Chapter 1: Inhuman-1

The cold steel of the gun gleamed under the light; its barrel unwavering as it pointed directly at him. A bead of sweat traced a slow path down his temple, the only sign of movement in the still, suffocating air. The figure stood firm, clad in a long blue overcoat that barely swayed, despite the charged tension between them. The mask, blank except for the stark symbol of lambda, concealed any emotion, making it impossible to decipher the thoughts behind those hidden eyes.

From his perspective, the world had narrowed to the dark void of the gun's barrel. A subtle tremor ran through his fingers, though he willed himself still. The weight of the moment pressed down on his chest, making every breath feel like a conscious effort. 

The evening sky hung low, painted in a gradient of dusky orange and deepening purple, the last remnants of daylight fading into the horizon. A steady wind swept across the barren land, whispering through the emptiness as it carried fine dust particles along its invisible currents. The air was thick with them, making each breath feel dry, the taste of the earth settling against the tongue. The wind, relentless in its eastward course, gave the landscape a shifting, restless quality, as though it refused to settle, mirroring the tension that clung to the moment.

Standing in this vast expanse was a figure, wrapped in a long, blue overcoat that billowed in the breeze. The fabric lifted and curled at its edges, its tail ends grazing the soil in rhythmic waves, never quite leaving the earth but never truly resting upon it. The soil itself bore a muted yellow hue, dulled by the encroaching twilight but still vibrant enough to lend the ground a strange, almost surreal glow. Every step disturbed the dust, sending spirals of it into the air, only for the wind to carry them away, erasing any evidence of movement.

From an outside view, they were frozen figures in a living painting, two silhouettes against the dying light, their shadows stretching long behind them as though tethered to the past. The wind continued its relentless march, shaping the dust into shifting forms before dispersing them into nothingness. The world around them was indifferent, uncaring of the storm that brewed between them. The dust did not hesitate, the wind did not falter, and the evening did not pause to acknowledge the weight of the confrontation. Nature moved forward, oblivious to the human struggle playing out within its grasp.

The answer did not come in words but in the tightening of a grip, the subtle shift in stance. It was an answer enough. The moment of waiting, of hesitance, had reached its threshold. There would be no backing away now.

I remember those eyes,' he thought to himself. There was no fear of death in his eyes as he was being aimed at. He was a bit confused, but there was no emotion on his face. It was as if he had seen this before, as if he had been in this situation countless times. There was no panic, no pleading, just quiet, detached recognition.

The masked figure, his grip firm on the weapon, took in the sight before him. There was something unsettling about the calmness in the other man's gaze, something that made the moment feel even more unnatural. He had expected resistance, expected a fight or at least a flicker of fear. But there was none. It was as though the man before him had accepted whatever was to come, not with resignation, but with a quiet understanding. 

And yet, the masked figure hesitated. His finger lay heavy on the trigger, unmoving. A deep uneasiness slithered through him, a sudden awareness that this moment would mark something permanent. The weight of the gun, once an extension of his will, now seemed heavier, its cold steel pressing against his palm as though resisting the inevitable. His breath came unevenly for just a moment, his heartbeat pressing against his ribs in quiet defiance.

His mind wavered, the split-second between choice and consequence stretching far beyond its allotted time. The eyes staring back at him....so familiar, so unfaltering...sent a ripple of doubt through his certainty. Something in them unsettled him, as if he were staring into a truth he did not want to acknowledge. The wind howled, pushing at him as if urging him forward, yet his body remained still.

The gun did not waver, nor did the tension ease. The wind pressed harder, shifting the dust into whirling patterns around them. And yet, between them, time stood still, the silence stretching unbearably, neither of them moving, neither of them speaking.

And still, those eyes stared back at him, steady, knowing, unafraid.

A single breath. A pull of the trigger.

The gunshot shattered the silence, a violent crack against the wind's mournful howl. The recoil kicked back against his palm, the force traveling up his arm like a jolt of electricity. The bullet tore through the space between them, finding its mark with brutal efficiency. A spray of crimson painted the air, suspended for a fleeting moment before the wind swept it away, absorbing it into the dust as though it had never existed.

He staggered back, a choked breath escaping his lips. His hands instinctively moved to the wound, trembling fingers pressing against the spreading warmth that soaked through the fabric of his clothes. His knees buckled, the weight of the moment finally dragging him down. The ground greeted him harshly, dust rising in protest, swirling around him like a restless spirit.

And yet, as he lay there, his breath shallow, his vision swimming, he did not fight it. He did not scream, did not struggle. He simply stared.....stared at the figure before him, his gaze unwavering even as the light in his eyes began to fade.

Tears welled up, but they were not of sorrow. They shimmered with something else, something eerily close to satisfaction. Relief. As if, in that final moment, he had found what he was looking for.

The wind howled once more, carrying away the last of his breath. The dust settled. The silence returned.

"It's an honor," he said grimly.

The deed was done.

The wind returned, this time with a greater fury, as if responding to the violence that had just unfolded. It howled through the barren landscape, the dust rising once again in thick clouds, blotting out the fading light. The earth, dry and cracked, seemed to tremble beneath the weight of what had happened. It was as if the land itself had borne witness to the violence, its parched soil now soaking in the blood that stained it, yet it would offer no solace, no reprieve.

The sky, a dusky orange fading into deep violet, now felt oppressive, as though the heavens themselves had drawn closer, pressing down on the world in a heavy, suffocating grip. The distant mountains, jagged and unyielding, stood in silent witness, their peaks sharp against the darkening horizon. There was no mercy in them, no understanding of the human struggle unfolding beneath them. They had been here for eons, and they would remain long after all had passed.

The figure in the blue overcoat, standing above the fallen man, seemed more like a specter now, a remnant of something that never truly existed. The finality of the shot echoed in the hollow emptiness of the world around them, but it was not a sound that brought peace. It was a sound that demanded to be heard, to be acknowledged, as if to defy the silence that threatened to consume them both.

For a moment, the masked figure considered walking away, leaving the body to the winds and the dust, to become another forgotten mark upon the barren land. But something tethered him there, a strange unease, a strange need to understand what had just occurred.