CHAPTER 17 — The Hand Awakens
(~1400 words)
Rain fell like knives over Florida City that night. Streets that once shimmered with neon now glowed faintly under stormlight, every droplet reflecting the ruin that had spread through its veins. Sirens howled in the distance — faint, tired sounds swallowed by thunder.
Silva stood on the rooftop of an old cathedral, the Iron Suit's eyes dimmed, his golden fist hidden beneath a soaked glove. His heart hadn't rested since the battle in the tunnels. The echo of Jared's scream still pulsed in his ears, haunting him even when the wind tried to drown it out.
He hadn't told anyone. Not his father. Not his mother. Not even Mr. Chennai.
Because something about Jared's final words terrified him.
"The Hand is coming…"
He whispered it to himself again, letting the words taste bitter on his tongue.
The Hand — the ancient shadow cult that preyed on the weak, manipulators of life and death. He'd heard the stories from Mr. Chennai, about how their assassins moved like smoke and how their masters could bring the dead back… twisted and loyal only to them.
And Jared had fallen right into their grasp.
Down below, the city flickered with power outages. Silva's HUD flashed a signal — a surge of dark energy near the abandoned docks. The same signature as Jared's.
His eyes narrowed. "Found you."
He launched himself from the roof, the Iron Suit roaring to life with a burst of blue flame. Rain hissed against his armor as he streaked through the air like a comet.
When he landed, the docks were silent. Shipping containers rusted in long rows. Water lapped softly against the piers. But something about the air was wrong — heavy, pulsing with unseen energy.
He moved carefully, boots silent on the wet concrete. Every instinct screamed trap.
Then he saw it — a faint red glow beneath one of the containers.
He approached slowly, fingers curled, the Iron Fist warming beneath his skin. With a metallic creak, he pried the container open — and froze.
Inside were bodies. Not dead, but unconscious — dozens of them, lined in ritual circles. Their skin glowed faintly crimson, their veins webbed with dark energy.
At the center stood a figure in black robes, murmuring in a language older than flame.
Silva's jaw clenched. "Who are you?"
The figure turned. A pale face, sharp as bone, eyes burning red. "You shouldn't be here, child of Kalun."
"How do you know that name?"
The man smiled faintly. "Because I was there… when the last Iron Fist fell."
Then he raised his hand — and the ground split open.
Dozens of figures crawled from the shadows, faces hidden behind bone masks. The Hand.
Silva's fist ignited gold. "You chose the wrong night."
They came at him like shadows given form — fast, silent, inhuman. Silva spun, fists crackling, his strikes exploding with golden fire. Each punch sent energy waves rippling through the rain, shattering the ground beneath him.
But they kept coming. For every one he dropped, two more rose.
He leapt high, flipping onto a container, then slammed his fist down — a shockwave of golden light tore through the dock, scattering them like leaves.
But the robed man only watched, unmoving. His voice cut through the storm like a blade.
"Do you think you fight us? No, boy. You fight the inevitable."
"I fight monsters," Silva growled.
The man smiled. "Then fight this."
He lifted his hand, and the red glow intensified. The bodies inside the container convulsed — then rose. Their eyes blazed with crimson fire.
Silva's heart froze. "No…"
They lunged.
He barely had time to block. Their strength was unnatural, their movements stiff but relentless. These weren't people anymore — they were reanimated soldiers of The Hand.
Silva fought through them, fury in every punch, but each blow felt heavier than the last. He could feel his energy fading, his armor cracked and sparking.
The man in robes spoke again, voice calm amidst the chaos.
"You don't understand yet, do you? Jared wasn't your enemy. He was your warning."
At the mention of Jared's name, Silva hesitated — and that split-second was enough. One of the undead soldiers slammed into him, hurling him across the pier. He hit the ground hard, his armor hissing from the rain.
The robed man approached slowly. "The boy you called friend… he was chosen by us long before you met him. His soul was the first sacrifice."
Silva looked up, breathing raggedly. "Where is he?"
The man's eyes gleamed. "Closer than you think."
And from the shadows, a voice Silva knew too well spoke.
"Hello again… Silva."
Jared stepped into the light — or what was left of him. His face was pale, his veins dark, and his right arm shimmered with runes that pulsed like living fire. The air warped around him.
Silva rose, his breath catching. "You're alive?"
"Alive?" Jared's voice was distorted, echoing like two voices in one. "No, brother. I've been remade."
Silva's fist glowed. "You let them do this to you?"
Jared tilted his head, a strange calm in his smile. "I didn't let them. I asked them. The world needs power, Silva. Not mercy. Not restraint. And now…" His hand flared crimson. "Now I have more power than you could ever imagine."
"You're not Jared anymore."
Jared's grin widened. "No. I'm what you should've been."
He thrust his hand forward. A crimson blast erupted from his palm, tearing through the pier. Silva barely dodged, his armor absorbing part of the hit. The explosion threw fire and debris everywhere.
They clashed again — light against shadow, flame against corruption. Each impact rattled the dock, lightning flashing above as if the sky itself raged.
Jared moved faster now, his attacks unpredictable, infused with unnatural strength. Silva countered with precision, but every blow hurt — not his body, but his heart.
"Stop this!" Silva shouted mid-fight. "You don't have to do this!"
Jared sneered. "You never understood. Heroes don't save the world — they delay its fall."
Their fists collided one last time, and the energy burst like thunder. Both were thrown back — Silva into a stack of containers, Jared skidding across the pier.
The rain fell harder, extinguishing the flames, leaving only smoke and silence.
Silva forced himself up, every muscle screaming. Jared was already gone — vanished into the storm, leaving behind only the symbol of The Hand burned into the concrete.
Hours later, Silva stood in Mr. Chennai's workshop, silent as the rain outside continued to pour. His mentor stared at him, concern shadowing his face.
"You saw him again, didn't you?" Chennai asked quietly.
Silva nodded. "He's changed… completely. The Hand brought him back. They're planning something big."
Mr. Chennai exhaled slowly, his eyes distant. "They've begun the Ritual of Rebirth. It means they're awakening their god — the Serpent of Chaos."
Silva looked up sharply. "Then we stop them."
Chennai shook his head. "You don't understand, Silva. This isn't just war. This is ancient judgment. You can't fight them as you are."
"Then I'll become more."
The older man's gaze hardened. "The Iron Fist burns brightest just before it consumes its bearer. Be careful what you wish for."
Silva said nothing. He turned to the window, watching lightning slice through the sky.
In the distance, over the city, a red symbol glowed faintly among the clouds — the mark of The Hand.
Silva's fist flared with golden light once more.
And beneath the thunder, a promise echoed in his mind.
"If it's war they want… it's war they'll get."