In the darkness of the night, sirens shattered the silence again and again. Their echoes bounced between damaged buildings, mixing with the crackle of flames and the screams that had yet to fade. The air was thick with ash, heavy, almost unbreathable, and a metallic stench spread through the area—a smell of burned flesh, of death. When the smoke slowly began to clear, the true horror was revealed.
Human figures emerged from the fire like distorted shadows. Some ran aimlessly, engulfed in flames, beating at themselves in a futile attempt to put the fire out. Others staggered forward, covered in soot, their eyes empty, as if they still couldn't comprehend that they had survived. Many did not move at all. Charred bodies and others buried beneath debris marked the path of those who hadn't escaped in time. Some remained locked in embrace. Others lay alone, hands outstretched, as if they had tried to cling to something—to someone—in their final moments.
Firefighters pushed through the chaos, dragging hoses, shouting orders that were lost in the roar. Jets of water struck the flames, raising clouds of steam that hid and revealed ever more horrific scenes. Paramedics rushed from body to body, checking pulses that were no longer there, covering faces with thermal blankets that failed to conceal the tragedy. Among the smoldering remains, something small stood out: a torn, blackened piece of children's fabric, stained with dried blood and ash. Just a fragment—but enough.
A woman burst through the rescuers, ignoring the shouts telling her to stop. Her clothes were burned, her arms covered in blisters. She walked with difficulty but did not slow. When she saw the fabric, she dropped to her knees and clutched it with trembling hands. She recognized it instantly. Her scream was not only pain—it was absolute denial. She cried her daughter's name again and again, pressing the cloth to her chest as if that could bring her back. No one approached. No one could say anything.
A few meters away, hidden amid the confusion, flashing lights, and terrified crowd, those who had planted the packages watched without visible emotion. Their faces were tense, alert—but empty. One of them raised a hand to his communicator.
"The job is done," he said quietly.
On the other end, the masked man listened in silence. He asked no questions. Showed no reaction. He simply closed his eyes for a moment, as if it confirmed something he already knew. The city was burning—and this was only the beginning.
At dawn, a room remained calm, unaware of the storm that had shaken the city overnight. There were no sirens or screams—only the warm stillness that precedes the day. Light barely filtered through the curtains, casting soft shadows across the walls.
Aiden opened his eyes.
He blinked several times, caught between sleep and waking. His breathing was slow, heavy.
"Such weird dreams…" he murmured. "I really need to stop watching so much TV."
He tried to stretch.
His hands struck something solid.
He froze.
He moved his arms again, more carefully. His fingers traced a hard, smooth, unfamiliar surface. Something surrounded him. Too close.
"What…?"
His heart began to race. As he lifted himself slightly, he saw it: a kind of sealed barrier completely enclosing him. It wasn't glass or a wall. Its texture was opaque and irregular, threaded with faintly glowing inner veins, as if something were breathing inside.
"This can't be real…"
A nervous laugh slipped from his throat.
"I'm dreaming."
He pinched his arm. The pain was immediate.
"Shit…"
The space felt cramped. The air heavy. The sense of confinement closed around his chest.
"No… no…"
He struck the surface with his palm. Nothing. He tried his fist. The sound was dull, muffled. He kicked.
The structure creaked.
Then the cracks appeared.
Golden lines spread like illuminated veins. A shimmering dust broke free and hung in the air for an unreal second. Aiden screamed and struck again.
The barrier gave way.
He dropped to his knees on his bedroom floor, gasping, covered in golden dust that slowly faded until it vanished. Behind him, the remains of the cocoon collapsed in silence.
"What the hell was that…?"
He ran a hand over his face, trying to gather his thoughts. And then the memory returned uninvited: the pool, the water, the laughter, the sudden sensation in his throat.
The moth.
"No…" he whispered. "It can't be because of that."
He fell back onto the bed and took a deep breath. Once. Twice.
Something brushed his back.
He froze.
He slowly stood and walked to the mirror. Every step felt unreal. He raised his eyes—and lost his breath.
From his back emerged two small wings. Delicate. Translucent.
Real.
He stepped back.
"What… what am I…?"
He tried to pull them. The pain was immediate, sharp.
"No…"
That was enough. It wasn't a dream.
Panic overwhelmed him. His breathing quickened and, without realizing it, the wings began to move on their own—first spasms, then clumsy flutters. The air vibrated.
"Wait—!"
Too late.
Aiden was hurled backward. He slammed into a table, knocked over a lamp, and bounced off the wall. A chair shattered as he fell. Books and objects flew across the room.
"Again with that kid," a voice came from the other side of the wall. "Always making noise."
"I told you he wasn't normal."
Aiden collapsed to the floor, gasping. The wings trembled erratically.
Then he heard it.
Knock. Knock.
His heart jumped into his throat. He clumsily threw on a jacket, trying to cover the impossible, and walked to the door. He hesitated for a second… then opened it.
On the other side stood a building employee, watching him with restrained curiosity.
"Good morning. We received a report about loud noises. Is everything alright?"
Aiden peeked out slightly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the elderly neighbors spying from behind their half-open door.
"Yes—everything's fine," he replied quickly. "I was just… rearranging things."
The man glanced over his shoulder—overturned furniture, objects scattered across the floor.
"Rearranging?"
Aiden forced a smile.
"Everyone organizes their own way."
An awkward second passed.
"Well… have a good day," the employee said.
"Thanks."
He shut the door immediately.
On the other side, the man shook his head as he walked away.
"That kid is really strange."
Aiden leaned his back against the door and took a deep breath.
At one of the locations hardest hit by the attack—the shopping mall—the storm had passed. Smoke drifted away as dawn revealed what the night had tried to hide: blackened facades, shattered storefronts, chunks of concrete and twisted metal scattered across the ground. The silence was almost offensive after the chaos.
