A Dog Without A Bone

Death, a specter as old as my earliest memories.

The pungent odor of life extinguished lingers in my senses, an indelible imprint on my very being. A life snuffed out, its remnants staining the very air I breathe. And there he stands, a figure who had orchestrated the orchestration of death, a conductor of the ultimate symphony of demise.

A tapestry of memory weaves itself before my mind's eye. The man, his actions resonating through my consciousness like an age-old refrain. His hand, once a harbinger of fate's touch, outstretched towards me, fingers poised to grasp. The canvas of his appearance tells a story – the meticulous assembly of a purple suit, an emblem of his calculated bearing. His dark skin, a testament to his existence, remains unblemished, an enigma of his deeds. Atop his crown of curls, tendrils touched with the hue of crimson dance like flames in the night. Sunglasses, a constant companion to his identity, shroud his eyes, guarding secrets I may never uncover. And then, the scar – a jagged mark etched into the tapestry of his visage, a whisper of battles fought and secrets held.

But these details, while vivid, are not what clings to my senses with an unyielding grip. It is the words he once intoned, words that seared themselves into my soul. Words that resonate with a chilling resonance. A chilling truth laid bare before me, like a stark canvas, devoid of pretense or artifice.

"That is how we end those beneath us."

The symphony of his declaration reverberates through the corridors of my memory, each note striking a chord of revelation. In those moments, he wasn't just a man; he was an embodiment of the unyielding grasp of power, the embodiment of mortality's dance. It was a lesson etched in the language of inevitability, a lesson that eternally echoes in the chambers of my mind.

Amid the veils of the night rain, a solitary figure rests in contemplation on the glistening street. The ephemeral lights of passing cars briefly reveal the form of a young man, his fiery red hair acting as a canvas for the raindrops to dance upon. The cascade of water descends around him, leaving his countenance untouched, as if he wields dominion over the elements themselves. His gaze, tinted with an icy resolve, fixates upon a building – one that might seem abandoned to the untrained eye, but he knows better. His fingers graze his lower back, tracing the outline of a sheathed dagger, a silent testament to his readiness. Soft words escape his lips, carried away by the rain's embrace. "Not tonight."

With deliberate steps, he ventures towards the building, a phantom presence slipping through the rain-kissed air. The entrance is breached, the young man's purpose unwavering. As he ascends the stairs, each creak beneath his footfall is akin to a silent note in a symphony of stealth. His movements emulate the grace of a predator on the prowl, a lion surveying its territory with calculated precision. The stairs yield no hint of his approach, nor do the dampened floorboards reveal his presence.

Above him, the cadence of hushed voices intertwines into a tangible melody. The muffled conversation crescendos as he nears his destination – a weathered, blackened door, a meager barrier to the world beyond. Faint light seeps from the bottom, casting an ethereal glow upon the hallway's decay. Step by step, he draws nearer, his senses absorbing the discourse taking place within.

Words are exchanged – a transaction of malevolence and vice. "Fifty thousand for the drug shipment. And thirty for each... cough... volunteer."

Derisive laughter intermingles with the dialogue. "The pursuits of your organization will forever haunt my sleep, given the sheer number of 'volunteers' you acquire." The room resonates with amusement, the ambiance tainted by a sinister camaraderie.

Within the walls of that room, a quintet of adversaries congregates, blissfully unaware of the tempestuous entity encroaching upon their sanctum.

Amidst the charged air of that grim chamber, a sudden crescendo of laughter breaks the silence. The resounding thud of a forceful kick reverberates as the door swings open, and a young man steps into the room, an aura of defiance about him. The force of his entry is matched only by the mirth evident in his crimson eyes, a stark contrast to the somber scene that unfolds within. Rainwater clings to his vibrant hair like gems on a crown, framing his face as he surveys the room with an air of contemptuous amusement. "That is funny. It's so funny that I should reward you trash, for making me laugh!"

Startled, the occupants of the room pivot in unison, their hands instinctively finding their holstered pistols, aiming them towards the unexpected intruder. Their collective demand tears through the air, a chorus of hostility tinged with fear. "WHO THE HELL ARE YOU!?"

