The air in the office had turned to ice. Dietrich Voss heard the voice before he saw the man—a deep, guttural growl that slithered down his spine like a knife.
"Found you."
Voss trembled. His breath hitched, his fingers twitched against the doorframe, but he couldn't move. Couldn't run. Couldn't even scream.
The Wraith stood before him, clad in dark crimson armor that seemed to drink the light from the room. Blood dripped from his trench coat, each drop hitting the floor with a soft, terrible tap. The helmet was a nightmare given form—featureless save for the glowing eye slits, cutting through the dim light like a predator's gaze in the dark.
'DRIP!... DRIP!'.
And the cold. God, the cold. The temperature had plummeted the moment he stepped inside, as if death itself had decided to pay a visit.
"You... you... The Wraith—" Voss's voice cracked, his words dissolving into incoherent terror. His eyes darted behind the man—the office was filled with them. Soldiers clad in the same dark armor, standing motionless, silent.
Waiting.
The Wraith took a single step forward, and Voss's bladder nearly gave out.
"Dietrich Voss and Peter Haggs," the Wraith mused, his voice eerily calm as he strolled deeper into the room. "Two Hydra loyalists. Fancy seeing you both here."
Voss remained frozen at the door. Peter Haggs, seated behind his desk, might as well have been nailed to his chair. Neither could move. Neither could speak. Their bodies refused to obey, locked in place by something far worse than fear.
"You both always acted so powerful," the Wraith continued, circling Peter's desk like a shark. "Strutting around like gods, playing with lives as if they were toys. Spouting off about glory and power like you'd earned it."
He stopped beside Peter. Placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Yet when your men started dying... you hid in here. Like rats."
"CRACK!!!.....mmmm!!!!!....". The sound of Peter's collarbone shattering under the Wraith's grip was obscenely loud in the silent room. Peter's face contorted in agony, tears streaking down his cheeks—but no sound escaped him. He couldn't scream. Couldn't thrash. Could only sit there and endure it.
"Pathetic," the Wraith murmured, almost disappointed.
"Disgraceful. And what a disappointment." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. "To think I once feared you."
The words struck like a physical blow. Voss's mind reeled. Feared them? Who—?
And then, as if pulled by invisible strings, both men were forced to turn their heads, their bodies still locked in place, to face the Wraith fully.
The Wraith reached up, gripped his helmet, and pulled it off.
One of his soldiers stepped forward, accepting the helmet with both hands, as though it were something sacred.
And then— Voss's heart stopped. Peter made a choked, wordless noise in the back of his throat.
'Subject 68,!!!.' Both Peter and Dietrich Voss thought in their head, recognizing the person, who just took off his mask. The unnamed mutant. The one they'd strapped to a table, harvested like livestock, drained for the pheromones that had propelled Hydra's influence to new heights. The source of their blackmail materials, their leverage, their—The source of their unchecked enjoyment for many years, the same one that put Dietrich Voss name in the map of HYDRA.
'Oh god.' Voss stuttered in his head, who could've thought that the one that bring him fame were also the one that bring forth his downfall.
The Wraith smiled. It wasn't a pleasant expression.
"Miss me?"
The moment Voss found his voice again, it came out in a strangled shriek.
"You—you're dead!".
His face had gone corpse-pale, sweat beading along his hairline as his pupils shrank to pinpricks. The man before him—Subject 68—was supposed to be a corpse. A failed experiment. A stain on his lab floor.
And yet here he stood.
"Yes," the Wraith said, tilting his head as if considering the statement.
"You killed me. Remember?" His voice was disturbingly casual, like they were discussing the weather and not the night he'd torn into the lab in a drug-fueled frenzy, beating the mutant to death with his bare hands.
Voss's jaw worked, his teeth grinding so hard I could hear it from across the room. "I never knew you hid so much from me, Subject 68." Rage seeped into his words, thick and venomous.
The Wraith chuckled, the sound dark and humorless. "Ah, that's what you called me. Subject 68." He leaned against Voss's desk, fingers tapping idly against the polished wood. "I'd almost forgotten that label."
Then his voice dropped, turning glacial. "How does it feel, Dietrich? To be hunted?"
Voss didn't answer. Couldn't. His mouth had sealed shut again; his body locked in place by an invisible force. The Wraith didn't need a response. He circled them like a wolf around wounded prey, his words carving into them with surgical precision.
"Your connections, gone. One by one. Your little empire, crumbling. And you couldn't do a damn thing about it." He paused, savoring the way Voss's breath hitched. "No cops to bribe. No HYDRA reinforcements. Just you, watching everything burn."
A cold smile. "The bases lost? Your fault. The failures? Your incompetence. That promotion you spent years groveling for? Gone." He leaned in, close enough that Voss could see his own reflection in those merciless eyes. "All because of me."
Voss's lips twitched—trying to snarl, to curse, to fight back—but nothing came out. Peter Haggs, still pinned to his chair, looked like he was about to vomit.
The realization had settled in.
This was the architect of their ruin. The shadow that had slithered through HYDRA's ranks, cutting Voss's hard-earned influence apart thread by thread. The one who'd turned him into a pariah, a failure, in the eyes of the organization he'd dedicated his life to.
And the cruelest twist of all?
The Wraith was the subject they'd abused. The one they'd strapped down, harvested, treated as less than human. The one Voss had murdered.
A low, broken sound escaped Peter's throat.
The Wraith's smile widened.
"Oh, that look," he murmured. "That 'poor me' look. The one where you feel 'so' wronged. Where you wonder why the world isn't bending to your will." He laughed then, sharp and mocking, the sound echoing off the walls like a gunshot.
"Hahahaha! You really think you deserve to feel that way?"
Voss flinched.
The Wraith stepped forward, closing the distance between them in one smooth stride. His hands came down on Voss's shoulders—gentle, almost affectionate.
Then—
"CRUNC!!!!....".
The sound of bone and flesh collapsing under his grip was obscene. Voss's knees buckled, his mouth flying open in a silent scream as tears streaked down his face. His bladder let go, the stench of urine joining the metallic tang of blood in the air.
But he didn't fall. Couldn't. The Wraith held him up, his grip unrelenting, his voice a whisper against Voss's ear.
"You don't get to die yet."
Voss's breath came in ragged, wet gasps.
"This time," the Wraith continued, "you're the mortal.".
A pause. A smile.
"And I'm the god."
Peter Haggs made a noise like a dying animal. The entire situation, made him succumb to fear and despair, the sight of Voss broken bone and crushed flesh were too much for Peter, but the Wraith didn't even glance at him. His eyes stayed locked on Voss, drinking in every twitch of pain, every terrified blink.
"You'll pay for every second. Every scream. Every drop of blood you took from me."
His fingers dug deeper.
"Every. Single. One."
And for the first time in his miserable life, Dietrich Voss understood true fear.