Eighteen months ago.

The trees opened like a wound.

Max stumbled out from the shadows, half-naked, skin scraped raw, clothes little more than rags clinging to blood and mud. His feet bled in the moss. Every step felt like it wasn't his.

Cold wind kissed his ribs. Birds sang above.

He flinched.

No hissing. No chains dragging behind him. No shrieks of dying men echoing off bone walls. Just birdsong.

He staggered into the clearing. Sunlight broke through the trees, warm and gold and soft. The sky wasn't red. The dirt didn't pulse. The air smelled of pine and something sweeter.

He didn't believe it.

This is the trick. It's always the trick.

His legs buckled, but he didn't fall.

Not yet.

"Dad?"

He froze. No. Not that voice. Not again.

He turned, slowly. As if some cruel god would yank it away if he moved too fast. And there she was.

Liz.

Older now. Taller. Her frame stronger. But it was her. Eyes wide. Hair tangled in the wind. A short jacket thrown over a pale shirt smeared with ink and grease.

She ran without hesitation.

"No—" Max rasped. "No, this isn't real—"

She slammed into him full-force, arms wrapping tight around his back. The scent of her hit him like a weapon. Lavender. Smoke. Tears.

His knees gave out.

They collapsed into the grass together. Max gripped her as if the sky might steal her away.

"I'm sorry," he choked. "I didn't know. I swear— I didn't know what they were doing. I thought I was saving you— I thought—"

"Shhh." She cupped the back of his head. "Stop. It's over."

Her voice cracked. But her hands were steady. Familiar.

Max's throat locked.

"It's not over," he whispered. "I let them use me. I gave them everything. I—"

"You came back," she said, louder this time. "You're here. That's what matters."

Max didn't answer.

He just stared at her.

The wind moved through her hair. Her hands were steady on his back. Her voice had the same crack it always did when she was scared but trying to be brave. And for a second – just a second – it felt real.

Too real.

You're here.

The words echoed.

And with them came something else.

He remembered another day. Long before the contracts. Before the fire.

It was dusk, the three of them driving home – Max at the wheel, April half-asleep beside him, Liz strapped into her car seat in the back, humming to some cartoon theme.

Then the crash.

Two cars ahead. Metal buckling. A child screaming. Smoke already rising.

Max had pulled over without a word.

April yelled after him – something sharp, something scared – but he was already running. The wreck was twisted, burning along the edges. A boy was trapped inside, crying, pinned by the seatbelt.

Max ripped the door open. Flames licked at his arm as he cut the belt and hauled the kid free. The gas stung his lungs. His jacket caught fire. He didn't stop.

He handed the boy off to a bystander and stumbled back toward the car, soot covering his face, hands bleeding.

April met him halfway, shaking. "You're insane," she said, clutching his face, checking him over like she couldn't believe he was alive. "You could've died."

Max coughed once, then pulled her in. Liz peeked from the back seat, wide-eyed.

"You saved him, Daddy," she whispered – small and serious, not old enough to understand fear.

Max just nodded. "I save people."

He hadn't known yet how much that sentence would cost him.

Now, kneeling in the moss, his chest shook. Something tore loose inside him. His fingers dug into her jacket like he might fall through the earth.

"I didn't mean to. Liz— I didn't know—"

"You don't have to know," she whispered. "You just have to stay."

The sob hit him like a gut wound. He buried his face in her shoulder and wept.

It wasn't pretty.

It wasn't brave.

Just four years of silence ripping open at once – every body he'd burned, every soul he'd lit, every lie they'd fed him with honey and guilt. It spilled out, choking and raw.

And she didn't move.

She held him. Rocked him.

"Come home," she murmured.

"I don't deserve it," he whispered.

"Too bad," she said. "You're already here."

They stayed like that a long time. The birds kept singing. Wind moved through the trees like breath. Somewhere nearby, the sound of bells.

Eventually, she helped him to his feet. He leaned on her. Every step was agony, but not from pain – because part of him still didn't believe.

She wrapped his arm around her shoulder and guided him through the trees.

