[Year 3020]
Deep within the heart of the U.S. nation, hidden inside the most secure mountain fortress and shielded by advanced military bases, a secret lies buried. Above ground, a team of elite government-licensed heroes stands ready to respond to any threat—especially if this mountain is ever breached.
But beneath the surface, in a level known only to the highest-ranking politicians, an underground facility hums with quiet urgency. Scientists move through dimly lit corridors, surrounded by sterile labs and countless unconscious individuals lying motionless on surgical beds.
One scientist moves with purpose.
He steps into the secured elevator and presses the button marked Underground Floor 3. As the doors slide open with a hiss, he walks swiftly down the hallway toward Room 2002. Inside, under pale fluorescent light, lies a man—young, unnaturally handsome, with black hair tousled across the pillow. His arms are strapped down, marked with dozens of syringes and IV lines.
The scientist stares at him.
His breath hitches. Tears threaten to fall, but he forces them back, swallowing the lump in his throat. Wordlessly, he approaches the bedside, pulling a sleek syringe from his bag. Its contents shimmer faintly red.
He hesitates for a heartbeat.
Then, with trembling fingers, he injects the liquid into the man's arm. As the serum vanishes beneath the skin, the scientist turns away—his pace quick, almost frantic, as if he fears being caught. He doesn't look back.
Moments later, the man on the bed twitches.
A low groan escapes his lips. His fingers curl. His body tenses. Slowly—painfully—his eyes flutter open.
They glow.
Pitch red. Burning. Alive.
"Huh… Where am I?"
The man's voice came out hoarse, barely a whisper. His throat burned. The sterile white ceiling above him seemed to ripple as he blinked through the haze. He tried to sit up, but his limbs felt heavy—numb.
He looked around the dimly lit room, filled with old monitors, blinking machines, and cold metal walls. A strange scent lingered in the air—like antiseptic and rust.
And then—
Flashbacks.They hit him like a freight train.
[Year 3025 — Five Years Ago]
In Queens, New York, tragedy struck.
A car crash. Explosions. Screams. The wreckage took everything.
Vanta's parents were killed on the spot, leaving only him and his younger brother behind. Orphans, alone, and desperate, they scraped by doing odd jobs—repair work, deliveries, anything to survive.
But survival was never promised.
One stormy night, shadows came.
Men in black suits, armed and silent, broke into their small apartment. Vanta had only seconds to react before he was restrained. His brother fought back—wild, furious.
Bang.
Vanta watched helplessly as they shot him in the chest.
The world froze.
Tears, rage, a scream trapped in his throat—then darkness. The last thing he remembered was being dragged away. White lights. Cold steel. And a needle piercing his skin.
Back to the Present
Vanta gasped, his body jolting as the memory snapped back into place.
He looked down at his arms—bruised, punctured, scarred. Tubes lay beside him like discarded snakes.
His eyes, still glowing crimson, narrowed.
"They… killed him," he whispered. His voice was steadier now, filled with a quiet fury. "And they turned me into this."
He clenched his fist. The bed creaked under the strain of his strength. A faint ripple of red energy pulsed beneath his skin.
Suddenly, the blaring sound of a siren shattered the silence. Red warning lights pulsed across the ceiling as the facility descended into lockdown.
Outside the mountain, sirens echoed through the valleys, and alarms flashed across satellite stations. Elite guards snapped to attention, and above ground, the government's elite heroes—symbols of manufactured peace—were already racing toward the facility entrance.
Inside Room 2002, Vanta's eyes widened.
They know I'm awake.
Without wasting another second, he yanked the IV lines from his arms and leapt off the bed. His movements were shaky but fueled by pure adrenaline. He rushed toward the door—but it burst open before he could reach it.
Armed guards stormed in.
"There he is!" one barked. "Don't let him out!"
The first guard raised his rifle, but Vanta moved on instinct.
CRACK.A single punch shattered the man's jaw before his finger touched the trigger. The guard collapsed like a ragdoll.
"Fire! FIRE! Heroes will be here any second!" another shouted.
Bullets tore through the air—but none reached him.
A sudden red aura surged from Vanta's body, wrapping around him like a shield. Sparks danced off it as bullets bounced away, harmless. The glowing energy seemed to flow from his hands, pulsing like a heartbeat.
He stared at it in shock. "What… is this?"
But there was no time to wonder.
With a thunderous boom, the wall across the hallway cracked open—heroes had arrived.
Clad in polished, media-approved armor and signature uniforms, they stepped forward like gods. Each was enhanced with artificial Syndicate formulas. Each was a puppet of the state.
And they had come for him.
One stepped forward, his cape flickering behind him like flame. His voice oozed arrogance as he sneered at the boy in red light.
"So… now that you've got a little power, you think you're unstoppable?"
Vanta froze.
His breath caught in his throat as his eyes moved across the faces. These were the heroes he had looked up to since childhood—faces from posters, holograms, and childhood dreams.
But now those same faces stared back at him with contempt.
They had come not to protect—but to kill.