"Nooooooooooo!"
Mark's voice ripped through the chamber like thunder, echoing off the steel walls. He slammed his hand on the council table, cracking the reinforced glass beneath his palm. "You can't do that! I will not allow it!"
Across the table, Elvis sat calmly, his eyes cold and his suit perfectly pressed. "Sorry, Mark," he said quietly, "but the council already took a vote. Rick is too dangerous to be left alive."
Mark clenched his fists until blood dripped from his knuckles. "What about Parler?!" he barked. "He'll take my side! And if he does, everyone else will follow—he's the wisest of us all!"
Elvis hesitated, his expression darkening. "That's the problem."
"What do you mean that's the problem?"
"Parler was the one who rallied everyone to vote for Rick's death."
The words hit Mark like a physical blow. "What!!"
Elvis sighed, rubbing his temples. "And his daughters… they didn't take it well."
Mark froze. "His daughters? Don't they have a crush on Rick?"
"Yeah. They cried, begged him to reconsider, even said they'd never talk to him again," Elvis said, his voice low. "But Parler swears he saw Rick killing them. And you know how his visions work — he can't control them, and they always come true."
Mark slumped back into his seat, the strength draining from his body. "No… not Rick."
Elvis looked down, avoiding his gaze. "You know how it is, Mark. Parler's visions have never been wrong. If he saw Rick killing his daughters, then it's only a matter of time. You know what has to be done."
Mark's lips trembled. "Parler's the dreamer… he sees what's coming, but he can't stop it. Not once. If he said it, then—" His voice broke. Tears gathered in his eyes, but he forced himself to breathe. "Do what you have to do," he whispered.
Elvis nodded slowly, his expression unreadable as he walked out of the room, leaving Mark drowning in silence and regret.
Rick lay flat on the cold concrete, panting, his hand gripping the Quill like it was part of his soul. The weapon pulsed with an eerie crimson glow, whispering dark thoughts in his mind. Every heartbeat echoed with violence. Every breath tasted like blood.
He stared at the Quill in his hand and laughed bitterly. "This weapon's too destructive," he muttered. His voice was hoarse, almost hollow. "And just like Father said… once you've been tainted, there's no going back."
He remembered Mark's words clearly. Once the Quill chooses you, it devours you. The only way to stop it was to kill yourself before it fully consumed your will — or let it take over until you became nothing but a killing machine. Neither option felt right.
"There's got to be a third way…" he whispered, his eyes distant. But he already knew the truth. There wasn't one.
He exhaled and forced a tired smile. "Guess this is my fate."
As he stood, something caught his attention — a crumpled flier on the ground fluttering in the wind. Curious, he bent down and picked it up. Three bold words glared at him from the front:
RICK MORRIS: WANTED
He flipped it over.
REWARD: GENETIC MANIPULATION.
Rick blinked, speechless for a second, then laughed softly. "These people really want me dead," he said. "Well, I get it. I'm tainted, right?"
He paused, looking up at the empty sky. "I wonder if Dad agreed to this."
The thought stung more than he expected. "Then again," he continued bitterly, "he did leave me to fight nineteen abominations and one giant lizard all alone."
He chuckled dryly. "What about Parler, huh? If he agrees, his daughters will skin him alive. I mean, both of them have a crush on me."
He smiled faintly, memories flashing through his mind — the two sisters arguing playfully about who would marry him first, how they'd blush whenever he smiled. "Good times," he muttered.
Then his tone darkened. "Boris… that bastard hates me already, so of course he'd vote yes. Latasha…" He smirked faintly. "After what we did together, I doubt she'd ever want to leave me."
He tilted his head. "Tasha? Well, she's Latasha's sister, so maybe she'd try to protect me. But…" he looked again at the poster. "Looks like her, Boris, and Parler all agreed."
Rick sighed. "Let's not forget Elvis. That motherfucker already hated me after Latasha confessed about our little affair. And when Parler's daughters said they loved me? Yeah… that sealed it. Elvis must've been the first to raise his hand."
He exhaled and looked up at the ruined skyline. "Whatever," he said finally. "It's done already."
He crumpled the flier and tossed it aside. "Let's not talk about such things."
As he walked down the cracked street, a few passersby whispered nearby.
"Hey, did you hear? A whole city's become a cult for that bastard Rick."
"Yeah, they said he saved them from monsters."
"They're spending every resource they have trying to make more survivors. They say if their Lord comes back and sees them weak, he'll feel like saving them was a waste of time."
Rick stopped mid-step. His lips curved upward into a half-smile. "A cult, huh? I guess I left more of an impression than I thought."
He chuckled quietly to himself. "Well, nothing's too much for the almighty Ric—"
BZZZZZ! BZZZZZ!
The air rippled violently as countless portals tore open in the sky, their edges glowing an unnatural blue. From within them stepped figures with green faces and blue bodies — twenty of them, each armed, each exuding monstrous energy.
Far away, in the control tower, alarms blared.
"Mark! Mark!"
Mark turned sharply. "What, Elvis? Stop shouting!"
Elvis's voice came through the comms, breathless. "Hah… hah… twenty-one cities are being attacked by monsters simultaneously! What do we do?"
Mark's eyes widened. "What? Not again!"
He slammed his fist on the console. "Call all those old bastards! It's time to stretch our bodies!"
Across the world, chaos erupted. Sirens wailed. Civilians ran in terror. Entire districts were swallowed by screams and fire.
Everyone ran helter-skelter when the monsters arrived. Buildings collapsed, streets split open, and the sky itself seemed to bleed red.
But among all the chaos, every single monster turned its head toward one direction.
Their gazes locked on a single figure standing calmly in the middle of the shattered street, his coat fluttering in the storm of debris.
Rick Morris.