The applause, the lights, the cameras—Ethan left all of it behind the moment he stepped through the backstage doors.
The corridor beyond was quiet, insulated from the noise of the Expo by layers of sound-dampening material. Security personnel stood at attention, but none spoke. They didn't need to. Ethan walked with the calm assurance of someone who owned not just the building—but the future unfolding inside it.
Outside, the night air of New York greeted him with a cool breeze. His car waited at the curb, matte black, seamless, unmarked. No driver. No visible controls.
As Ethan approached, the doors opened automatically.
"Good evening, Ethan," Apocalypse said smoothly as he slid into the back seat.
"Evening," Ethan replied, settling in. The door closed with a muted hiss, sealing him into silence.
The car pulled away from the Stark Expo without hesitation, merging into traffic with unnatural precision. Every turn, every acceleration, every lane change was perfect—calculated, controlled.
Ethan leaned back, loosening his jacket. "Status report."
A holographic display shimmered to life on the glass panel in front of him, forming a floating sphere of data points and graphs.
"There is an anomaly," Apocalypse said. "Extremely small. Easily dismissed by conventional monitoring."
The display zoomed in.
LOCATION: Joint Dark Energy Mission Facility
PHENOMENON: Gamma Radiation Fluctuation
INCREASE RATE: 0.00003% per day
Ethan's eyes sharpened.
"How long has it been happening?" he asked.
"Since approximately two weeks ago," Apocalypse replied. "The increase is consistent. Linear. Controlled."
Ethan exhaled slowly. "So it's started."
"Yes."
The hologram shifted again, overlaying historical data, satellite readings, and obscure scientific logs—fragments that only an intelligence like Apocalypse could piece together.
"No human monitoring system has flagged it," Apocalypse continued. "The deviation remains within acceptable background noise."
"But it's not noise," Ethan said quietly.
"Correct."
Ethan stared at the data, his expression unreadable.
The Joint Dark Energy Mission Facility wasn't just another research lab. It was one of the most sensitive installations on the planet—its instruments designed to detect forces that barely brushed reality. If gamma radiation was increasing there, even by microscopic margins, it meant something massive was stirring beneath the surface.
"Spider drones confirmed the readings?" Ethan asked.
"Yes," Apocalypse replied. "Cross-verification from twelve independent units. No sensor error detected."
Ethan nodded. "That rules out coincidence."
The car passed under a streetlight, shadows sliding across Ethan's face.
"Run projections," he said. "Assume the increase continues at the current rate."
The hologram recalculated instantly.
PROJECTED THRESHOLD BREACH: 6 MONTHS, 12 DAYS
Apocalypse didn't pause.
"At that point," he added, "the radiation levels will exceed natural cosmic variance and become detectable by secondary global systems."
Ethan closed his eyes briefly.
Six months.
That aligned almost perfectly with his own timeline—the drone field tests, the public trust buildup, the infrastructure quietly locking into place.
And the invasion.
"So it's accelerating," Ethan murmured.
"Yes," Apocalypse confirmed. "Your estimate was accurate."
Ethan opened his eyes, gaze steady.
"They're not rushing," he said. "They're preparing."
"Agreed," Apocalypse replied. "Probability of an extraterrestrial event originating from that anomaly exceeds eighty-seven percent."
The car turned onto a quieter street, the city noise fading into a distant hum.
"Can we mask the increase?" Ethan asked.
"For now," Apocalypse said. "Spider drones are already manipulating local readings. However, this is a temporary solution."
Ethan nodded. "We don't hide it forever. We just need time."
The car slowed as it approached Ethan's tower, the lights of the city reflecting off its glass façade.
"Six months," Ethan said softly. "That's all we have."
"And it is sufficient," Apocalypse replied without hesitation. "If preparations continue at the current pace."
Ethan allowed himself a faint, humorless smile.
"They won't be expecting resistance," he said. "Not real resistance."
The car came to a smooth stop.
As Ethan stepped out, he glanced once more at the holographic data fading into nothing.
The numbers were small.
Invisible.
Dismissed by the world.
But Ethan knew better.
Because the most dangerous threats never announced themselves—they crept forward, one fraction at a time, until it was already too late.
Silence settled over the underground level.
The projections dimmed, returning to passive monitoring mode. Machines continued their quiet work—assembling, calibrating, learning—but for the first time that night, Ethan wasn't watching them.
He stood alone on the platform, hands resting at his sides, mind heavy with timelines and probabilities.
Six months.
Too short to change the world.
Too long to stay idle.
He turned away from the holographic Earth and started walking toward the elevator that would take him back up to the living quarters. His footsteps echoed softly against the polished floor.
That was when it happened.
A sharp, unfamiliar sensation flickered at the edge of his vision.
Not from Apocalypse.
Not from Agnes.
Not from any screen or device.
Something… older.
Something he hadn't felt in years.
Ethan stopped mid-step.
In front of his eyes, translucent and faint—so faint that it almost felt unreal—a notification materialized.
No sound.
No vibration.
No alert.
Just words.
SYSTEM STATUS: ACTIVE
USER: ETHAN VALE
CONDITION MET
NEW QUEST UNLOCKED
QUEST NAME: PAST SINS
Ethan's breath slowed.
The system.
He hadn't seen it since he was fifteen. Since Flash Thompson's shadow loomed in a school hallway. Since a broken phone, fifty dollars, and two simple skills had changed the trajectory of his life.