They emerged onto a path. Ahead, half-shrouded in morning mist, stood a fortress of steel and stone. Banners fluttered in the wind. Figures moved along the ramparts – watching, working, living.

Max blinked.

It looked like a dream someone had stolen from his past. The Institute, rebuilt. Reinforced. Human.

"Where...?" he whispered.

"Scotland," Liz said. "The others are waiting. Grimm. Dan. Victor. All of them. We've rebuilt, Dad. You're going to see it."

Max's steps slowed.

Something in his chest twisted.

She smiled at him – warm, tired, fierce.

"You're safe," she said.

He tried to smile back.

He almost managed it.

But as they crossed the hill, and the wind shifted, something tickled his memory. Her scent.

Perfect.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

Exactly the way it had been when she was twelve. When she used to curl beside him on the couch and fall asleep during old films.

Too perfect.

The wind carried birdsong, mist, and something else beneath. Something he didn't want to name.

He glanced at her.

She smiled.

And for just a little longer, he let himself believe.

…………………

Eight months ago. Outside London.

Hellfire scorched the edge of the skyline.

Max moved like a blade through smoke – fists lit white-blue, burning hot enough to punch through bone and soul alike. Every step drove a crater into the broken concrete. Every strike ignited shrieking husks that tried to swarm him.

Behind him, the squad followed. Tight formation. Well-trained. Empowered. His people.

The demon hive had taken root in what used to be Whitechapel – a nest of fibrous black towers and stink-thick fog that turned lungs to rot. But not today.

"Go!" Max shouted, voice ragged. "Alpha, breach the centre. Omega, flank left. Clara, with me!"

The girl beside him nodded once – then sprinted into the mist, blade sparking in her grip.

A scream rose. Not pain – joy. Civilians emerged, staggering from the hive's broken walls. Half-naked. Blind. But alive.

Max caught a child as she ran to him, crying. Her hair was matted with soot. Her hands trembled against his collar.

"You're okay," he whispered. "You're safe now."

The girl buried her face in his shoulder. His arms closed around her. Fire died from his skin, just for a moment.

It felt real.

It felt… good.

An hour later, the hive burned.

A signal flared from one of the reclaimed towers – blue and strong. The Institute received it.

Paris responded ten minutes later.

Then Madrid.

Then Taipei.

One by one, old channels blinked back to life. Short-wave at first. Then psychic call-signs. A fractured world stitching itself back together.

In the war room, Liz cried. Not loud – not dramatic. Just a breath caught in her throat as the words scrolled across the terminal: We are alive. We heard you. Please send help.

Max watched her from the doorway.

He didn't speak.

She didn't look at him.

But her shoulders shook – once.

That was enough.

They celebrated the fall of Demon Lord Pthar outside Versailles.

The bastard had anchored himself in the catacombs beneath Paris, feeding off dreams and old bones. It took seventeen empowered squads, two months of tunnelling, and the sacrifice of three entire units – but they brought him down.

The kill was streamed live.

The ground shook for miles as Pthar's form collapsed – a whale-sized husk of psychic rot, limbs made of teeth and regret.

The moment the final blow landed – Max, falling from the sky with both fists blazing – the streets of Paris erupted. Cheers. Lights. Fireworks.

Real ones.

He stood atop the corpse, blood soaking his boots, and stared out over the city he thought would never stand again.

A young soldier dropped to one knee beside him.

"The Flame Father," she whispered. "He walks among us."

Max turned – startled.

More were gathering. Ten. Twenty. All empowered. All kneeling.

"Don't," he muttered, uneasy.

But it was already spreading.

The name.

The reverence.

Back at the Institute, Grimm raised no concern. If anything, he encouraged it.

"People need a symbol," he said. "They need belief. Let them have it."

Max grunted. "I'm not a god."

"No," Grimm said. "But you are what gods were made from."

Later that night, Max found Liz in the observatory.

She stood alone, staring at the stars through reinforced glass. Her hair caught the light – dark red, halo-less, for the first time in weeks.

"You're not shielding anymore," Max said softly.

