Aftershock – The Ones Who Ordered the Strike
The war room was colder than it should have been.
In an undisclosed facility buried beneath the Alps, a dozen men and women—executives, contractors, and black-market coordinators—gathered around a holotable, its projections flickering with grainy footage and static-ridden reports from Namibia.
Their strike had failed. Spectacularly.
No casualties among the villagers. Every asset neutralized. And worse, footage—scrubbed, intercepted, but not stopped—had escaped. It showed a shadow wreathed in smoke, moving like a nightmare. The red glow of a weapon that carved through steel and bone alike.
"Some kind of advanced Aegis tech," one executive said, trying to steady his voice.
"No," replied another, pale and sweating. "They denied it. Publicly and internally. Their sensors never picked up a craft. He was already there."
The others stared. Silence.
Then a third voice—sharp, but brittle. "One of our men said he heard breathing. Mechanical. And something else. Said the man whispered to him."
"A reminder."
The room fell quiet again.
One finally said what the others were thinking. "This wasn't tech. This was myth made flesh."
No one argued.
They started scrubbing names. Burning records. Shifting funds. Hoping the shadow wouldn't return.
In a dockside café in Croatia, a former PMC recruiter watched the footage on a cracked phone. He had heard the stories. Hushed. Mocked. A black phantom, unkillable, unstoppable.
Now he believed.
He deleted half his contact list before finishing his coffee. The mercenary networks would dissolve soon. Some would disappear into jungles, others into graves.
None would ever speak his name again.
Not unless they wanted to see Him.
Bangkok – Intelligence Hub
A Thai analyst leaned over her console. "Cross-referencing the footage with cultural databases returned the name Darth Vader." She paused. "Fictional character. From various forms of media."
Her superior laughed dryly. "And yet entire squads surrendered to him."
"Can you blame them", a still image showing the dark figure with his hand stretched out sat in the background, a wave spreading out in front of him.
They stared at a different screen. The grainy silhouette moved through fire—every step deliberate. Every act controlled.
"Should we classify him?"
"No. We pray we don't have to."
Namibia – Recovered Saboteur Testimony
The man trembled as the medical officer cleaned his bandages. Broken ribs, dislocated shoulder, stress-induced seizures.
He hadn't spoken since they found him, strapped upright by an Aegis drone like a gift left behind.
Until he whispered, hoarsely:
"He looked at me."
"Who?" the medic asked.
The man stared blankly, voice breaking into a whisper. "I heard the breathing before he landed. And then I knew."
The medic leaned closer.
"Knew what?"
The man began crying. Not in pain.
In fear.
"That no one can stop him."
[Victor Aiden - In the Forge]
Victor stood alone in the Forge's highest platform, high above the clouds.
He wasn't watching the news. He didn't need to. His presence had rippled through the world.
He reviewed footage—of villagers returning to their fields. Of mercenaries discarding weapons. Of satellites redacting footage before it could spread too far.
He said nothing.
But in the quiet, he felt it.
Fear had done what diplomacy could not. What even aid had failed to do. The predators were pulling back. The vultures were scattering.
"Let them remember," he murmured. "And in remembering, let them hesitate."
In Marrakesh, a trafficker burned his own warehouse and fled to the desert.
In St. Petersburg, a weapons dealer cancelled three deals, citing "unforeseen risk."
In Bogotá, a smuggler turned himself in, refusing to explain why.
None said the name.
None had to.
Because in the absence of sound, in the wake of silence, the world understood:
He was watching.
And he would return if needed.