The man's name was Boba. It was not a name that carried weight, nor one that stirred fear or reverence—but such things had never concerned him. In the world as he understood it, names were nothing. Titles mattered. Rank mattered. Money mattered. And Boba, through the quiet workings of lineage and influence, had risen without struggle to command the garrison at the Dam—a post of comfort disguised as responsibility, far removed from true war, yet rich in authority and indulgence for a man inclined toward both.
The world beyond might have been tense, nations watching one another with suspicion, but here—behind concrete and steel, guarded by two hundred armed soldiers beneath the banner of the Republic—danger felt distant, almost theoretical. No terrorist, no sane man with even a fragment of reason, would dare strike such a place. That was what Boba believed, and belief, for him, had always been enough.
So he lived as he pleased.
Having cast the broken dwarf out into the cold like refuse, he crossed the compound with unhurried ease, his chin lifted slightly, a faint, satisfied smile resting upon his lips. The night air bit at the skin, but he scarcely noticed it. His thoughts had already moved on. By the time he reached his quarters, whatever had happened at the gate had faded into irrelevance.
He pushed the door open without knocking.
Warm light greeted him.
And there—upon the bed—lay the woman.
She was small, slender in frame, with short dark hair falling loosely about her shoulders and wide, dark eyes that watched him with practiced softness. What she wore was little more than suggestion—a thin, clinging slip that traced the lines of her body without shame, revealing more than it concealed. She was not extraordinary, not the kind of beauty that lingered in memory, but she was pleasing enough—soft in the right places, eager where it mattered. And that was sufficient.
She had come to him for the same reason all the others had: money, comfort, escape. And he, as always, intended to give her none of it beyond the illusion. He would enjoy her, as he had enjoyed the rest, and when the novelty wore thin, she would be discarded without thought.
She smiled as he entered.
"You're back?" she said lightly, her voice soft, almost teasing. Then, tilting her head, something sharper slipped beneath the tone. "Did you deal with that useless husband of mine?"
Boba let out a low chuckle as he stepped inside, closing the door behind him with quiet finality.
"Don't worry about him," he said, loosening his jacket, his voice smooth, unbothered. "He won't be coming back. Not if he has any sense left in him."
She hummed, satisfied.
"Good," she murmured, her fingers drifting lazily along her waist, then higher, slow and deliberate, teasing herself as she watched him. Her legs parted slightly, inviting, her lips curving into something knowingly provocative. "Then we can continue… right?"
Boba smiled faintly and stepped closer, already reaching for her, already sinking back into the comfort of control, of indulgence, of a world that bent easily around him.
And then—
The night broke.
A distant explosion split the air, sharp and violent, followed by the unmistakable rattle of gunfire—irregular, chaotic, wrong.
Boba stopped.
The shift was immediate.
"…What?"
The woman flinched, pushing herself upright, confusion overtaking her earlier composure. She reached for him instinctively, guiding his hands back toward her body as if to dismiss the interruption.
"Let them play," she said, her voice still trying to remain light, though uncertainty crept in. "Night drills, maybe. Come… we don't need to worry about that."
But Boba no longer responded.
The sound was wrong.
Too frantic. Too uncontrolled.
Before he could speak, the door burst open.
A soldier rushed in, fully equipped, his breathing uneven, his eyes wide—not with discipline, but with something far closer to fear.
"Commander! The camp is under attack!"
Boba's spine straightened at once.
"Attack? By who?" he snapped, irritation flashing through his voice. "Which organization?"
His mind moved quickly—terrorists, sabotage, infiltration—but none of it fit. Not here. Not like this.
"There's only—" the soldier hesitated, swallowing hard, "—only one, sir."
Boba stared at him.
"…One?"
The word hung there, disbelief sharpening into annoyance.
The soldier shook his head rapidly. "It's… it's not human, sir. I don't know what it is. You need to see it."
A curse slipped under Boba's breath.
"Sound the full alarm," he ordered sharply. "All units mobilize."
He turned briefly to the woman, who now sat rigid on the bed, her earlier confidence gone, replaced by unease. For a moment—just a moment—he leaned down and kissed her, more out of habit than care.
"Stay inside," he said. "I'll handle it."
Whether he believed that or not, even he did not know.
Then he moved—quickly now, purpose replacing indulgence. His hand hovered near his sidearm as he stepped out into the open.
The night had changed.
Sirens screamed across the compound, harsh and unrelenting. Floodlights cut wildly through the darkness, beams slicing through drifting smoke. Soldiers poured from barracks and positions, weapons raised, voices overlapping in sharp bursts of confusion and command.
