Shadows of the Past

Chapter 2: Shadows of the Past

One month ago—"Before the Hunt"

The night is thick with silence, broken only by the occasional flicker of unstable lights. A towering, 14-floor structure looms over the decayed cityscape, its skeletal frame a remnant of a forgotten past. The building is unlike the modern designs that have replaced the old world. It looks as though it has been carved from the earth itself.

A tattered signboard sways weakly at the top, its faded letters barely legible beneath years of dust and grime. The emblem, a fractured image of the planet slashed in half, is stained with dried blood. W.H. These were once places of science, of healing. Now, they are nothing more than decayed husks of failed experiments, abandoned research centers filled with echoes of suffering.

Inside, the halls stretch into darkness, littered with broken glass, overturned gurneys, and rusted cages. Some rooms still bear the remains of their inhabitants—beds coated in dust, others in chains. Skeletal figures, long reduced to brittle bones, lie in eerie stillness, trapped in a place where time itself has surrendered.

The flickering lights cast erratic shadows against the walls, revealing the faded crimson stains of past violence. Fingerprints smeared in blood. Dried pools on the cracked tile floors. The scent of rusted metal and decay lingers in the air.

On the fourteenth floor, in a dimly lit chamber, death claims another soul. A woman lies sprawled across a blood-soaked bed, her lifeless body frozen in its final moment. Her clothes, once white, are now drenched in crimson. Beside her stands a man, his frame rigid, his presence unyielding. His right eye, cold and sharp, is fixed ahead. His left eye, covered in drying blood, is barely open. Tears, silent but heavy, slip down his hardened face. He holds something wrapped tightly in thick black military fabric, shielding it from the eyes of those who stand before him.

A single laser gun trembles in his grasp, aimed at the figures in the doorway. Three beings stand there, their expressions laced with grief, betrayal, and cold fury. Behind them, more than twenty soldiers in black military jackets raise their weapons, prepared to strike.

Among the three commanders, only one hesitates.

A woman, tall, elegant, and conflicted, stands at an imposing six feet, effortlessly commanding attention. Not just because of her height, but the way she carries herself—poised, self-assured, yet burdened by something unseen. An hourglass shape subtly defined rather than exaggerated, built for both speed and endurance. Her pale skin bears the chill of the East Region, a stark contrast to the warmth of the dim light.

Her face, sharp and striking, holds a beauty that is almost sculpted—high cheekbones, a strong jawline, and full lips that rarely betray emotion. Her piercing steel-gray eyes, hard to read, carry a storm within them—a conflict between duty and something far more personal. Raven-black hair, tightly braided, frames her expression of quiet intensity. No unnecessary adornments, just the precision of a soldier.

A high-collared black military coat hugs her form, its sleek fabric marked with the insignia of the Eastern forces. Unlike the others, her uniform isn’t pristine—faint scorch marks near the cuffs, a single tear at the hip, evidence of past battles. Her weapon remains lowered, her fingers twitching near the trigger—hesitation, a rare thing for her. Unlike the others, her gaze doesn’t hold blind hatred. Instead, there is a deeper, personal fury—an anger she doesn’t fully understand herself. Her breath is steady, controlled, but the sharp rise and fall of her shoulders betray the storm within.

The others have already passed judgment, their fingers inching toward their triggers.

And standing alone, bloodied and unshaken, is Commander R of the Western Region.

A hunted man.

A fugitive.

A traitor in the eyes of the world.

But in his arms, beneath the folds of bloodied cloth, he holds the very thing they have all been fighting for.

The key to everything.

He does not waver.

He does not retreat.

One month later—"During the Hunt"

The low hum of a bar’s ventilation system vibrates through the dimly lit space, a rhythmic drone beneath the muted conversations and clinking of worn-down glasses. The air is thick with the scent of old wood, spilled liquor, and something faintly metallic—rust, maybe, or dried blood that no one bothers to clean anymore. This is a place where shadows gather, where the forgotten come to drown their regrets, where names don’t matter, only debts and survival.

Commander R isn’t asleep, but his mind is far from the present. Seated at the farthest end of the bar, away from the flickering neon sign that barely clings to life, he stares at nothing. His fingers, rough with healing wounds and dried blood, absently trace the chipped edges of a black wooden flask. Each groove, each imperfection is familiar, a reminder of a time that feels like another life. A tap on his shoulder, sharp and deliberate, drags him back to the present. "Is the package ready?" R’s voice is deep, almost guttural. "Yes, sir. A clean, warm water stored in a 4-liter flask for you," the bartender replies.R picks up the black metal flask but notices his order is incomplete. "What about the milk?" "It’s on the way," the bartender says nervously. R exhales sharply, his patience wearing thin. His fingers tap against the table, a silent beat of irritation. "Time’s ticking. I don’t have all night." He mutters to himself, his voice low and strained. "Shut up. Let me focus. Can you just shut the fuck up for once?" The bartender stiffens, uncomfortable. "Are you talking to me?" the bartender asks, his voice shaky."No," R snaps, his tone furious yet detached. "Why are you wasting my time to get my order? "Look, I just serve orders given to me. I don’t control the fuckin timing," the bartender stammers. "Then who the fuck does?" R growls, his annoyance boiling over. A voice from behind cuts through the tension, smooth but laced with amusement. "I do."

R stiffens, turning slowly. A massive, fat red alien looms behind him, its beady eyes glinting in the dim light. The alien’s hulking figure is draped in a deep, flowing gown that barely conceals the bulk of its massive form. Its leathery red skin glistens faintly under the bar lights, stretched taut over a bloated belly. Despite its size, it moves with unsettling smoothness, like a creature that knows it is always in control."You can call me Landlord," the alien says, grinning. Its sharp, yellowed teeth glint in the dim light, and a thin trail of violet smoke curls from the cigar resting lazily between its lips. R clenches his jaw, realizing exactly why his order was delayed. The bartender had been stalling, waiting for this moment. "Fuck me," R mutters under his breath, his fury barely contained.