(AN: Chappie for the day, i know it's early but meh. Leave review for another chapter or if you stone me even just 10 times, I shall consider it.)
Mercer's Hearth
The television above the shelves was supposed to be background noise.
It failed spectacularly.
"—confirmed non-terrestrial bioform—" the newscaster said, the words clipped and overly careful, "—ongoing federal containment—"
Mara reached up and lowered the volume with a frown.
"That's the third time they've replayed that same line."
"It's because they don't know what else to say,"
Rhea replied from behind the register, handing a customer their change.
"Say too much and people panic. Say too little and they panic harder."
At the back of the shop, Elias was nowhere near the counter.
He stood at the prep table, sleeves rolled up, kneading dough with steady, methodical movements.
Flour dusted his forearms.
The rhythm of his hands was calm, grounding—something he needed more than he'd admit.
Mercer's Hearth was busy today.
Not overflowing, but constant.
The kind of steady crowd that kept everyone moving.
Elias only stepped in when he had to.
When a sudden rush formed near the registers, he glanced up.
Mara and Rhea were juggling orders, voices overlapping, customers speaking too fast and too loudly.
"I've got it," Elias said quietly.
He moved in without urgency, sliding beside Rhea.
His presence alone seemed to lower the temperature of the room.
"What can I get started for you?" he asked the next customer.
The man hesitated, eyes flicking between Elias and the TV. "Uh… croissant. And—" he lowered his voice, "—did you see the news?"
Rhea stiffened slightly.
Elias nodded once. "Hard to miss."
The man snorted. "Guess aliens are real now, huh?"
From the espresso machine, Noah muttered, "Great. As if rent wasn't bad enough already."
Mara shot him a look. "Noah."
"What? You know someone's gonna start selling 'anti-alien bread' or something."
Rhea huffed despite herself. "Don't give the internet ideas."
At a nearby table, two customers were already arguing.
"It's the end times," one said, gripping his cup like it was an anchor.
"You don't just find monsters in the city and go back to normal."
Across from him, the other scoffed.
"Monsters? Please. It's a weapon. Always is. Government just lost control of it."
"Then why quarantine Harlem?"
"Because fear works."
Elias placed a plate down a little harder than necessary.
"Order for table three," he said evenly.
The argument died the moment both men realized he was standing there.
"Sorry," one of them muttered.
Elias gave a polite nod and stepped away.
Back behind the counter, Rhea leaned closer to Mara.
"You feel it too, right?"
Mara didn't look up. "Yeah."
"The air," Rhea continued.
"It's like everyone's waiting for something else to happen."
Noah swallowed. "My mom called this morning. She told me not to stay late. Said the city's 'changing.'"
From the prep table, Elias listened.
He said nothing.
Outside the front windows, a small crowd lingered—signs held low, voices raised just enough to be heard.
REPENT.
HUMANITY FIRST.
THE SIGNS ARE CLEAR.
Inside, the smell of fresh bread fought back against the weight of the world.
Elias returned to the back, wiping his hands on a towel. The system was silent. No prompts. No judgments.
Just the sound of ovens, customers, and people trying to pretend that monsters hadn't changed everything.
As he worked, Elias thought—not for the first time—that normalcy hadn't shattered.
It had thinned.
And everyone could feel it.
The lunch rush finally thinned.
Chairs scraped softly as customers left, the bell above the door chiming less frequently.
Mara wiped down the counter while Rhea restocked the display.
Noah disappeared briefly into the back to check the ovens.
Elias was alone near the sink, washing his hands when someone lingered instead of moving on.
"Boss?"
He looked up.
It was Hannah, one of the quieter employees—late twenties, hair tied back, flour permanently embedded under her nails.
She usually handled fillings and decorations, precise to the millimeter. Behind her, Leo, the other guy on staff, leaned against a shelf pretending not to listen while organizing bread trays that didn't need organizing.
"Yes?" Elias asked.
Hannah hesitated. "Can I ask you something?"
Rhea slowed her movements. Mara stopped wiping altogether.