He had assumed it was gone.
Dormant.
Finished.
Yet here it was.
Watching.
Waiting.
"What…?" Ethan whispered.
The notification didn't respond.
There was no description.
No objective.
No reward listed.
No timer.
Just a name.
PAST SINS
Ethan frowned, his thoughts racing.
Past sins… whose?
His parents' murderer?
The Black Serpents?
The countless criminals erased in silence?
Or his own choices—the lines he had crossed and justified?
He glanced instinctively toward the nearest camera.
Nothing reacted.
Apocalypse's presence remained steady, unaware.
"This isn't from you," Ethan said quietly.
"No," Apocalypse replied at once. "No internal processes triggered. No external signals detected."
Ethan nodded slowly.
That confirmed it.
This was his alone.
Whatever the system was—whatever force had brought him here, guided him, tested him—it wasn't done yet. And it wasn't interested in his drones, his wealth, or his preparation for the invasion.
It was interested in him.
The notification faded as silently as it had appeared, leaving no trace behind.
Ethan stood there for a long moment, staring at empty air.
Then he straightened.
"Apocalypse," he said evenly, turning toward the elevator. "Continue as planned. Full preparation. No deviations."
"Understood," Apocalypse replied.
The elevator doors slid open.
As Ethan stepped inside, his reflection stared back at him in the polished metal—older, sharper, harder than the boy who once fixed phones just to survive.
Past sins, he thought.
Whatever that quest meant…It had chosen its moment carefully.
And as the elevator rose, carrying Ethan back toward the surface world, one truth settled heavily in his mind:
The invasion wasn't the only reckoning coming.
And this time, no amount of preparation could guarantee control.
The drive home passed in silence.
The city lights slid across the car windows like distant stars, blurred and insignificant. Apocalypse guided the vehicle flawlessly through empty late-night streets, but Ethan barely noticed. His mind was no longer on gamma readings, drones, or timelines.
It was on a single phrase.
Past Sins.
The car stopped smoothly in front of his house. The one that had once belonged to his parents. The place he had rebuilt into something stronger—cleaner—yet still haunted by echoes.
"Arrived," Apocalypse said.
Ethan stepped out, locking the car behind him. The front door opened with a soft click, lights activating automatically. The house greeted him with warmth and silence.
Too much silence.
He set his jacket aside, moved through the living room, and stopped in the middle of the floor.
"Apocalypse," he said quietly, "stand by."
"Standing by," the AI replied, unaware of what weighed on Ethan's thoughts.
Ethan exhaled slowly.
Then, with a thought, he summoned it.
The translucent interface appeared before his eyes—not projected, not digital. It existed inside his perception.
QUEST WINDOW OPENED
QUEST NAME:PAST SINS
DESCRIPTION:SAVE ME, DAD
Ethan froze.
The words sat there, simple and devastating.
"Save me… dad?"
His throat tightened.
For a moment, he couldn't breathe.
Dad.
Not father.
Not parent.
Not guardian.
Dad.
The word wasn't symbolic. It wasn't abstract.
It was personal.
Ethan lowered himself onto the couch, staring at the glowing text as if it might change if he blinked.
"This doesn't make sense," he whispered.
He had already accounted for the fallout of his actions—or so he believed.
The Black Serpents syndicate had been dismantled. Their leaders eliminated. Their money seized and repurposed. The innocent—children, elderly parents, families left behind—had been placed under protection.
Orphanages funded.
Old-age homes staffed and monitored.
He had made sure of it.
"I didn't leave anyone behind," Ethan muttered.
His mind raced.
Is it an orphan?
An elderly parent?
A child who slipped through the system?
No.
The system wasn't vague like that. It never had been.
Save me, dad.
Ethan pressed his palms together, elbows resting on his knees.
"Dad…" he repeated.
His own father's face flashed through his memory—warm smile, tired eyes, a hand on his shoulder when he was still just a kid who liked taking things apart.
Then another thought struck him.
Not my dad.
Someone else's.
A criminal's child?
No… the phrasing was wrong.
It wasn't save my dad.
It was—
"Save me," Ethan said slowly, realization creeping in, "dad."
The perspective was flipped.
The one asking wasn't the parent.
It was the child.
Ethan's heartbeat quickened.
A child calling out to their father.
A father who couldn't answer.
A father who was dead.
Ethan's fingers curled into fists.
"Whose kid did I miss?" he whispered.
The system offered no answer.
No location.No name.No timer.
Just the plea.
Ethan leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
For the first time in years, the weight of every silent execution, every justified kill, every calculated decision pressed down on him—not as guilt, but as consequence.
He had believed he was thorough.
The system was telling him otherwise.
Somewhere out there, a child was waiting for a father who would never come home.
And somehow—
That was Ethan's responsibility now.
He closed the quest window slowly.
The house remained quiet.
Apocalypse didn't speak.
It couldn't see the quest.
It couldn't feel the meaning behind those words.
This was Ethan's burden alone.
"Past sins," he murmured.
Not punishment.
Not revenge.
A reckoning.
Ethan stood, eyes hardening—not with anger, but resolve.
"If I missed you," he said softly to the empty room, "then I'll find you."
Because if the system had awakened after four years just to show him this—
Then whatever came next wouldn't be solved with drones, money, or power.
It would be solved by facing the one thing Ethan Vale had tried to control from the very beginning:
The human cost of his choices.