"Hold your ground!" a voice roared from ahead—strong, steady, forcing order into the chaos.
Gunfire followed in uneven bursts, growing steadily louder.
For a moment, Boba felt a flicker of reassurance. Discipline. Structure. This could still be contained. Whatever it was—some animal, some intruder—it would be dealt with. That was what soldiers were for.
Then he saw it.
At the shattered gate, flames clawed upward from a burning vehicle, smoke twisting into the night, and within that flickering inferno something moved—low, heavy, unnatural. It burst forward with a speed that defied its mass, a shape too broad, too dense, too wrong to be understood at a glance.
A roar followed.
Deep. Inhuman.
"UGHHH—AAAHHH—!!"
The sound tore through the compound, silencing even the gunfire for a heartbeat before panic rushed in to fill the void.
"What the hell is that?!"
"Fire! Fire!"
Bullets struck it—some tearing flesh, dark fluid spraying into the air—yet it did not slow. Others sparked uselessly, ricocheting off as though striking something harder than bone.
Then it was among them.
A soldier was seized before he could even scream, lifted from the ground and torn apart, his body separating with a wet, brutal sound that seemed to echo louder than the gunfire itself. Pieces struck the ground in different directions. Others followed.
The line faltered.
Claws carved through flesh as though it were paper. One man was hurled aside, his broken body crashing into two others, sending them sprawling. Another was dragged close and bitten through, spine snapping audibly as the creature tore free. Blood sprayed, thick and hot, staining the ground in widening arcs.
"KEEP FIRING!" the platoon leader roared, though even his voice strained now beneath the weight of what he faced. "DO NOT FALL BACK!"
A Humvee surged forward, engine screaming, its driver committing fully, charging straight toward the creature in desperate defiance.
For a fleeting moment—hope.
Then the creature turned.
And stopped it.
The vehicle shuddered violently, its momentum dying in an instant as though it had struck an invisible wall. The driver slammed forward, his head cracking against the wheel, blood running down into his eyes. He looked up—
And met the thing's gaze.
It roared.
Then it lifted.
Metal screamed under the strain as the entire vehicle rose from the ground, held aloft by something that should not have possessed such strength. For a brief, suspended instant, silence rippled outward, disbelief choking the air.
"No…" someone whispered.
Then it threw it.
The Humvee spun through the air and came down with crushing force, flattening two soldiers beneath it in a burst of bone and steel while others dove aside in blind panic.
The formation broke completely.
What remained of order dissolved into fear.
And through it all, the creature stood—breathing, watching, alive in a way that defied reason, as though the world itself had twisted and birthed something it could no longer contain.
Boba stared.
Recognition struck him—not slowly, not uncertainly, but all at once, like a hammer falling clean and final.
"…No," he whispered, the word breaking apart in his throat.
That shape. That face.
The dwarf.
The man he had cast aside like nothing.
"…No fucking way…"
The certainty of rank, of power, of control—everything that had once anchored him—collapsed in that instant. His body weakened beneath him, his body failing as understanding settled cold and absolute. This was not an enemy he could command against, not something that could be reduced to tactics or crushed beneath authority.
This was something else.
And it was looking at him.
The creature's gaze fixed upon him fully now, recognition burning within those crimson eyes, and in that silent exchange there passed something terrible—something that needed no words. Boba saw it then, not as a man, but as prey. He opened his mouth, perhaps to shout, perhaps to command, perhaps to beg—but no sound came.
The distance between them vanished.
A blur of motion—too fast, too sudden.
Then—
Silence.
For a fraction of a heartbeat, the world seemed to hold itself still, and then Boba's head separated cleanly from his body, rising into the air as though lifted by unseen hands. The expression upon his face—shock, terror, disbelief—froze there, preserved forever as blood followed in a violent arc. His body remained standing for a moment longer, pierced through by jagged claws, before collapsing uselessly to the ground.
The creature let out a guttural roar, a savage, triumphant sound that tore upward into the night, as though announcing its vengeance to the heavens themselves.
"UGHH—AAAHH—!!"
And somewhere beyond that chaos, was Jeff muttering to himself.
"So… this is real despair, huh."
Jeff walked through the shattered main gate of the camp as if entering a place already abandoned by order. There was no caution in his steps, no attempt to hide or disguise himself. There was no need. The compound had become a burning ruin, swallowed by smoke, fire, and the unraveling of everything that had once held it together.
Screams filled the air—raw, broken, human.
