*one day ago*

The elevator car, a cold metal box hurtling downwards into the bowels of Atlas City, vibrated with a low, insistent hum. Dr. Hendricks, his face drawn and pale beneath the harsh fluorescent lights, remained oblivious to the mechanical rhythm, his attention consumed by the pamphlet in his hand.His eyes, bloodshot and shadowed with exhaustion, scanned the text one last time, the words blurring into a meaningless jumble. The air in the confined space was thick with the metallic tang of ozone and the faint, sickly sweet scent of antiseptic, a constant reminder of his subterranean existence.

"Damn it," he thought, "These guys aren't giving us any breaks, we have to work our asses off all day with only a 5-hour break. It's been a month, and I haven't seen or contacted my wife and kids. They want us to make the serum's effects permanent, not temporary, but working us to the bone won't magically produce a solution. My brain's gonna crush at this rate." He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, the gesture revealing the stark white of his knuckles, bone-white against the darkening skin.

The elevator shuddered to a halt, the sudden stillness amplifying the oppressive silence of the underground facility. The doors hissed open with a sigh of compressed air, revealing a long, stark hallway stretching before him like a white ribbon unwinding into the darkness. The walls, gleaming with an almost unnervingly clean white tile, seemed to press in on him, the cold, smooth surface reflecting the harsh fluorescent light in a blinding glare. To his left, another hallway branched off, disappearing into the labyrinthine depths of the facility, its darkness a silent promise of further unknown challenges. The air hung heavy and cold, the scent of antiseptic sharp and sterile, a constant, pervasive reminder of the sterile, controlled environment he inhabited. He could hear the faint, almost imperceptible hum of machinery in the distance, a low, persistent thrum that vibrated through the floor and up into his bones.

He continued down the hallway, the pristine white tiles reflecting the harsh fluorescent light in a blinding glare. The corridor split in two, and he instinctively chose the right path, the air growing colder, heavier with each step. The path led to a pair of imposing double doors, their surfaces scarred with faded biohazard symbols – a grim testament to the nature of the work conducted within. He paused beside the doors, his hand hovering over the small, red-glowing screen embedded in the wall to the right. From his pocket, he produced a worn identification card, its serial number barely visible . With a practiced movement, he slid the card into the reader. A faint hum filled the air as the card was scanned, the red glow quickly shifting to a vibrant green, accompanied by a sharp, insistent beep. The doors hissed open, revealing the interior beyond.

To his surprise, the room was almost empty. The sterile environment, usually buzzing with frenetic activity, was strangely subdued. A handful of soldiers moved with grim efficiency, their movements precise and purposeful as they loaded various materials and equipment into sturdy metal crates. The large, transparent container that had previously held the power holder's body was conspicuously absent from its usual position in the center of the room. A chilling emptiness occupied the space where it once stood.

The Colonel stood near where the container had been, his face grim, his silhouette stark against the harsh fluorescent lighting. He barked an order at a soldier frantically disconnecting a series of large monitors, his voice sharp and impatient. "Hurry up, man! We don't have time to waste! Hurry up!" He pointed a finger, the gesture sharp and decisive, his eyes betraying a mixture of urgency and barely controlled fury.

Dr. Hendricks approached the Colonel, his footsteps hesitant on the cold, metallic floor. "Good morning, sir," he offered, his voice a low murmur against the backdrop of the controlled chaos. The Colonel's gaze, sharp and assessing, swept over him, lingering on his pale face and the dark circles beneath his eyes.

"Ah, Doctor," the Colonel said, his voice devoid of warmth. "You're still here. You look pale. Is there a problem?" His expression remained serious, his features unreadable, the question hanging in the air like a silent accusation.

Hendricks opened his mouth to speak, the words "Are you kidding me? This is because of you!" forming silently on his lips. He swallowed, forcing himself to compose himself. "I'm just… confused. I thought…" But before he could articulate his confusion, the Colonel cut him off, his voice sharp and impatient. "Our base has been compromised," he stated, his gaze unwavering. "Turns out the assassin we brought in yesterday had a tracking device—implanted in her neck. We managed to destroy it and moved her to the other base."