Undaunted, the young man casts a disdainful glance around the room, his lips curving into a scoff. "I'm a janitor and your trash, simple right?"

A spark of recognition ignites in the eyes of one man, his voice laced with incredulity. "Wait, you're Ryan! THE HELL YOU DOING HERE?"

Ryan's gaze shifts, drawn inexorably to a corner of the room. There, concealed amidst shadows, he sees a tableau of suffering – a case of illicit drugs gleams seductively in one corner, while in another, the abject plight of innocent souls is revealed. Bound, gagged, and sobbing, the hushed pleas of the captive individuals echo in his ears, igniting a blaze of anger within him. His arm shimmers with an incandescent hue, the circuit-like tattoo adorning his flesh blazing to life, its crimson glow mirroring the inferno in his eyes. "So this is where all the 'volunteers' for those damned experiments come from."

A cry of alarm punctuates the air, the room's inhabitants recoiling in terror as realization dawns. "DAMNIT HE'S A MIRACLE USER, KILL HIM!!!!!"

Before the violent intent of their actions can find purchase, the very ground beneath them transforms into an instrument of retribution. Wooden spikes, born of an otherworldly power, erupt from the floor, severing limbs with clinical precision. A cacophony of agony and terror ensues as the assailants' screams intertwine with the ominous backdrop of their own demise. Amidst the chaos, Ryan stands, an embodiment of wrath, his eyes ablaze with the fiery depths of his power.

As the room falls into the grip of an eerie stillness, Ryan's laughter echoes once more – an unsettling symphony of malevolence. "God has nothing to do with what's about to happen to you!" With a gesture, his power is unleashed, marking the onset of the final reckoning. "This is how I end those beneath me."

A chorus of screams pierces the air, harmonizing with the grotesque symphony of violence that unfolds. The air thickens with the scent of blood, mingling with the echoes of inhuman laughter that seem to reverberate beyond the realm of sanity. Amid the cacophony, young eyes squeeze shut, trying to shut out the nightmare, to deny the grisly reality. And when the tumult finally ceases, the weight of silence hangs heavy, replaced only by a gentle whisper of movement.

A hand, tender and caring, extends to guide the captives to freedom. Opening their eyes, they find themselves met with the haunting image of Ryan, a soft smile adorning his visage. The blood that paints his face lends an eerie aspect to his expression, one that is as unsettling as it is reassuring. "You guys and gals are safe now."

Amidst the lingering tension of the room, a sudden eruption shatters the fragile equilibrium. Four figures, clad in black coats adorned with a distinct gold cross, burst through the entrance with an air of authority. Leading the pack is a man whose crimson hair and eyes mirror Ryan's own. His long, untamed locks, merging into a fade off the side of his head, captures Ryan's attention immediately.

"More trash? Fine, I can clean you up too!" Ryan's resolve flares, his gaze narrowing as his eyes and arm begin to emit an ominous glow. His power gathers, a tempest in the making, as he readies himself to confront these enigmatic intruders.

The red-haired figure at the forefront addresses Ryan, his tone dripping with disdain. "Shut it, you rabid dog." With a casual, almost dismissive flick of his hand, the man generates a force that propels Ryan with staggering force. Like a ragdoll, Ryan is hurled through the nearest wall, crashing through with explosive impact. The third floor's abrupt absence greets him, and he plummets into the streets below, disoriented and stunned by the sudden turn of events.

As he freefalls, Ryan struggles to grapple with the implausibility of what he's just experienced. 'A mere flick... how could that have sent me flying? This guy is on another level. He's incredibly strong.' Fueled by a surge of determination, Ryan utilizes his power, his eyes ablaze and his arm radiant, to transform the falling rain into an ice platform extending toward the building he was so abruptly expelled from. Bracing himself, he gazes upward, prepared to leap back to his previous vantage point. However, a voice from below snatches his attention.

