January 21st, 2025.
Snow fell like gray ash outside the courthouse.
Inside, every TV channel on Earth broadcast the same breaking headline:
"ARCHON — THE 13-YEAR NIGHTMARE — FINALLY CAPTURED."
News anchors repeated scripts in voices too calm for the subject matter:
"Archon, responsible for at least 3,912 confirmed deaths—"
"—meta-human atrocities spanning over a decade—"
"—blood manipulation, the rarest and most dangerous Meta Factor—"
"—public trial scheduled—"
Faces from around the globe stared through screens, hungry for closure. Some trembled. Some cursed. Some simply listened, numb; trauma had long ago exhausted their rage.
And all those words echoed into the courtroom where Archon himself sat unmoving.
The room smelled of polished wood and cold sweat.
Rows of heroes stood against the walls—men and women wearing capes, tactical armor, glowing masks. But their powers didn't matter today.
Archon had a Meta inhibitor clamped around his frail neck, drowning every vein of mana until he looked less like the terror of the modern age and more like a scarecrow abandoned in a winter field.
Eighty-something years old.
Skin the color of old parchment.
Hair white and hanging in wisps over sunken eyes.
Wrists trembling where the cuffs bit into bone.
Yet there was something about him—something that made every hero keep their distance, even now.
The judge spoke in a steady voice only people who've practiced bravery their whole lives could maintain.
"Archon… your crimes are as long as the ocean is deep."
She listed each one.
Some were clinical:
"First-degree mass murder."
"Acts of terrorism."
"Unlicensed meta experimentation."
Some were unspeakable:
The courtroom didn't dare breathe as details of blood-forged puppetry and entire towns turned to crimson fog were recounted. A hero gagged. Another clenched her fists so tight her knuckles cracked.
Archon said nothing.
He sat still, head lowered, as if he were listening to lullabies rather than the testimonies of thousands he'd slaughtered.
But his mind was not silent.
His lips twitched.
A smile tried to form but collapsed halfway, as brittle as he looked.
The judge finally delivered the words the whole world waited to hear:
"By unanimous decision of the jury, approval of this court, and the full sanction of United Global Hero Authority…
Archon, you are sentenced to death effective immediately."
The heroes exhaled.
The jury sagged.
The world celebrated.
And Archon…
Archon smiled, fully this time. Thin, cracked lips peeling back as if greeting an old friend.
...
Cameras exploded in bursts of lightning as guards shoved reporters aside.
"ARCHON! ANY LAST WORDS?"
"How many victims were there REALLY?"
"Do you regret anything?"
"Tell us—was it worth it!?"
He shuffled forward, shackled from ankles to neck.
The cold bit his skin through the orange jumpsuit.
A guard shoved him.
"Keep your eyes down, monster."
But Archon didn't look at them.
He looked at the lenses pointed at him.
At the world watching.
The smile remained.
...
The military van rattled as it rumbled toward the High-Max facility. Inside, Archon sat strapped into a reinforced chair like a fragile fossil.
On his left sat Volcum, antimatter hero, ranked 10th in the world.
Power crackling faintly across his gloves, hatred simmering in his voice.
On Archon's right sat Ms.Pluton, the atomic hero, rank 17.
Cold eyes. Tight posture. Every inch on guard.
Volcum leaned forward.
"You don't get to go out in silence," he snarled. "Thirteen years of hell. Look at you now—pathetic. Anything to say?"
Archon didn't reply.
He hummed.
A soft, low sound—tired, tuneless, and drenched in melancholy so old it felt fossilized.
Ms. Pluton stiffened.
"Cut that out."
But Archon kept humming.
It wasn't music.
It was something like mourning.
Or remembering.
Ms. Pluton swallowed.
"Why did you do it? All those people… why?"
The humming stopped.
Archon slowly lifted his eyes toward her.
There was nothing in them.
No hate. No madness.
Just a hollowed-out calm.
He said nothing. But merely, smiled. Then turned, lowering his head.
Volcum's jaw clenched.
Ms. Pluton's breath caught.
And the humming resumed—soft, uneven, like the rhythm of an old clock winding down.
The rest of the ride was silent.
And it remained that way as soon as they reach the prison facility.
Because—
By the time they dragged Archon through registration, he looked barely conscious.
The inhibitor was upgraded.
His mana suffocated.
His identity came up blank—no age, no birthplace, no blood records, nothing but a catalogue of crimes.
A guard scoffed.
"A ghost with a rap sheet."
Another muttered:
"Hard to believe he's the same guy who made the Hudson run red."
Archon didn't respond.
He felt the mana suppression drowning him, cell by cell.
His body sagged, heavy.
So this is what dying feels like… tiresome.
They measured him, poked him, filed him, then finally escorted him toward the cafeteria—where his "final meal" awaited.
Guards shoved him inside.
The room buzzed with voices, clattering trays, metal scraping concrete floors. Inmates looked up, some glaring, some indifferent.
Archon shuffled forward, old legs trembling.