Hendricks blinked, his mind struggling to catch up. "The other base? We have another base for conducting these experiments?"

The Colonel's lips curled into a thin, humorless line. "Of course, you didn't think we'd conduct these experiments in one base, did you? We have multiple bases… on the island."

The word hung in the air, heavy with implication. Hendricks felt a jolt of disorientation. "An island?" he echoed, his voice barely a whisper.

The Colonel's expression hardened. "Correct. How come you don't know about this? The whole research staff was alerted about this matter."

"Um... This is the first time I'm hearing about it," said Doctor Hendricks.

The Colonel stared at him, his expression unreadable. "We sounded an alarm hours ago, gathered everyone, and made an announcement. I remember someone saying you weren't there. Where were you at that time?"

Hendricks shrugged, a pathetic attempt at nonchalance. "I must have been exhausted from all the work. I had just woken up moments ago; I must have missed it." He added, as an aside to himself, "(I felt like sleeping for a decade)."

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The Colonel, seemingly unfazed by this, continued. "I believe you now understand the situation. Some of your colleagues have already been moved to the island. You're going to have to get on the ship if you don't want to get left behind."

The weight of this sunk in, and Hendricks thought, "But I want to get left behind." A single tear welled up in the corner of his eye.

"My men will drive you there. You're moving to Arcon Island," the Colonel stated, his voice clipped, before turning and walking out of the room, leaving Hendricks alone amidst the fading sounds of hurried activity.

Hendricks stood there, the Colonel's words hanging in the air. His expression immediately shifted from stunned confusion to one of profound regret. The initial excitement, the thrill of discovery, now felt like a distant, naive dream.

"At first, when I learned about these power holders, I was fascinated," he murmured, his voice barely audible above the diminishing sounds of the soldiers packing equipment. "I couldn't believe it when I saw how their bodies worked; I was eager to know more about them. We found a way to temporarily turn a normal human into a power holder. But making it permanent… that's another story. I am starting to regret having joined this project." His words trailed off, lost in the growing silence of the almost-empty room. The rhythmic thump of boots and the clatter of equipment faded into the background, leaving only the weight of his regret and the chilling implications of his involvement. A hand touched his shoulder, interrupting his somber reflection, snapping him back to the harsh reality of his situation.

It was a woman, her presence a sharp contrast to the fading chaos of the room. She was small, perhaps five feet tall, her soldier's uniform crisp and immaculate despite the surrounding disarray. Two badges, gleaming faintly under the harsh fluorescent lights, adorned her chest. Her black hair was pulled back severely, revealing a scattering of freckles across her pale skin.

"You're Doctor Hendricks, right?" she asked, her voice serious, almost practiced, devoid of any warmth or inflection.

"Yeah, I am," he replied, his voice flat, his exhaustion suddenly palpable.

"Nice to meet you, Doctor," she said, her tone unchanging. "I'm here to escort you to the ship."

The simple sentence landed like a physical blow, the weight of it settling heavily on Hendricks's shoulders. He felt his exhaustion multiply tenfold, the weariness of the past month suddenly amplified, crushing him under its weight. A wave of despair washed over him. "Damn it," he thought, the words a silent curse against the relentless march of events, the inescapable reality of his situation.

*****

DMR (The present)

Exhaustion washed over Adam as he collapsed onto his bed, the mattress sighing beneath his weight. The memory of the fight—the chaotic flurry of blows, the desperate struggle against Tilda—played out behind his eyelids. He hadn't done much, really, but he felt slightly useless and frustrated. The shackles, the heavy metal bracelets encircling his wrists, had hampered his movements, restricting his power, but he'd adapted, found ways to work around the limitations. He'd learned something valuable in the fight.

He lifted a hand, his gaze falling on the dark metal restraints. Even now, removed from the heat of battle, he could feel their weight, a physical manifestation of his limitations. "Now I'm gonna have to shower with these things again," he muttered, a sigh escaping his lips.