Andrick dropped to his knees.
His once impeccable suit was coated in ash. He braced his trembling hands against the cold pavement. For a few seconds, he was no leader, no public figure—just a man facing a tragedy he had failed to prevent.
His gaze swept the remains: an overturned toy cart, a scorched stuffed animal, dark stains no one yet dared to clean.
"How…?" he murmured. "How could someone do something like this?"
He clenched his teeth. The air burned in his lungs.
"This won't end here."
A uniformed man approached and placed a hand on his shoulder. It was Foreman Grave, the Chief of Police. He said nothing. He didn't need to.
Andrick took a deep breath and stood. He wiped his face with his sleeve. When he spoke again, his voice no longer shook.
"Tell me we have something."
"We analyzed the explosive residue," the officer replied. "RDX."
Andrick looked up.
"Military?"
"Yes. Powerful. Precise. Not improvised."
The silence grew heavy. Andrick clenched his fists.
"Then this wasn't random," he said. "They knew exactly what they were doing."
He looked once more at the devastation.
"Find them. Use every resource."
He straightened fully.
"There will be no forgiveness."
A few meters away, Foreman paced back and forth, listening to reports without pause. He took no notes. Asked no unnecessary questions. He simply absorbed information, one after another.
"This needs to be shut down fast," he said at last. "No mistakes."
One of the investigators hesitated.
"Maybe… we should call the Wolf."
Foreman stopped. Slowly turned his head.
"No."
His tone allowed no argument.
"He works alone, ignores protocols, and shows up when it suits him," he continued. "I don't need a hero. I need results."
The investigator nodded and walked away.
Foreman looked back at the mall—debris, tents, covered bodies in the distance.
"But if this keeps escalating…" he murmured, "we may not have a choice."
Little by little, the trembling in his body subsided. In front of the mirror, Aiden moved one wing. Then the other. They responded—clumsy, heavy, but real. They were part of him.
"So… the moth wasn't just some bug," he murmured.
The nervous laugh that escaped him died quickly.
"How am I supposed to go outside like this?" he added. "They'd see me… or worse."
He ran a hand over his face and looked again—this time with less fear.
"Still…" he said quietly, "maybe I can use this to my advantage."
The idea caught quickly. He couldn't hide it, explain it, or get rid of it—but he could decide what to do with it.
He looked toward the television. The news still showed a broken city, images of fire and people crying for help.
"Looks like they're needed," he thought.
Fear gave way to something new. If he did it right, he could record it. Show it. Turn it into something else.
"Yeah…" he told himself. "That's what I'll do."
He looked at his reflection again, the wings hidden beneath the jacket.
"But not like this."
He shook his head. He needed to cover them. Something that protected him. A disguise.
He picked up his phone.
The Moth-Man suit.
Night fell once more over the city like a heavy shroud. Red and blue patrol lights flashed without rest, staining the lingering smoke with unnatural colors. Police officers and forensic teams moved between tents, exchanging quiet words, as if speaking too loudly might awaken something else among the ruins.
That was when they saw him: a lone figure emerging from the darkness, crossing the street with a calm that clashed violently with the chaos around him. He walked without hurry, as if the disaster did not belong to him, as if none of it could touch him. A cigarette burned between his fingers, the ember flaring with each drag as smoke drifted into the night air.
He wore a gray, high-collared coat—simple yet immaculate—that shifted slightly with each step. His dark hair fell naturally, and the glasses he wore reflected the emergency lights and the pale glow of the moon. His face showed no alarm. No curiosity. Only focus.
Some officers stiffened as they recognized him.
"It's him…"
"The Wolf."
Foreman saw him approach and released a controlled breath. He crossed the yellow tape and walked forward until they stood face to face.
"So you did come, Kael," he said.
Kael stopped before him. He took one last drag, crushed the cigarette beneath his shoe, and slowly lifted his gaze.
"Yeah," he replied. "Figured we'd end up here sooner or later."
His tone wasn't cold—but it carried no urgency. It was the voice of someone who had seen scenes like this too many times.
"This is getting out of hand," Foreman said.
Kael tilted his head slightly and surveyed the cordoned perimeter—the tents, the blackened remains, the covered bodies in the distance, the constant movement of forensic teams.
"Yeah," he said. "I can see that."
He didn't sound surprised.
"That's why I called you. I need you in."
Kael exhaled slowly through his nose.
"I don't usually step in when everything's clean," he said. "I step in when no one knows what to do anymore."
Foreman didn't respond. He turned and motioned for Kael to follow. They entered the main tent. Inside, the air was thick with exhaustion, cold coffee, and paperwork. An improvised board covered one side: photos of the explosions, city maps marked with points, hastily taped notes, preliminary reports.
Kael approached the board without touching it. His eyes moved slowly over each item, then stopped on a technical sheet among the forensic reports. A chemical compound was underlined. Kael frowned slightly and leaned in to read it clearly.
"RDX…" he murmured.
Foreman watched in silence. Kael scanned the data—traces, residue, activation method. His mind began connecting dots rapidly.
"Not common," he said. "Not on the streets."
He glanced at another report, then a map, then a photo of the device remains.
"This isn't something you get by improvising," he continued. "Not something any idiot can buy."
He paused briefly.
"I've only seen this compound circulate here when…" He stopped for a second. "When it's confiscated from very specific groups."
Foreman crossed his arms.
"Groups?"
Kael slowly lifted his gaze, as if the answer had been obvious from the start.
"A mafia," he said. "With military contacts. Closed distribution routes. A history."
He straightened.
"And in this city… there's only one that operates like that."
Foreman stared at him.
"You reached the same conclusion I did, didn't you?"
Kael adjusted his glasses.
"Yeah. This was Cobra's work."