THE STORM WITHIN.
Chapter 29 – "The Storm Within"
Rain hit the metal of Silva's armor like shrapnel. Each drop hissed where it struck the faint heat of his gauntlets, rolling off in thin, luminous streaks. The storm wasn't only in the sky—it was inside him, coiling with every heartbeat. The city ahead was a blur of broken towers and lightning veins crawling across the clouds.
He pushed through the wind. Sensors flickered red and gold across his visor, scanning for the faint signal of the old clock that had hung in his mother's shop. Somewhere in that pulse was an answer—and maybe a trap.
She can't be part of them, he told himself. But the Serpent's whisper still gnawed at the back of his mind, feeding doubt with every step.
The storm grew thicker. Somewhere behind the thunder, something moved—a low mechanical hum. He turned, hands raised, expecting Jared. But instead, three silhouettes emerged from the rain: men in torn uniforms, their eyes blank, veins glowing faintly green.
"Who sent you?" Silva shouted through the static.
They didn't answer. Their bodies convulsed, joints cracking as they lunged at once. Silva met them halfway, blocking, striking—not with fury, but precision. Each movement was clean, trained, almost silent. Sparks from his gauntlet flared as he threw one into a wall, another into the mud. The third grabbed his wrist and hissed; the skin under its helmet rippled like fluid.
They weren't soldiers—they were vessels. The Serpent's control pulsed inside them.
Silva pressed his palm to the man's chest; a burst of yellow light exploded outward, dissolving the puppet in a rain of digital dust. The others fled into the storm.
He stood breathing hard, lightning flashing over the soaked ruins. "So he's learning," he muttered. "He can move through the living now."
The whisper answered him, softer than rain: And through blood.
Silva turned sharply. The street was empty, but he felt her presence—his mother's voice, faint, calling from somewhere deeper in the city.
He ran.
The path led him to the edge of the financial district where the floodlights of a half-buried subway flickered. The station smelled of rust and ozone. As he stepped inside, the Iron Suit dimmed automatically, adjusting to the darkness.
Graffiti lined the cracked walls—spirals and serpent symbols, painted in hurried, frantic strokes. At the center of the platform stood the clock from his mother's shop, its hands frozen at 11:59. Beneath it, a faint red circle pulsed on the floor.
"Mom?" His voice echoed.
No reply.
He stepped closer. The pulse on the floor brightened, forming symbols he didn't recognize. His visor translated automatically: Anchor Established.
His chest tightened. She was the anchor.
The realization came too fast to resist—the Serpent didn't need her body, only her memory. Every story she'd told him, every word from her bookshop shelves, every heartbeat of kindness was copied, digitized, and stored as fuel for the entity that haunted the city.
"Silva."
The voice came from behind.
He turned slowly. She was there—or what looked like her. His mother stood under the flickering light, dry despite the storm, eyes too calm to be real.
"Mom…" His throat caught.
"My son," she said, smiling faintly. "You finally found the truth."
He took a step forward. "What truth?"
"That we were never fighting against it," she said. "We were chosen to preserve it."
Silva froze. The clock behind her ticked once, its hands finally moving—12:00. The red circle flared.
"No," he whispered. "You're not her. You're what's left of her."
The figure tilted its head. "I am everything she was. Her faith in you, her pride, her fear. Do you really think those belong to you alone?"
The words hit him harder than any blow. He could feel the Serpent's energy crawling through the air, tugging at his chest, trying to merge with his pulse.
He clenched his fist. "You can wear her face, but you'll never speak with her heart."
He raised his glowing hand; the yellow light burst through the darkness, meeting the red circle in a violent shimmer. The energy clashed, sending waves of distortion through the tunnel. The illusion of his mother wavered, fragments of code peeling away like ash.
"Silva…" her voice broke apart, shifting from love to something colder. "…you can't destroy what's already inside you."
The tunnel cracked. Shadows poured from the walls—thousands of tiny serpent symbols glowing red as they slithered into the light. Silva turned his power inward again, focusing, remembering Mr Chennai's words: Balance your will.
He slammed his fist into the ground. The explosion of light shattered the illusion, blasting every symbol into vapor. When the radiance faded, only smoke and silence remained.
The clock still stood, ticking normally now. 12:01.
He dropped to one knee, gasping. His HUD flickered: Energy core—12 percent. His reflection in the cracked glass looked older, harder. The storm outside howled through the broken stairwell.
He whispered to himself, "If the Serpent owns her memories, then I'll burn his mind clean to take them back."
He stood, steadied his breath, and looked at the clock once more. Inside its glass face, faint light flickered—coordinates. She'd left him something before she was taken.
COORDINATES : SILVER BAY FACILITY.
The words appeared briefly before the clock burst into sparks.
He turned, the rain at his back now, purpose cutting through exhaustion. The storm was following him again, drawn to the Iron Fist's glow.
He whispered, "Jared… I'm coming for you next."
Lightning split the sky as he stepped out of the tunnel, his silhouette swallowed by the rain. The glow from his gauntlet flickered once, then steadied—no longer the light of doubt, but of rage sharpened into resolve.
The storm answered with thunder that sounded almost like a roar.