Elias nodded. "Go ahead."
She glanced at the TV, still muted but looping footage of blocked streets and blurred silhouettes. "Do you think it's really… monsters?"
Leo snorted under his breath. "Careful. Say that too loud and someone'll start burning sage in here."
"That's not what I mean," Hannah said quickly.
"I mean—" she searched for words, "—do you think this changes things?"
The shop felt smaller suddenly.
Noah returned from the back, catching the tail end of the conversation. "Changes how?" he asked.
"Everything," Hannah said.
"Work. Life. The city." She looked back at Elias.
"You've been… calm. Everyone else is freaking out."
All eyes turned to him.
Elias dried his hands slowly, buying himself time.
"I think," he said at last, "that people are scared because the unknown finally has a face."
Leo crossed his arms. "That's not an answer."
Elias met his gaze. "It is. Just not a comforting one."
Mara exhaled through her nose. "So you're saying we're screwed."
"No," Elias replied. "I'm saying fear spreads faster than facts."
Rhea tilted her head. "And the monsters?"
"They exist," Elias said simply.
The word landed heavier than any speech could have.
Noah swallowed. "Then what do we do?"
Elias looked around his shop—at the ovens, the bread racks, the hands that made things people relied on every morning.
"We keep doing what we're good at," he said.
"We make food. We take care of people who walk through that door."
Hannah studied him. "And if things get worse?"
A pause.
Elias's expression softened, just a fraction. "Then we face that when it comes."
Leo chuckled weakly. "You say that like it's easy."
"It isn't," Elias said. "But it's better than panicking."
The tension eased, just a little.
Rhea clapped her hands once. "Alright. Apocalypse postponed. Back to work."
Mara smiled. "If the world ends, at least they'll say the bread was good."
Laughter—real laughter—broke out.
Elias turned back toward the prep table, his calm returning like a practiced mask.
None of them noticed how tightly his fingers curled around the towel.
.
.
.
The shop closed the way it always did.
Lights dimmed. Chairs flipped. The smell of bread lingered just a little longer than the people who'd eaten it.
Elias locked the door, tugged once to be sure, and waved off his employees as they headed their separate ways.
"See you tomorrow, boss."
"Don't be late," he replied automatically.
Normal. Quiet. Uneventful.
He walked home with his hands in his pockets, shoulders loose, mind drifting for the first time all day.
No systems blaring. No aliens. No agents in suits pretending to be tourists.
It had been a long while since something happened—long enough that the tension in his spine had finally started to ease.
That was why he didn't sense it coming.
"Don't move."
Cold metal pressed against his forehead.
The world snapped into focus.
Elias froze, breath hitching, heart slamming so hard it drowned out the night.
The muzzle of the gun was inches from his face, held by a man with shaking hands and eyes too wide to be steady.
"Wallet. Phone. Slow," the man hissed.
Stress—raw and sudden—spiked.
Before Elias could think, before guilt or restraint or morality could catch up—
Telekinesis activated.
The gun tore itself from the man's grip like it had decided it belonged somewhere else.
It flew backward, clattered against the pavement, and skidded into the shadows.
The man stared at his empty hand.
"What the—"
Panic surged through Elias.
He didn't want another incident. Didn't want blood. Didn't want thinking.
"Obliviate."
The word slipped out sharp and desperate.
The man's eyes went glassy mid-sentence.
Elias didn't shape the spell. Didn't refine it. He didn't even look at the man properly.
"Go," Elias said, voice tight. "Go to the nearest prison. Turn yourself in. Confess. Everything."
The man nodded mechanically.
"Yes," he murmured, already turning away. "I… need to go."
He walked off into the night, footsteps fading, mind rewritten without ceremony.
Elias stood there, chest heaving, hands trembling.
"…Shit," he whispered.
He didn't notice the faint glint from far away.
Didn't see the silhouette on a neighboring rooftop.
Didn't see the second man, lying prone, breath controlled, a telescope pressed to his eye—watching everything from a careful distance.