She didn't turn.

"I don't need to."

A pause.

"You sure?"

Another pause.

"I'm fine."

The words were clipped. Too clipped.

Max frowned but didn't press.

As he left, a soldier passed him in the hall. One of the new recruits – a boy Max had awakened just three days prior.

"Glory to the Flame Father," the boy said, voice crisp.

Max blinked.

The boy kept walking.

Something about his tone. Too exact. Too rehearsed. Like he hadn't spoken – just played back a recording.

Max's brow furrowed.

But the hallway was empty now.

And the war… was being won.

Wasn't it?

…………………

Six months ago. Institute Gardens. Twilight.

The garden looked almost too perfect.

Lavender stretched in even rows. The hedges were freshly trimmed. A trail of golden light edged every petal like a painting come to life. Max walked slowly down the gravel path, hands behind his back, Liz beside him. The scent of soil and sunlight felt warm. Familiar.

But not quite real.

He stopped beneath the old willow and let the silence settle.

"It's enough," he said quietly. "We've done enough."

Liz didn't answer right away.

Her eyes stayed fixed ahead – on the spires of the Institute rising just past the trees, lit by amber floodlights. It looked peaceful. Invincible. Like something permanent.

"We're winning," Max said. "We've taken back London. The Pacific is holding. Hell, even the Vatican sent us a message."

Still nothing.

Then, softly: "It's not enough."

Max turned. "What?"

Her voice didn't waver. "We need more. Five thousand can hold the cities. Ten thousand will reclaim the Earth."

He blinked. "Liz—"

She stepped ahead. Her pace didn't change. "Dr. Grimm ran the simulations. With a few thousand more, we won't just survive. We'll be safe."

He frowned. "You sound like—"

A voice interrupted from the hedge path.

Grimm. Approaching.

Just like always. Same coat. Same stride. Same smile tucked behind those clinical eyes.

"Just a few thousand more," Grimm said, folding his hands behind his back. "That's all we need to be safe."

Max froze.

His breath caught – not because of the words. But the way they landed. Familiar. Too familiar.

He'd heard Grimm say that line before.

Exactly that line.

Same cadence. Same pause. Same look.

Max turned back to Liz.

She stood too still.

Her hands didn't twitch. Her breath didn't fog. Her hair didn't move in the breeze.

Because there was no breeze.

He looked up.

The sky was full of stars – sharp, perfect, frozen. They hadn't shifted.

Not in minutes.

Not in hours?

His pulse began to race.

He turned again – scanning the hedges, the Institute tower, the flowers edging the path. They didn't sway. The shadows didn't grow.

And beneath it all, something colder stirred.

"No," he whispered.

Liz blinked. Her smile held.

"We need more," she said.

Grimm stepped forward. "We only need you to say yes."

"No," Max said louder now.

The air tightened.

He stepped back, away from them both.

"You're not Liz."

Her smile faltered.

Just a flicker. Barely a twitch at the corner of her mouth.

But he saw it.

The real Liz wouldn't beg. Wouldn't coax. She'd scream. Fight. Rage at the world and spit in its face before ever whispering we need more.

Max stepped further back.

"This isn't real," he said. "None of it is."

Cracks skated across the path.

The lavender wilted. Flowers folded in on themselves like dead spiders. Leaves shrivelled. The hedges twitched and bled colour.

Liz turned sharply. "Dad, stop—"

Her voice cracked mid-sentence.

Like a skipping record.

Max looked at her again – really looked.

Her face was perfect. Too perfect. Like it had been sculpted from memory, not made of blood and fear and fire.

"You're not her," he said.

Her lips twitched again. "We need more."

Behind him, Grimm repeated it. Exactly.

"We need more."

The ground began to pulse. Not with life – but decay. The air soured.

Then Liz screamed.

Not in fear.

In fury.

She lunged at him, mouth splitting too wide. Her fingers stretched like claws. Her skin warped, hair stiffening into wires, her eyes rolling white.

Max stumbled back as the garden howled.