"Impressive for a dog." The voice is laced with a combination of condescension and arrogance. Before Ryan can fully react, another flick resonates through the air, shattering the ice platform he had so ingeniously constructed. The ground rises to greet him, and in the chaos of his descent, Ryan manages to roll, struggling to regain his balance.

Instinctively, Ryan channels his power once more, manipulating the very street beneath him to conjure a phalanx of spikes that hurtles toward the red-haired man with the intent to skewer. But what unfolds next defies all expectation. Instead of evading, the man slips his hands casually into the pockets of his black coat and yawns with feigned indifference. As the largest spike punctures his abdomen, disbelief etches across Ryan's face, accompanied by a triumphant smile.

"How's that? Not so tough now, HUH!" Ryan's voice rings with a mixture of triumph and challenge, anticipating a vulnerable foe.

The man's response is a nonchalant acknowledgment, though tinged with an undercurrent of jest. "Ow, that kinda hurt a little."

Ryan's triumphant laughter stumbles, morphing into disbelief. The crimson-haired figure remains steadfast, his composure undeterred despite the protruding spike through his gut. The laughter of victory transforms into an echo of astonishment, reverberating through the rainy night.

The enigmatic man, Loid Asher, takes his left hand from his pocket and raises it to the heavens, his demeanor unwavering as he calmly addresses Ryan's retorts. "Rabid dogs like you always think they're the shit because they're big fish in small ponds. Let me show you what actual strength looks like."

Ryan's skepticism is apparent as he retorts with a scoff. "What am I, a fish or a dog? Make up your damn mind, old man!"

Loid's fingers curl into a fist, his expression stoic. "You're weak, that's what you are." In an instant, he delivers a swift strike, his blow colliding with the spike embedded in his abdomen. A violent shockwave ripples through the street, shrouding the area in a suffocating cloud of dust. Within the tempest, Ryan is flung away by the sheer force of the impact. Emerging from the dissipating haze, Ryan finds himself on the ground, his gaze transfixed on the site where the man stood. A stunned silence encompasses him.

Before his eyes, the street is transformed into a gaping crater, the very earth reshaped by the potency of Loid's attack. Ryan struggles to find words, his voice subdued as he grapples with the impossible. "Who the hell are you?"

Unperturbed by the turmoil he's wrought, Loid calmly strides out of the abyss, his slicked-back hair now tousled across his face. Halting, he ponders Ryan's question momentarily before regally sweeping his hair back into its original position. "Who am I? I'm the forsaken. The Black sheep. I am the Red Wolf Inquisitor. I am Loid Asher."

Struggling to rise to his feet, Ryan's confusion morphs into a desperate realization. "Why won't my legs work? A... am I too scared to get up?!" He finds his voice again, directed at Loid. "Why are you so freaking strong?!"

Loid's countenance remains a mask of indifference, his words resonating with quiet certainty. "Because I'm an enormous fish in the ocean, we call the world." Turning his gaze toward Ryan's incredulous visage, he offers a stark truth. "If you want to be as strong as me, then you have to leave your little pond and grow in the ocean. Right now, you're a dog without a bone, without a means for you to get stronger, because everyone around you is weak."

Ryan's eyes drop to the rain-soaked street, lost in contemplation. His thoughts mull over the idea, and a name surfaces from the depths of his mind. "Hey, Red Wolf, I've heard of you guys. You're the Inquisitors. If I joined your little club, would I get stronger?"

Loid scratches his cheek, a flicker of confusion crossing his features. "Probably..."

Ryan's laughter bursts forth, a mixture of determination and a calculated decision. 'If I can get as strong as him, then I could finally kill THAT man.' Summoning his resolve, he stands as the dawn's light breaks through the clouds, casting a tentative glow upon the world. "Fine, Red Wolf, I wanna join you guys."

Loid's gaze remains impassive, his voice reflecting his detached agreement. "Ummm, okay."

Two figures, standing beneath the awakening sun, find their fates entwined. Each inhabiting a separate corner of the world, they set foot on a path that leads toward a destiny intertwined with the impending end of days.