Pushing himself up, he made his way to the bathroom, the familiar routine a small comfort in the wake of the adrenaline-fueled chaos. He looked at his reflection in the mirror, the harsh light revealing the sweat still clinging to his skin. He shrugged off his t-shirt, the movement surprisingly fluid despite the weight of the shackles. His gaze fell to his abdomen, and a surprised grin spread across his face. "Whoa… that workout really did pay off," he said, a hint of pride in his voice as he admired the definition of his abs. He flexed his arms, the muscles rippling beneath his skin, the unexpected strength a small victory in the face of his recent challenges. "Okay, okay," he said, shaking his head, a smile still playing on his lips. "I gotta stop messing around and just take a shower."

Meanwhile, in the relative quiet of the laundry room, the rhythmic thump of the washing machine providing a steady, almost hypnotic backdrop, Tilda leaned against the vibrating machine, phone pressed to her ear. She was speaking to Kim, her voice calm and even.

"What?!" Kim's voice, sharp with surprise, cut through the hum of the machine.

"I really don't know how he did it," Tilda said. "When I got there, he was already fighting Eddie, and then… then he just destroyed the barrier."

"Are you certain it was Adam and not—" Kim began, but Tilda cut him off, her voice firm.

"It was Adam. It wasn't Ragna."

A silence stretched between them, broken only by the whirring of the washing machine and the faint hum of distant voices. It was the kind of silence that suggested Kim was processing information, perhaps struggling to reconcile what he'd just heard with his own expectations.

Finally, Tilda's voice, hesitant and uncertain, broke the silence. "Hello?

Kim's voice was sharper now, laced with urgency. "Tilda, from now on, I want you to tell me every crucial piece of information on time. Don't wait. What just happened is serious."

"Alright, I'll call you if anything else happens," Tilda replied, her tone businesslike.

"Did you start your training?" Kim asked.

"Yes, we're going to continue with it tomorrow… but there's a problem," Tilda said, her voice taking on a slightly more serious tone.

"What?" Kim's voice was instantly alert.

"Adam got into a fight with Alex during their agility training and got punished afterward. It seems they were using the heavy shackles for their agility training. So Adam and Alex were punished to wear them for two weeks," she explained.

"Two weeks?" Kim's voice was laced with disbelief, followed by a long, weary sigh. "I'm going to have to talk to him about this. If you'll be training tomorrow, I want you to wait for me before you start. I want to see your progress… and the power Adam used to destroy that dimension." The line went dead, the click of the disconnected call echoing in the laundry room.

Tilda remained leaning against the washing machine, the rhythmic thump a counterpoint to the racing thoughts in her head. She remembered Adam's cry of pain, a sharp, guttural sound that had pierced through the noise of the dimension, a sound that, even now, resonated within her. She hadn't felt his pain, not directly, but she had heard it, a visceral echo that lingered in her memory. "Even when he had those shackles on, he could barely keep up, but he was the only one left standing," she thought, a mixture of pity and grudging admiration welling up inside her. The image of Adam, strained and exhausted, yet resolute, flashed before her eyes.

The tournament was set to begin the day after tomorrow, a looming deadline that cast a long shadow over their preparations. Eddie, Tilda, and Adam felt a strange mixture of nervous excitement, a potent cocktail of anticipation and apprehension. For Tilda, it was a chance to finally prove herself that she was no longer just a mortal power holder. She was ready to unleash her full potential. Eddie felt a surge of excitement at the prospect of facing new challenges, of pushing past his limits. Success here meant a high chance of saving everyone, a weight of responsibility that fueled his determination.

Adam, too, felt the thrill of the upcoming competition. He was eager to settle the score with Alex, to test his skills against new opponents, to test his strength. But a significant problem loomed: the shackles. They would still be on his wrists during the tournament, a constant, irritating reminder of his punishment. And then there was Ragna, a god imprisoned within him, a volatile, unpredictable force. The very idea of containing such power was terrifying. If Ragna broke free during training or, worse, during the tournament, even for a fleeting moment, the consequences would be catastrophic, potentially unleashing a power beyond their control, capable of unimaginable destruction. The tournament wasn't just a test of skill; it was a desperate gamble, a tightrope walk between victory and apocalyptic devastation. The weight of a god's power, both a potential weapon and a terrifying liability, rested squarely on Adam's shoulders.