that filled every corner of his being.
He couldn't hear the voices anymore.
Couldn't feel the monsters.
Couldn't sense anything except the beep.
Beep.
Not smashing into him now. Not attacking. Just... taking.
Beep.
Each pulse removed something. A memory. A feeling. A piece of himself.
Beep.
He didn't know how much was left.
He didn't care anymore.
---
Back at the underground base, Benjamin rose from where he'd been lying. His movements were slow, stiff, but deliberate.
"Hey!" Emma started, then stopped. Sighed. "Oh well. Whatever."
In the corner, Aya was crying.
Quietly. Knees drawn up, face buried, shoulders shaking in small, contained tremors.
Alfie Sr. noticed first. He crossed to her, crouched down, voice gentle. "What's wrong?"
Aya lifted her head. Her face was wet, eyes swollen, voice shattering as she spoke.
"It's just that... we just fucking threw John away like he was trash." She wiped at her tears; new ones replaced them instantly. "He's human, you know? He's human. Just like us."
No one spoke.
"He may have used to be one of the rich, but that doesn't immediately mean he's like the rest of them." Her voice cracked. "Look at Hannah. Look at how many times she risked her life trying to protect us. And now she's probably... dead.."
She wiped again. The tears kept coming.
Alfie Jr. shifted uncomfortably. "I'm sorry... but if you think Hannah's dead... what makes you think John isn't?"
Before Aya could answer—
"Because he isn't."
A new voice. From the shadows.
Hannah stepped into the dim light.
Aya's eyes went wide. "Hannah?!"
The others scrambled to their feet, shock rippling through the room.
"How did you get here?" Aya demanded.
Hannah reached into her pocket and pulled out a familiar device—the same glowing map they all carried.
"I found this." She held it up. "Decided to follow wherever the hell it was pointing me."
Benjamin stepped forward, taking the map from her hand. "Oh yeah. That's mine. Must've dropped it or something."
Milo's voice was sharp, suspicious. "How do you know John isn't dead?"
Hannah met his gaze.
"Sovereign always loves to play with his food first." Her voice was flat, certain. "In this case, we're his food. Why do you think he didn't kill me when he had the chance? Because he wants me—" She looked around the room, meeting each face in turn. "He wants us to try."
She let that sink in.
"And we're going to make Sovereign regret that. That's why we need John." Her voice hardened. "Because he somehow still has powers. Even after taking Composite X."
Silence.
Then, slowly, every head turned.
Towards Benjamin Dan Smith.
Waiting. Waiting for his approval.
He stood there, scarred and broken and exhausted, the weight of every decision pressing down on his shoulders. Aya's tears. Hannah's survival. John's sacrifice. Diego's loyalty. The Alfies' trust. Mitch and Emma's willingness to fight for strangers.
He could say no. He could protect what was left. He could keep playing it safe, keep surviving, keep being smart.
He exhaled.
Then—
"What's the plan?"