Aryan stepped forward, his eyes observant. "This isn't a total erasure," he stated. "I've installed a reversible biological switch within your DNA. I have effectively partitioned your genetic code."
He adjusted the dimensional parameters, allowing Blonsky's sight to return.
"You can shift between forms at will," Aryan explained. "Human or Abomination. Your cells now possess a cellular memory buffer; they can transition between the two states without the previous loss of cognitive function. You are no longer a victim of the serum. You are its master."
Blonsky groaned, clutching his head as his human senses flooded back. "You… you changed me… I can feel my own skin again."
"Yes," Aryan replied. "I gave you control. A gift the military was too incompetent to provide." He paused, his presence expanding until it filled the man's entire field of vision. "And as long as you obey, you keep it."
With a wave of his hand, a Soul Contract manifested—a shimmering lattice of metaphysical energy that bound Blonsky's very essence to Aryan's will. In this dimension, the contract was as binding as the speed of light. Blonsky didn't hesitate; he pressed his hand to the glowing script, sealing his fate.
The world blurred, the warped geometries of the Sefirah sub-dimension collapsing outward. In an instant, the sterile vacuum was gone, and the humid air of the industrial outskirts of New York rushed back into their lungs. He collapsed to one knee, the sudden return of standard gravity feeling like a physical weight. His blood flow, previously turbulent and erratic, normalized as his heart rate synced with a human rhythm.
Aryan stood over him, a figure of absolute authority. He reached into the air, and from a shimmer of light, he produced a bone-white artifact.
> PURCHASE CONFIRMED: Mask of Loki (Imitation Grade) — Cost: $1,000,000
"Your instructions are straightforward," Aryan said, his voice dropping into a pragmatic tone. He tossed the mask to Blonsky. "This is a specialized concealment interface. Once applied, it bonds to your dermis via molecular adhesion. It is invisible to infrared, thermal imaging, and facial recognition algorithms. Even in your human form, you are a ghost."
Blonsky took the mask, feeling its strange texture.
"You will use this to establish a new identity," Aryan continued. "Even without transforming, your physiology retains the serum-enhanced muscular density and accelerated synaptic response times. To the common criminal, you are already a god."
Aryan stepped back, his eyes tracking Blonsky's every movement. "You will leave the public view entirely. No more brawling in the streets of Harlem. No more drawing the eyes of the military or the media. You are to become a shadow in the bedrock of this city."
Abomination—now Emil again—remained silent, his fingers tracing the edge of the mask.
"Phase one is capital acquisition," Aryan stated. "Banks, armored transfers, illegal holdings of the cartels—you will seize what is necessary. Once you have sufficient funding, you will begin the recruitment process. You want something useful. Organizers, enforcers, and logistics experts already embedded in the criminal subterranean."
Aryan gestured toward the flickering lights of the Manhattan skyline. "New York's underworld is currently a fragmented mess—competing factions, none with the vision to lead. You will be that vision. Absorb the weak. Force cooperation through intimidation or strategic benefit. Eliminate resistance only when it cannot be subverted. We are building an Underground Order."
Blonsky's fists tightened, the mask beginning to glow faintly in his hand as it sensed his proximity.
"You do not act unless it serves the long-term stability of the Order," Aryan warned, his sapphire eyes flashing with a dangerous light. "And you do not involve civilians. Collateral damage is a signature of the amateur. You will be a professional."
Blonsky finally looked up, his voice rough. "And when you call?"
"You respond," Aryan answered without a heartbeat of hesitation. "Without question. Without delay."
The silence that followed was punctuated only by the distant hum of the city that had no idea its foundation was about to be rewritten. Aryan stepped back, the shimmering distortion beginning to reclaim his form.
"You're free to move," Aryan said. "Start tonight. Build your network, Emil. I'll contact you when the variables require your intervention."
And just like that, the light bent, the air hummed, and Aryan was gone.
Blonsky stood alone in the dark, the white mask reflecting the moon. He slowly pressed it to his face, feeling it fuse with his skin, cold and permanent. He was no longer a soldier of the United States, nor was he merely a monster.
Blonsky's POV
The concrete of Harlem felt like wet sand under my feet. Every time I slammed my fist into that green beast's jaw, I expected the world-ending roar of him hitting me back. I was a god of bone and muscle, the ultimate version of what every soldier dreams of being, and for the first few minutes, I loved every second of it.
I watched the Hulk charge at me. I saw his massive frame tensing for a blow that should have sent me through a skyscraper. But as he swung, his foot dragged. Just a tiny bit. It was a glitch—a stumble he shouldn't have had. He looked dizzy, his eyes going fuzzy like he'd just taken a blow he didn't see coming.
Is he sick? I wondered, even as I buried my elbow into his ribs. Is that green fire in his blood finally burning him out?
He was clumsy. His punches were a half-second slow. His balance was shot. I didn't care why at the time—I just enjoyed the win. I watched him tuck tail and run into the shadows of the park like a wounded stray. I roared into the night, the king of the trash.
A man appeared. Or, he wasn't exactly a man. He was a blurry shape in the air, like a heat mirage on a desert road. Looking at him made my head hurt. I couldn't see his face; I couldn't even see the color of his eyes. He was just a ghost made of twisted light.
He told me I hadn't actually won. He told me he was the reason the Hulk had tripped. I wanted to kill him for saying it, but when I tried to jump, my body just... stopped.
It was terrifying. It was like someone had pulled the plug on my brain. I felt the spark in my nerves go dead. I was a statue of meat and bone, floating in the air while this shadow-man treated my three-thousand-pound body like it weighed nothing at all.
One second I was in Harlem, and the next, I was in a nightmare. Everything was twisted. Up was down, light was bending in ways that made no sense. I couldn't see anything. I was blind and powerless in a place where this shadow-man was the boss of everything.
I felt something cold and powerful flood my body. It felt like being pulled apart and put back together. I felt those jagged bone spikes on my back shrinking, melting back into my skin. I felt the bulky muscles that had been making me feel like a monster softening and shrinking. The fire in my blood—the rage that had been cooking me from the inside—finally went out.
When I opened my eyes, I was Emil Blonsky again. I was human. I could feel the air on my skin instead of that constant, itchy heat.
He gave me a choice, though we both knew I had to take it. He gave me a mask—a bone-white thing that stuck to my face like it grew there. He told me it would hide me from every camera and sensor on the planet.
I don't know who he is. I don't know his name, his face, or what he's really planning. Is he a hero? A villain? I don't care.
Because as I stand here in the dark of this old factory, the white mask fused to my jaw, I realize one thing: I am not in a military lab. If General Ross had caught me, I'd be strapped to a table right now, my chest pinned open while they dug through my guts to see how I worked. I'd be a lab rat. A prisoner.
This shadow-man gave me something the military never would: he gave me back myself. I can feel the monster sitting in the back of my mind, quiet but ready to come out when I want it to. I am the King of the Underground now, with the strength of a titan and the face of a ghost.
I don't know what he wants, but for the first time in a long time, I'm not a weapon owned by a government. I'm a man doing a job for a ghost. And in this world, that's a hell of a lot better than being a specimen.
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