Bang!
The darkness was thick, as always.
Gunfire rang out, sharp and sudden, echoing through the silence like the tolling of a death bell. A brief flash of fire illuminated the scene—revealing James' eyes, gleaming with a strange mix of intensity and exhilaration.
His lips moved solemnly, reverently, as if in prayer:
"Our Father in Heaven…"
Bang!
Another demon—grotesque, all snarling teeth and jagged claws—screamed as it lunged toward him. But before it could reach him, it dissolved into a mass of writhing shadow. The muzzle flash died. The monster was gone.
James didn't lower his weapon. He barely had time to breathe.
Pure instinct drove him. He rolled forward across the blood-slicked floor—an evasive maneuver honed through experience. A sharp gust of air behind him confirmed his senses: another demon had lunged at the space he had just occupied.
Raise your gun. Aim. Steady…
"Your kingdom come. Your will be done on earth as it is in heaven..."
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The muzzle lit up the room in intermittent flashes. Fire, screams, and unearthly howls filled the air. The room was alive with chaos—and death.
One by one, the demonic entities fell, each consumed by bullets fired with deadly precision.
And then, silence.
James stopped praying. His lips were still, his hands steady. He lowered his firearm and looked across the ruined room. His eyes finally rested on the figure lying motionless on the ground—his partner, a female S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, barely clinging to life.
Her pale face was streaked with blood. A vicious wound at her throat oozed crimson, and her breaths came in shallow, ragged gasps. The damage was fatal—there was no saving her.
The viewers in the live broadcast room, watching through James' body camera, were stunned. Just moments ago, there had been four agents. Now…
Only two.
What had happened?
James knelt down beside the dying woman, calm and composed. He met her gaze, his voice even:
"Sorry. We're out of medicine."
The female agent chuckled weakly—more of a gurgle than a laugh. Blood bubbled from her lips, yet her expression softened.
"Unless you've got some miracle drug that can grow me a new heart… I'm not making it."
Her voice trembled, but her eyes were clear.
She reached up and gently hooked a finger under James' chin. There was no more contempt or disdain in her eyes. No more professional detachment. Only appreciation… and a touch of regret.
"If things were different… I might've actually liked you."
James didn't flinch. His voice was steady, like always.
"The Foundation forbids any emotional involvement with D-class personnel."
The agent coughed violently, spewing more blood. She managed a twisted smile.
"Cold as ever… You're still an inhuman bastard."
The light in her eyes flickered… then faded. Her hand dropped from James' face. Her expression froze in a tragic smile.
She was gone.
The livestream audience watched in stunned silence. Death, raw and immediate, had just unfolded before them—not as a heroic sacrifice, but as a quiet, personal tragedy.
In the control center at S.H.I.E.L.D., agents who had earlier criticized her were now silent.
Fear revealed a person's true character. How could they fault her for what she'd done to survive?
"She was brave," Nick Fury said quietly, voice rough with emotion.
Still, he couldn't fully understand what had taken place in the last few days. The footage had come in bits and pieces, unclear at times. But James, ever meticulous, had kept a personal record.
Now, holding a camera, James turned the lens toward himself.
"Three days ago," he began, "our team of four split into two groups to search for the door."
His tone was steady, professional.
"The female agent and I didn't find the door. What we did find was the nest mentioned in Baclay's report. It seems the demons anticipated our arrival. They knew the importance of decentralization. Instead of one large headquarters, they split their forces into several strongholds. That way, they wouldn't lose everything if one base was destroyed."
He paused, turning the camera.
Under the red glow of the lens light, the scene behind him came into focus.
The floor—wooden, once clean—was now a carpet of glistening blood and gore.
At the center was a pulsating mass. A grotesque, throbbing lump of flesh.
It moved like a heart.
But this was no organ. This was a womb.
If one looked closely, they'd see shapes within it—monsters squirming, trying to break free.
The live broadcast room exploded with horrified reactions:
"What the hell is that thing?"
"I'm going to puke!"
"Are those demons… being born from that?"
"Jesus… They're using hearts to reproduce?"
Even seasoned superheroes watching the feed—men and women who'd faced cosmic horrors—felt sick.
Stark Tower.
Tony Stark leaned over the screen, his brow furrowed in thought.
"They reproduce… using hearts?" he muttered. "But then how did the first one appear?"
The classic paradox hit him like a brick: the chicken or the egg.
But as he was speaking, his eyes caught something new. He leaned closer, and his expression darkened.
"Wait… What the hell is that?"
James had unknowingly captured another image—one that sent chills down everyone's spines.
On the far wall of the room, nearly hidden by shadow, was a large, hideously scrawled mural.
Symbols—distorted, unfamiliar, deeply unsettling—were splashed across the surface. The reddish-brown paint looked eerily like dried blood.
There were shapes too—distorted human forms, mutilated beasts, and what appeared to be ceremonial patterns.
A cult's altar. A ritual.
James noticed it too. He lifted the camera higher.
"These symbols… they showed up in other nests as well," he said.
Without another word, he reached into his bag and pulled out several bottles of medical-grade alcohol. He poured the contents onto the floor, making sure to coat the fleshy "heart" thoroughly.
Then, he pulled out a lighter.
Snap.
Boom!
Flames erupted, hot and blue, spreading rapidly.
The writhing mass jerked violently, as if in agony. Screeches—inhuman and soul-piercing—echoed through the room.
From hell itself, it seemed.
The monsters inside the "heart" clawed, twisted, trying to escape. But there was no hope.
James didn't flinch. He watched, silent and unmoved, until the entire mass had burned into blackened charcoal.
Only then did he look back at the agent's corpse.
He crouched beside her, removed her dog tag, and pocketed it with quiet reverence.
Then he stood and walked out, alone, heading toward the last known nest.
Back at S.H.I.E.L.D., agents buzzed with commentary. Questions flew. Theories collided. But suddenly, all chatter stopped.
A new figure entered the room.
Natasha Romanoff, codename Black Widow, strode over to Nick Fury with a scowl.
"He refused to meet me."
Nick blinked. "You mean… even after seeing who you were?"
She crossed her arms, clearly annoyed.
"No. He didn't even see me. He turned down the meeting before I could say a word."
She wasn't used to rejection—not like this. While she didn't expect to charm James, his absolute indifference irked her.
Fury stroked his chin, watching James' cold efficiency on the screen.
"He hasn't changed," he muttered. "Not in this life, or the one before."
Natasha frowned, arms still folded.
"Prideful men rarely die peacefully."
Fury didn't respond immediately. His expression darkened, eyes still fixed on the screen.
Something was bothering him.
Why didn't the nests—each housing the breeding 'heart'—contain more demons?
If they were breeding grounds, shouldn't they have been overflowing with the creatures?
Something wasn't adding up.
And the deeper James went…
…the more questions arose.
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