People flickered out mid-step. A gardener vanished as his hand reached for a shovel. Two children laughing near the roses stuttered – looped – then blinked into nothing.

The Institute twisted. Its walls rippled. Windows elongated. Towers folded in on themselves.

And overhead – where the stars once froze in place –

a mask began to form.

Vast. Cracked porcelain. Smiling.

It eclipsed the sky.

Zagan.

Max screamed as the light peeled back from the world, and Moloch's laughter rippled through the collapse.

The dream burned away.

And the prison returned.

…………………

Six months ago. The real world.

Max woke screaming.

The sound echoed off stone – raw, torn from somewhere deeper than lungs or throat. But there was no air to carry it. No mercy to catch it. Just rot.

Then chains jerked him back.

His body spasmed. Muscles cramped. Shackles tore into his wrists – too tight, too old, rusted shut with dried blood. He fell sideways into filth. His shoulder cracked against bone.

And then he remembered.

The garden was gone.

Liz was gone.

Oh God, Liz—

The Fortress. The children. The victories.

Gone.

His eyes adjusted to the dark – barely. It wasn't even night. Just an absence of light, thick and oily. The cell was narrow. Cramped. Every surface was caked in filth. Bones littered the floor. Some human. Some not. The walls pulsed faintly – a sick parody of breath.

And in the corner, watching with quiet satisfaction…

Zagan.

She sat cross-legged atop a slab of petrified flesh. The porcelain mask gleamed faintly in the dark. Her seven tails fanned out behind her like blades suspended in molasses.

"It took you long enough," she said, voice soft.

Max couldn't speak. His mouth was dry. Cracked. He tried to move, but the chains pulled again. His legs didn't respond.

He looked down at his own body – wasted, starved. Covered in scabs and brands. Fingers blistered and blackened. His halo flickered behind his skull – dim, twitching. A broken signal.

Zagan tilted her head.

"Still hoping it was real?" she asked. "The garden. The Fortress. …Her?"

Max choked.

Zagan grinned. "It was a lovely script. You even cried. More than once."

Then came the voice.

Smooth. Distant. Reverent.

Moloch.

He didn't appear in body – only as a shimmer, a fold in the air, like heat rising from asphalt. But his voice coated the room like oil.

"You were beautiful, Max," he said. "The way you smiled when they learned to fly. The way you called them heroes. Every drop of hope you poured into them – exquisite."

Max shook his head.

"No…"

But Moloch wasn't done.

"And they were real, you know. The people. The ones you awakened. You gave them power. You made them shine. And then…"

A flicker.

The wall shifted. Became glass. Became vision.

Max was forced to see.

Thousands.

Tens of thousands.

Each face someone he remembered – the girl who wept in Paris. The medic from Rio. The boy with frost on his fingers. One by one, they marched.

Then the conveyor began.

Chains. Hooks. Sigils carved into flesh. Each soul burned brighter – then flickered – then died.

Fed into a mouth Max could not see.

But he could feel it.

Every loss traced back to him.

"You did this," Zagan whispered. "Every name. Every scream."

Max tried to close his eyes.

Couldn't.

Tears didn't come.

They were gone.

Zagan stood.

Her tails writhed.

"I told you from the start," she said. "You were the key. You cracked the door. Now let's make sure you stay useful."

She pressed one clawed finger to his forehead.

Max tried to jerk away.

He couldn't.

The pain wasn't sharp.

It was silent.

Like scissors through silk.

Something inside him tore.

His breath hitched. Then slowed. His gaze unfocused.

Memories slipped.

A name.

A face.

A fire.

Gone.

More tearing. More cutting. She was careful. Precise. Erasing not just memory, but will. Identity. Thought.

He drooled.

One leg twitched.

Moloch watched in silence, then finally spoke.

"I want him degraded further," he said. "No strength. No pride. Just instinct. Send him to Belphegor. Let that coward squeeze out the last drops."

Zagan's mask gleamed.

"With pleasure."

The vision faded.

Chains rattled.

The stench returned.

And Max…

Max didn't scream. He didn't fight. He just stared. As if part of him still waited to wake up.

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