The cafeteria guard spat into his bowl before handing it over.
"Bon appétit, asshole."
Archon took it without a word.
He found a seat.
Alone.
Dusty table.
Metallic smell of food, rust, sweat.
He poked the slop with stiff fingers.
He didn't taste it.
He barely saw it.
Then—
"Um… excuse me. Can I… sit here?"
The voice was small. Nervous.
Archon looked up.
A young man—barely nineteen.
Short messy brown hair.
Bright eyes that had seen too much too fast.
Hands trembling around his tray.
Archon's expression didn't change.
"…If you want."
The boy sat.
"I—hi. I'm, uh… kinda new here. First day. You too?"
Archon rasped:
"Yes."
"Oh."
The boy cleared his throat. "What… what did you do to get in here?"
A long silence.
Archon considered answering truthfully.
Instead he smiled, small and sly.
"I got old."
The boy blinked.
"O-Oh."
Archon leaned slightly closer.
"And you?"
The question broke something open in the kid.
"I—I didn't do anything," he whispered. "They said I robbed a store. I didn't. The real guy had fire powers too, and they just… assumed it was me."
His voice cracked.
"I didn't do it."
Archon watched him—watched the way hope clung to his voice like a dying leaf.
For a moment, he felt something strange.
Pity?
Curiosity?
No. Familiarity.
He placed a wrinkled hand on the boy's shoulder.
"That is… unfortunate," Archon murmured. "But you will be free soon. I can tell."
The boy smiled—a small, genuine thing.
"Thanks. I, uh… I really hope so."
Archon raised his fist weakly in encouragement.
The young man mirrored it, laughing awkwardly.
Then the young man winced—sharp, sudden.
He rubbed his neck, frowning.
"You okay?" Archon asked.
"Yeah… just feels weird. Like something… bit me?"
Archon tilted his head.
"Strange."
They continued talking.
The young man kept rubbing his neck, more often now, brows furrowed.
...
As the meal ended, the young man stood with his tray.
"Oh!" he said suddenly. "My name's Xavier, what's your—"
A thud.
The young man turned.
Archon had collapsed, clutching his chest.
"Hey—HEY!" Xavier rushed over. "SOMEONE—HELP!"
Archon's hand shot up, seizing Xavier's wrist with surprising strength.
"W-wait—sir—don't move—!"
A sharp pain struck Xavier's arm.
It spread.
Up his shoulder.
Into his chest.
Blooming behind his eyes—
Xavier screamed and dropped to his knees.
Guards burst in.
Archon lay still.
Lifeless wide open eyes etched on his dead face.
"Jesus..," one guard muttered.
A meta-powered guard placed a hand to Archon's chest, mana glowing green.
Then he cursed.
"Son of a—He killed himself. Used the last of his power to shut his own heart down. Coward."
The same guard looked over at Xavier who seemed to be in great pain.
"Get the kid to the infirmary!"
"Yes sir!" Fellow guards responded unanimously.
Each of them helping the young man to his feet and guiding him out of the cafeteria.
And the cafeteria doors slammed shut.
...
Two Months Later.
Xavier Mercer stepped out of the High-Max facility, wearing his old clothes again, breathing winter air like a man reborn.
The sky was bright.
He blinked upward, feeling colder than the wind.
It had been no more than two months after the incident that occurred in the cafeteria. He had barely registered what had occurred to him.
After trying to help out the old man, he had suddenly felt immense pain and pressure surge throughout his arm, chest, and finally to his head.
Truth be told, the pain was unbearable, and at that time he thought he was going to die. But thanks to the efforts of the Rikers Omega Facility and their advanced equipment, he was saved.
Turned out he had a lot of blood clots in his body. Especially in his brain, they say he was lucky to even be moving let alone alive.
And if that wasn't enough stress, they told him that old man he was eating with was none other than one of the worst of the worst. A villain known to the world as Archon. It nearly gave him a heart attack ironically enough.
But the follow up news to that was that Archon had passed away during that incident in the cafeteria. They told him that he took his own life by stopping his heart.
And they theorized that he didn't wanna die alone so he attempted to try and kill Xavier as well. Which of course scared Xavier, but luckily enough Archon failed.
Xavier took a deep breath and exhaled sharply.
Suddenly though, his attention was caught by a sound.
A car screeched nearby.
"XAVIER!"
His mother rushed him, wrapping him in shaking arms.
"Are you hurt? Did they do anything to you—?"
"I'm fine, Mom… I'm fine."
His voice felt foreign.
His chest even felt tight.
His heartbeat thudded with a unique rhythm.
And as if to break him outta this moment.
His mother ushered him to the car.
But Xavier lingered for one more second, staring across the distant skyline.
New York looked the same.
But he didn't feel the same.
A faint smile tugged at his lips.
Thin. Unfamiliar.
And in his eyes—
Just for a moment—
A red gleam pulsed.
"Xavier, hurry!" His mother called form the car.
"Oh," he muttered. "Coming!"
Then he walked over. He then climbed into the car, and the door shut.