Blinding light

The alley was narrow and soaked, buried deep in the heart of Gotham. Rain poured relentlessly from the pitch-black sky, drowning the streetlights and swallowing the city in shadows. Water ran down the cracked brick walls and pooled at Paul Jackson's feet. His uniform clung to his skin, soaked and heavy. In his hand, he held only a combat knife.

He stood alone.

From the darkness ahead, four figures emerged—thugs, rough and armed. They stopped a few paces away and one of them squinted through the rain.

"You tryin' to sneak up on us, soldier boy?" he asked, voice low and sharp.

Paul didn't answer. His mind spun. He looked around as if seeing the alley for the first time.

How did I get here?

Where is everyone?

What happened?

And then it hit him—memories crashing into him like a wave.

Syria.

2010.

He had been deployed after tensions with the regime exploded. The days there were long and brutal. The sun scorched the desert, turning the sand into fire. Every breath was thick with dust and death.

They marched for weeks. Ambushes. Sniper fire. Mines. He'd watched good men fall beside him—Rodriguez, barely twenty; Simmons, the team medic; even Corporal Vance, the joker of the squad. Each loss etched itself deeper into him.

And the world? It just watched. They were called "casualties" in the news. Statistics. Nothing more.

One night, crouched behind a broken wall outside Al-Asad City, Rodriguez turned to Paul.

"You ever think we'll get out of here?"

His voice trembled, but he still tried to sound tough. Paul didn't answer at first. Griggs, one of the older soldiers, scoffed.

"We're not dying in this shithole," Griggs said, locking a fresh mag into his rifle. "We came to finish this. And that's what we're gonna do."

Paul gave a small nod. He had to believe that. Because if he didn't, he wouldn't last.

By 2011, they reached the capital. Word had spread: the enemy leader had nuclear weapons, and he wasn't bluffing. Intelligence said they were armed and ready.

The assault began.

Street by street, block by block, they fought. Gunfire echoed through narrow alleys. Mortars shook the ground. The air reeked of blood, sweat, and burning oil.

"Jackson!" Captain Myers shouted from cover. "You still with us?"

Paul leaned out, fired, then ducked back. "Still breathing, sir!"

"Good. Let's end this."

For days, they pushed forward. Finally, air support arrived. Missiles shrieked overhead, slamming into enemy lines. The city shook under the weight of fire and steel.

They reached the palace on the third night.

The halls were dark and echoing. Room by room, they cleared the building until they found him—the leader—hiding in a steel bunker. Next to him: the bomb.

They secured both.

The war, it seemed, was over.

Inside the helicopter, silence filled the cabin. No more gunfire. No more screams. Just breathing—shaky, exhausted.

Then a laugh broke the quiet.

"Holy shit," Rodriguez muttered, grinning wide. "We actually made it."

Griggs leaned over and bumped Paul's shoulder. "Told you. No dying in the sand."

Paul let out a breath and managed a small smile. He leaned back against the cold metal wall, eyes closed.

"You think we'll get medals?" someone asked.

"I just want a damn cheeseburger," someone else said.

They all laughed. It felt foreign—unnatural, after all they'd seen—but good.

Paul turned to glance out the open side of the chopper.

Then he saw it.

A flash.

White. Blinding. Beautiful and terrible.

The city behind them erupted in light. A mushroom cloud rose high into the sky. The shockwave hit like a hammer. Their helicopter spun, twisted, and dropped.

Everything went black.

Paul woke up in pieces.

The sand beneath him was scorched. Fire danced around wreckage. His uniform was torn, blood soaking through the fabric. Metal twisted and groaned nearby.

Bodies were everywhere.

He crawled.

"Rodriguez…?" he whispered.

The boy didn't answer. His body lay still, face turned to the sky.

Paul moved toward Griggs—his body broken across a jagged piece of fuselage. He reached Captain Myers, but there was nothing left to save.

No one had survived.

The heat burned his skin. His lungs felt like they were filled with ash. He dragged himself forward, crying out for help he knew would never come.

It hurt.

God, it hurt.

Was it all in vain?

Two years of war, only to be erased by a single flash. Their names would be listed in a report. Maybe printed on a flyer to convince someone else to enlist.

Paul screamed into the empty desert.

He missed his mother. He missed his home. He missed the boring life he used to hate.

Because now? Even that would be heaven.

Paul's eyes opened—but he saw nothing.

At first, he thought they were still shut. Everything around him was pitch black, deeper than any night sky he'd ever seen. No sound. No movement. Only the sensation of lying on something cold and solid. His breathing quickened.

His hands moved instinctively to his chest, then his sides.

No pain. No burns. No blood.

His fingers ran across the smooth fabric of his uniform. It was intact.

"What the hell…" he muttered. "Where are the cuts? The burn marks? What happened?"

Then he noticed the weight in his right hand. Slowly, he brought it into view—though there was barely any light to see by.

A knife. Beautiful and strange. Its blade shimmered faintly, etched with elegant patterns—the unmistakable waves of Damascus steel. Both edges were sharpened to a razor's gleam.

"This… this must've been from Al-Asad's palace," he whispered. "But why this? Of all things… why did this come with me?"

Before he could make sense of it, the blackness around him began to peel away.

Sounds returned—dripping water, rusted pipes groaning, the distant hum of a city never sleeping.

Vision followed.

He was still in the alley. Still in Gotham. And the thugs were still there.

One of them stepped forward with a smirk, his jacket soaked and hanging open over a stained hoodie.

"Hey, army boy," he sneered. "Pretty sure it ain't Christmas yet. Why you struttin' around in costume?"

Another thug laughed. "You a fuckin' retard or something? Even a retard knows not to sneak up on us."

Paul raised his hands slightly, keeping his posture calm.

"Look, I'm not trying to sneak up on anyone. This is a big misunderstanding. I'll walk my way, you walk yours. We'll never see each other again."

The first thug's smile widened.

"That's the thing, man. You try to cut someone?" He gestured toward the knife. "Expect to get cut."

Another one circled behind Paul, eyeing his gear.

"His uniform looks legit. Might fetch something on the black market. Knife too."

A third thug piped in, licking his lips.

"And I heard Poison Ivy's always looking for lab rats. We give him to her—we all win."

The leader's voice hardened.

"Sorry, soldier. We can't just let you go."

Paul's jaw clenched. His voice was tight, barely above a whisper.

"Come on… I've been through enough."

The thug scoffed. "Then take it up with God. Maybe you'll get a refund in heaven. Not even the Bat's gonna save you now."

They stepped closer.

Paul backed away, slow and steady, trying to stay calm. His boots splashed in shallow puddles. Behind him, the alley narrowed into a dead end. A wall of graffiti and rusted steel blocked his path.

No exit.

One of the thugs chuckled, drawing a knife from his belt.

"Cornered like a little closet bitch," he said. "You seem cute. You take it up the ass?"

The others laughed. Loud and cruel.

"Your consent doesn't matter either way."

Paul's stomach turned. He lowered his knife slightly, shoulders slumped. For a moment, he surrendered—not to them, but to the weight of it all. The war. The loss. The feeling of being dragged into hell again.

But then—

Something shifted.

Thin red lines appeared in the air. At first, just one or two—then hundreds. They shimmered like cracks in reality, floating across the walls, the ground, even across the bodies of the thugs.

The alley was suddenly alive with them—stretching, pulsing, glowing with ominous intent.

Paul's breath caught in his throat.

In front of him, hovering silently in midair, a message appeared:

> [Slice them.]