In the heart of the Sahel, where red dust hung in the air like smoke and the sun painted the world in rusted gold, a structure lay hidden beneath a plateau of stone and heat. The locals knew better than to wander near it. Camouflaged with outdated mining equipment and echoing with the hum of advanced tech underground, it was the central nest of the Marrow Syndicate — a villainous network operating on every continent save Antarctica. And even that exclusion was subject to change.
In the deepest level of this African outpost, behind a vault door plated in ablative armor, stood the reason for the Syndicate's latest worldwide prison break.
Silas Kreel.
He wasn't large. Not by brute standards. He wasn't fast either. But there was a terrifying elegance to him, a predator's stillness. He stood barefoot on cold steel flooring, long white hair tied into a loose braid down his back, his left arm exposed to show pale, bare bone where flesh once was.
Only it wasn't bleeding.
The arm had regrown entirely in the past hour.
And that was the point.
"Test success," said one of the scientists on the far side of the room. "The Rotting Serum delayed detection. The severed limb shows decay markers, but the regrowth came in under six minutes. Fascinating."
Silas didn't respond.
He was staring at the ceiling, half-listening. He could still feel it. A shadow in his chest. Something gnawing under his skin. Something he thought he left behind in that dreadful pit the world called a prison.
The Spire.
And more specifically, the boy inside it.
"Elijah," he muttered under his breath.
One of his comrades looked up.
"You good, boss?"
Silas turned. One sharp, calculating eye focused on the Syndicate lieutenant who had spoken — a man in red and black leather armor, with cybernetic implants on his temple.
"You think the prison break was to prove a point?" Silas asked.
The lieutenant blinked. "I mean… yeah? We powered down a top-tier blacksite prison. That's a message."
"No," Silas said, shaking his head. "We did all of this… for me."
He stepped down from the observation platform, the regenerated bone arm twitching slightly as he flexed it. His skin was still pale from the prison stay, his voice low and deliberate.
"But you want to know who priority number one was? It wasn't me."
The room went quiet.
"Priority One," Silas said, slowly, "was a kid. Fourteen. American. They were grooming him into a Bio-Soldier — a weapon they could drop into combat zones to disrupt entire armies without a single shot fired."
The lieutenant scoffed. "Wait, the Emotion Kid? Marris?"
"Eli," Silas corrected, and for the first time, his voice dipped into something colder. Not reverence. Not affection.
Fear.
"Don't call him 'the Emotion Kid' like he's some damn lab experiment. You weren't in the Spire with him."
Silas sat on a bench, cracking his knuckles one at a time. His good arm twitched nervously. "That place was built to house monsters. But Eli made the monsters afraid."
"You mean his manipulation stuff?"
"It's not just manipulation," Silas said. "He doesn't just pull strings. He rewrites the play."
They were listening now. Really listening.
"I watched hardened killers cry when he got near them. I saw men claw their own eyes because he suggested they'd see their sins. He doesn't raise his voice. Doesn't show off. And that chip in his inhibitor?"
Silas looked up, his eyes narrow.
"It wasn't to stop his powers. It was to stop his emotions. It was an Emotional Fluctuation Chip — it kept him numb, so he couldn't unintentionally broadcast fear, rage, or despair. Because even a whisper from him could ruin someone."
One of the rookies stepped forward. "But you got along with him, right?"
Silas tilted his head. "I talked to him. That's not the same. And yes — I made it out because he let me. I told him I needed two minutes before I made my move. He nodded. Stayed put. And that's the only reason I escaped."
He stood slowly.
"You all keep calling him a child. But think about it: how many people do you know that can make the Number One Hero of Japan scared? I watched that man stare into Eli's cell once. Just stare. And he walked away shaken. No words. No threats."
Silas's voice lowered to a growl.
"He could make the best of us snap. Not with force. Not with fire. With feeling."
The room was silent. No one dared speak.
"...He ever talk about me?" someone asked quietly.
Silas didn't answer.
Instead, he walked over to the reinforced door leading out of the war room.
And without hesitation, he stabbed his bone-arm straight through it.
A muffled yelp rang out. The door creaked.
Silas yanked his arm back, pulling a man through with a single twist.
The man collapsed — a spy, mouth agape in shock, a blade of living bone through his chest. The bone retracted into Silas's wrist with a fleshy sound as the spy died.
"What was that?" one of the men barked.
"Spy," Silas muttered. "He heard enough."
They all stared at the dead body.
"Guess they're going to figure out you're alive soon," another said.
"Of course," Silas replied. "But not now."
He stepped over the corpse, dragging it to the furnace chute nearby.
"Buy me a week. Two if you can. And whatever we do next…" He paused. "Let's avoid crossing paths with the kid."
He stood over the chute, dropped the body, and heard the whoosh as the corpse was consumed.
Then he looked out toward the setting sun.
"I just hope… wherever he is…"
His jaw clenched.
"He stays far, far away."