The observer slowly lowered the scope.
His jaw tightened.
"That's him," he muttered.
The two of them weren't random.
They were from the gang that first confronted Elias weeks ago.
And this time—
They hadn't come unprepared.
The man on the rooftop didn't move for a long time.
He kept the telescope trained on Elias until the baker disappeared around the corner, until the street returned to what it pretended to be—quiet, harmless, ordinary.
Only then did he lower the scope.
"That's him," the man said into his comm.
His voice was low, certain.
"No doubt anymore. He's the one behind it."
Behind Judgement Area.
The place where criminals either vanished, reformed, or rotted in prison after confessing crimes no one could prove they'd committed—until they did it themselves.
The observer exhaled slowly.
"We found our ghost."
The man who had walked obediently toward the nearest prison never made it there.
A black van slid out from a side street with practiced precision. The side door burst open. Strong hands grabbed him, dragged him inside, and slammed the door shut in one fluid motion.
He didn't scream. He didn't resist
.
Inside the van, dim lights flickered on.
Across from him sat the same man who had been watching through the telescope moments ago, calm and composed, folding the scope into a padded case.
"We got him back." he said into the comm.
"Heading back."
The van accelerated, disappearing into the city like it had never existed.
.
.
.
.
The Iron Serpent Gang didn't operate in the open.
They didn't need to.
Their base was buried beneath an abandoned warehouse near the docks—steel doors, layered security, and a reputation built on brutality and discipline.
Before Judgement Area, they'd controlled three neighborhoods, two smuggling routes, and enough street-level muscle to make the police look the other way.
After Judgement Area?
Everything had gone wrong.
Runners vanished. Enforcers turned themselves in.
Trusted lieutenants broke down and confessed to crimes they'd sworn no one knew about. They had no choice if someone's already confessed everything.
Profits collapsed. Fear crept in—not of the law, but of something watching.
Now, finally, they had a face to blame.
The van rolled into the underground bay.
The doors opened.
The obliviated man was dragged out and dumped onto the concrete floor like cargo.
At the far end of the room, seated on a reinforced chair with iron serpents carved into its arms, was the boss.
Massive. Scarred. Silent.
The observer stepped forward.
"Confirmed," he said. "The baker. Elias Mercer. He's the source."
The boss's eyes shifted to the man on the floor.
"What's wrong with him?"
"Mind's been messed with," the observer replied. "We watched it happen. One second he had a gun. Next second—"
He snapped his fingers. "—empty."
The boss stood.
He walked slowly toward the kneeling man.
"Ask him."
The man looked up, eyes vacant.
"Why are you here?" the boss asked.
"To… turn myself in," the man replied softly.
Silence spread through the room.
The boss straightened.
"That settles it."
He turned to his people.
"Elias Mercer is our enemy," he declared.
"Judgement Area ends with him."
A grin split his scarred face.
"Put him down."
.
.
.
Elias sat on the edge of his bed, the glow of the system window reflected in tired eyes.
[LEVEL UP!
Level: 2]
[Villain System
Status
Name: Elias Mercer
Level: 2
Experience: 0 / 4
Designation: Villain — Novice
Abilities:
Telekinesis — Level 2
• Current Limit: 100 kg
Summon
•Xenomorph
°Evolved(Hulk Blood)
Skills:
Unforgivable Curses (HP world)
- Imperius (maxed)
- Crucio (maxed)
- Avada Kedavra (maxed)
Charms (HP world)
- Obliviate (maxed)
Inventory
Slots: 30
Occupied: 1 / 30
Slot 1: Facehugger Eggs ×2
Slot 2: Empty
… ]
He barely reacted.
He was too busy feeling the familiar weight in his chest—the kind that came right before everything went wrong.
Then—
⚠ ENEMY DESIGNATION DETECTED ⚠
The prompt flared red.
Elias stared at it.
For the third time in what felt like far too short a life, he rubbed his face and muttered with pure, exhausted exasperation:
"…Shit."
End of chapter 14