To Jeff, they sounded… good.
Proof.
Proof that it was working.
"Let's just hope Little Hunter doesn't decide I look tasty," he muttered, glancing briefly toward the carnage before continuing forward with casual indifference.
Bodies lay scattered, torn and discarded, the ground slick beneath his feet. Gunfire still echoed in bursts, but it had lost its structure, its rhythm. It was no longer resistance—just noise.
Jeff ignored it all.
His path was simple.
The dam administration building stood at the rear of the compound, dimly lit, its upper floors still intact—for now. He stepped inside without hesitation and began climbing the narrow stairwell, his footsteps echoing faintly against the concrete.
Halfway up, he saw them.
Two soldiers.
One was barely standing, his uniform torn and bloodied, supporting another who had been dragged inside by sheer will alone. Both were wounded—survivors by accident rather than strength.
They saw him.
"Who are you? Stop!" the standing soldier barked, forcing strength into his voice as he raised his rifle, aiming it squarely at Jeff. His hands trembled, but his training held—for now.
Jeff didn't stop.
He didn't even acknowledge him.
He simply continued walking.
"Stop! If you don't stop, I'll—"
The words never finished.
An explosion tore through the structure nearby, the blast shattering windows and flooding the stairwell with light and debris. For a brief, blinding instant, the world dissolved into white noise and pressure.
When the soldier opened his eyes again—
Jeff was gone.
He stood there, stunned, breath caught in his throat, his mind struggling to process what he had seen—or hadn't seen.
"…Did you—?"
The other soldier said nothing.
Neither of them understood.
For a fleeting second, the chaos outside felt distant, unreal, as though they had slipped into something else entirely.
Then—
The door below exploded inward.
A massive shape surged into the stairwell.
The soldiers screamed.
"FIRE—!"
Gunfire erupted at point-blank range, rounds slamming into the creature's face, tearing into flesh, cracking bone—yet it did not stop. The damage meant nothing. It kept coming.
"Damn it! Die! Just die!"
Their voices broke as they fired, desperation replacing discipline.
It didn't matter.
The creature reached them in a single bound.
"UGHH—AAAH—!!"
Claws fell.
And in an instant, both men were reduced to something unrecognizable—crushed, torn, broken into ruin against the walls of the stairwell. Blood painted the concrete in thick, violent streaks.
'Gained 1 Despair Point.'
At the same moment, elsewhere within the building, Jeff paused mid-step, his expression flickering with something between disbelief and relief.
"…I didn't get shot," he muttered quietly, almost surprised.
The notification echoed again.
And again.
And again.
Slowly at first—then faster.
Each one marking another moment, another life ending not just in death, but in fear, in hopelessness, in that final, suffocating collapse of certainty.
Jeff's lips curled upward.
Wider.
Wider still.
"This feeling…" he whispered. "This is it…"
Outside, the camp burned. Inside, the structure trembled. And across it all, humanity—disciplined, armed, organized humanity—was breaking.
"This isn't enough," Jeff murmured, his eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. "Not even close."
His gaze lifted, as though looking beyond the dam, beyond the city itself.
"This city… no. This whole world…"
The thought did not finish. It didn't need to.
Because somewhere between the screams and the fire, between the blood and the ruin—
Something had already begun.
The end had taken its first breath.
At last, Jeff reached the heart of it—the entrance to the dam's inner administration core. He pushed through the heavy door and stepped inside, leaving behind the screams, the gunfire, the collapsing world. Here, the noise dulled, muffled by concrete and depth, until it became a distant echo, like something happening in another reality. His footsteps rang hollow against the floor as he moved forward, deeper, guided by instinct more than knowledge, following the thick veins of pipes that lined the walls, humming faintly with the lifeblood of the city.
He moved faster now—half walking, half stumbling—breath uneven, sweat clinging to his pale skin, his heart still racing from the chaos behind him. The deeper he went, the quieter it became, until at last the corridor opened into a chamber—and there, at its center, he saw it.
A pool.
Not large, not grand—just a controlled basin of flowing water, clear and steady beneath the harsh overhead lights. But the signs, the pipes feeding into it, the filtration systems branching outward—this was no ordinary pool. This was the artery. The place where the city's lifeblood passed through before reaching every home, every faucet, every unsuspecting throat.
Jeff stopped at its edge.
"…This is it," he whispered.
His hand trembled slightly as he reached into his pocket and withdrew the container—the small vessel of crimson that seemed almost to pulse with its own quiet promise. He held it above the water, staring into the swirling liquid within, his reflection faintly visible in both surfaces—one clear, one red.
