EX: Nightmare

Westen sat on the couch, watching the news like an old man with nothing better to do. He wasn't really paying attention — until something caught his ear.

"Several girls reported missing from nearby districts. Police suspect organized abduction. The case is still under investigation."

His eyes narrowed.

"Right... I remember this,"

He muttered to himself.

"It happened close by, didn't it?"

There was a pause, then a shift inside him — subtle, but decisive. He reached for the remote, turned off the TV, and stood up. A slow breath left his chest as he walked to his room.

"Hmm,What should I do? Should I go or not. Something tells me I should..."

He murmured.

"Now then. What to wear? Wear a mask? Go full villain with flashy crap?"

He opened his wardrobe. Stared for a second. Then casually pulled out a dark hoodie and a black mask — simple, nothing fancy. He stood in front of the mirror and slipped them on.

"This ought to do. It's not some anime. No need for theatrics. I need to discard them anyways."

His eyes, half-lidded, scanned his reflection. A bit of shadow under the hood, and the mask tucked into his pocket.

"Stealth over spectacle, Nice."

He nodded to himself.

"Now…a weapon."

He rubbed his chin in thought. Then remembered the storage room.

"Maybe I'll find something there."

He made his way to the cramped storage space tucked near the entrance. Opened it. Dust, paint cans, old boxes — and a toolbox. He knelt down, rummaging through it. Screwdrivers. Wrenches. Then his hand paused.

A crowbar.

Durable. Heavy. Not too flashy. Just enough.

A faint smile curled on his lips.

"Crowbar it is. I choose you."

He slid it under the back of his hoodie, letting the fabric cover the shape. Then he locked up the storage room, slipped the keys into his pocket, and stepped out of the apartment. One last check of the front door — click, secure. He started heading down the stairwell.

The apartment was on the 9th floor. As he descended, he noticed how empty the building felt. Most residents had gone off for the summer. Vacations, road trips, family gatherings — the usual.

Good. Fewer eyes.

His hoodie was still down, and the mask stayed in his pocket. He wasn't dumb enough to wear both in the middle of a summer evening. Nothing draws suspicion like trying too hard to stay hidden.

In the open, the best disguise is normalcy.

He kept walking.

***

Westen took the lift down and stepped out of the building, a nostalgic feeling blooming quietly in his chest. He looked over the city—it had been a long time since he'd walked so leisurely like this.

The city was a quiet blend of modernism and minimal mad-tech. Hovercars zipped silently along the roads, running on mana cores that could last days on a single charge.

They were efficient, powerful, and environmentally friendly. Trees lined the sidewalks, and a few scattered pedestrians strolled by. But overall, the city was still.

This was Sakura City, a quiet district in the Eastern Federation—too far from the ocean to be coastal, and too far from the capital to be considered important.

It was mostly home to clerks, remote engineers, and mid-level geeks working away from the core industrial zones. Peaceful, in a forgettable kind of way.

Most of the city's residents had left for summer vacations, leaving only silence in their wake. Weston slipped into a quiet alleyway, pulled up his hood, and slipped the black surgical mask over his face.

Then, without warning, he jumped—landing effortlessly on the rooftop of a three-story building.

No ordinary F-rank could ever pull that off. Not with F-rank Strength and Dexterity.

But Westen wasn't ordinary anymore.

This body—enhanced by Destruction—had no fixed upper limit. As long as it could withstand the force, he could push it further. Stronger. Faster. Beyond logic.

He took a slow breath, crouched down, and bolted across the rooftop. A faint crimson-black trail shimmered behind him, flickering like embers in his wake.

***

Westen leapt from rooftop to rooftop.

His control over destruction was returning—not perfect, but familiar. He could feel the chaotic energy in his blood, leaving faint crimson-black trails in the air. Sloppy.

'I have fallen low, Haven't I? I'm leaving trails behind. Regression really did me good.'

He thought, narrowing his eyes as he shot forward.

Soon, the clean lines of the city gave way to the worn, forgotten sector. Half-broken buildings. Quiet. Dust curling in stagnant air.

He landed silently on a rooftop above an old warehouse—and paused.

Noise. Low voices. Muffled laughter. And then—

A scream.

His eyes sharpened. He enhanced his hearing. Inside, thirteen men—leaned around something. Five other girls, bound and gagged. But all his focus tunneled on the girl in the center—white hair, amethyst eyes. Her limbs pinned, her body exposed, her voice cracked with terror.

Tears streaked her dirt-stained cheeks. Her gaze flitted across the room, panicked, hopeless.

Weston sighed.

'I wanted to enter through the front door. But looks like these guys won't give me the chance. Whatever.'

The skylight above shattered as his boot crashed through the glass. A loud shunk! as he landed hard on the floor below. The laughter died instantly.

They turned toward him.

One of them, pants halfway down, froze—caught mid-act.

Weston's eyes burned.

"Well now,"

He said, voice low, deathly calm.

"Aren't you enjoying yourself?"

He reached behind his back—and pulled out a blackened crowbar, the metal etched with faint runes.

He threw.

THWUNK.

The bar embedded deep into the man's groin.

Silence cracked into a scream—animalistic, primal.

"AaaaAHhhaArrRRrrGGggaaaaahhhhhrr"

Weston blurred. In an instant, he stood beside him. Used one foot to pin the thrashing man down.

"Let's not waste air."

He gripped the crowbar.

And pulled, and something wet tore free. What came out wasn't just flesh—it was the end of that man's future.

The scream turned into a gargle. The others couldn't even move—shocked, frozen. One of them vomited.

Weston dropped the bloodied metal to the ground with a metallic clang.

"You have five seconds,"

He said without looking up.

"To pray to whatever god you believe in. Not that it will help."

-To Be Continued