And for the first time—
He hesitated.
"…If I do this…" he muttered, his voice low, uncertain. "That's it, right? No undo. No 'oops my bad' patch update…"
He swallowed.
People would die. Not just here. Not just soldiers. Everyone. Ordinary people. People who had nothing to do with him.
"…And I'm definitely going to jail," he added quietly. "…Like… forever jail."
His grip tightened.
"…Or worse."
The thought lingered.
Then—
Footsteps.
Behind him.
Fast. Uneven.
"HEY! YOU—STOP RIGHT THERE!"
The voice cut through the chamber, sharp, commanding—spoken in strained but clear English.
Jeff flinched and turned.
A soldier stood at the corridor entrance, half-collapsed against the wall, one hand clutching his blood-soaked abdomen while the other raised a pistol with trembling resolve. His face was pale beneath the grime, his breathing ragged—but his eyes were sharp. Focused.
"You—American!" he barked, forcing strength into his voice. "CIA? Spy? Whatever you are—put that down! Now!"
Jeff blinked.
"…Wow," he said flatly. "That's racist."
The soldier faltered for half a second. "…What?"
"Just because I'm white doesn't mean I'm American, man," Jeff snapped, frowning. "Could be European. Could be Canadian. You don't know me."
"I—I don't care!" the soldier shot back, tightening his grip on the gun. "Put it down! Whatever that is—this ends now!"
Jeff glanced at the container in his hand, then back at the soldier.
"…It's a virus," he said casually. "Like, a really bad one."
The soldier's expression hardened. "…I figured."
Jeff tilted his head slightly, thinking out loud now, his voice drifting into that strange, detached tone again.
"If I drop this in here… yeah… probably spreads through the water system… not everyone drinks tap water these days though… hmm… but showers, cooking, cheap people, poor people…" He nodded slowly. "Yeah. That's still a lot of people."
"STOP THINKING ABOUT IT!" the soldier shouted, his voice cracking with urgency. "Don't do it! You don't understand what you're doing!"
Jeff looked at him again.
"…I think I do."
"Then think about them!" the soldier pressed, desperation bleeding through now. "Families! Children! People who have done nothing to you! You destroy this—you destroy everything! Do you have no compassion?!"
The word lingered.
Compassion.
Jeff went still.
His head lowered slightly, his expression hidden in shadow.
For a moment—
Silence.
Then—
Fragments.
A voice. Soft. Familiar.
"Jessica loves big brother the most!"
A laugh. Bright. Warm.
"When I grow up, I'll marry you, okay?"
Sunlight. Games. Shared screens. A world that once made sense.
Then—
Noise.
Voices online. Mockery. Hate.
"Why would anyone play this garbage?"
"Go woke, go broke."
"What even are these characters?"
And then—
An airport.
Her back turned.
A different smile.
"Get your life together, Jeff. I'm going to Hawaii with Chad."
The memory burned.
Jeff laughed.
A sharp, broken sound that echoed against the walls.
"What's so funny?" the soldier demanded, shaken now.
"Compassion?" Jeff repeated, lifting his head slowly, his eyes glowing faintly. "You people talking about compassion?"
His voice twisted, rising, unhinged.
"Where was that when everyone trashed my game, huh? When they laughed at it? When they said characters shouldn't look like real people—like actual women?"
The soldier stared, confused.
"What are you talking about?"
"CONCORD!" Jeff snapped. "Concord Online! You know how hard it is to make people respect a game with strong female leads? Real ones? Not your plastic anime dolls? Black women, bigger women, actual personalities—"
"You're insane," the soldier said quietly.
Jeff paused.
Then grinned.
"Yeah," he said. "Probably."
And with that—
He opened the container.
The crimson liquid spilled, pouring into the water below, dissolving instantly, vanishing into the current like something eager to spread.
"NO—!"
The gun fired.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Jeff jerked as the bullets struck him—sharp, burning impacts tearing through his body. His breath caught, his hands spasming as the empty container slipped from his fingers.
"…Oh," he gasped.
His body staggered backward, balance failing, vision blurring as pain flooded in all at once.
"…That… hurts…"
Another step.
Nothing beneath his foot.
And then, he fell backward, into the water.
The surface shattered as his body plunged beneath it, ripples spreading outward, carrying with them the unseen, the irreversible.
The soldier stood there, gun still raised, chest heaving, staring at the water.
"…Damn it…" he whispered.
But it was already too late.