Two weeks later.

John sat on the edge of his bed, rolling his shoulders. The pain was gone. His body had recovered, but his scars had grown. His calf—where Calloway had cut deep—was now tougher, the skin thickened, the muscle more resistant. The dozens of slices from their fight had left traces on his body, but they’d also left him harder, stronger.

He pulled his shirt over his head and looked in the mirror. So many scars. His body was a roadmap of violence. But every one of them meant he’d survived.

A news report murmured from the small TV in the corner.

“Former detective Ryan Calloway has officially been transferred to the high-security prison known as Ironhold Penitentiary, the most fortified facility for super-powered criminals. Officials confirm he has been placed under extreme security measures, alongside some of the most dangerous criminals in history.”

John turned to the screen as a camera panned across Ironhold—a massive, brutalist structure surrounded by sheer cliffs and stormy waters. Towering, reinforced walls lined with auto-turrets, dampener fields, and surveillance drones loomed over the isolated island. There was no escape.

Inside, the prison halls were filled with dangerous individuals—murderers, rogue supers, enhanced criminals locked away from the world. A fortress of the damned.

The footage flashed through a variety of inmates:

A hulking man with stone-like skin, restrained in electrified cuffs.

A pale woman with glowing veins, her body flickering between forms, locked inside a reinforced containment cell.

The Messiah, the cult leader with the golden gaze, now stripped of his pristine suit, wearing an Ironhold jumpsuit, his eyes dimmed by power-dampening restraints.

And finally, Calloway—his arms restrained, his head shaved, his expression blank. A ghost of the man he once was.

A reporter spoke over the footage. “Ironhold Penitentiary is the most secure prison in the world, designed to contain even the most volatile individuals. No one has ever escaped.”

John scoffed. They always say that.

He grabbed his jacket and shut off the TV. He wasn’t about to sit around watching criminals rot.

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He had work to do.

Time to see what the city had for him next.

As John stepped outside, the chill of the night air settled in. Instinctively, he went to shove his hands into his pockets—only to realize how wrecked his jacket was. The fabric was torn, burnt, and stitched together in places where it had no right to still be holding.

“Damn,” he muttered, running a hand over the ruined leather. Time for a visit to The Tailor.

After getting his jacket repaired and hearing the latest rumors, John knew he needed to dig deeper. If something big was happening, someone in the underground would know.

The Hollow was alive with activity as John stepped into the dimly lit bar. Smoke hung thick in the air, and low conversations mixed with the clinking of glasses. He approached the bartender, a grizzled man with a cybernetic eye, and leaned against the counter.

“Where’s the boss?” John asked.

The bartender glanced at him, then toward the back. “He’s in his office.”

John nodded and made his way down the narrow hallway. He reached a reinforced metal door and knocked twice. Heavy footsteps approached, and when the door swung open, a massive man stood in the doorway.

Ogre.

The name fit. He was built like a tank, thick arms crossed over his chest, a scowl permanently carved into his ugly face.

John smirked. “Damn, you get uglier every time I see you.”

Ogre growled, his fists clenching. “Watch your mouth, Harkin.”

Before Ogre could react, a voice from inside barked, “Let him in.”

Centipede.

John stepped inside as Ogre reluctantly moved aside, closing the door behind him.

“I thought you’d come scuttling along, John.”

John smirked. “Only insects scuttle.”

Centipede leaned back in his chair. “Business is back booming, thanks to you. The girls are back to making me money.”

John’s expression darkened. “Save the gratitude. I’m here for answers.”

John asked about the rumors, saying something big was happening. Centipede admitted he’d lost a few men but clarified that they chose to leave. However, he did know someone who had been approached and didn’t go—a grunt named Chomp, a burly young man with a retractable jaw.

“He’ll have more answers than I do,” Centipede said, handing John an address. “Go find him.”

As John turned to leave, Centipede smirked. “We’ll have to stop meeting like this, Harkin. People are gonna talk.”

Ogre clapped a heavy, painful hand on John’s back as he walked out.

John had a lead.

Time to find Chomp.

John tracked down Chomp at the address Centipede provided. The place was a dingy, low-end gym, the kind filled with guys trying to look tough but barely lifting anything heavier than their own egos.

Chomp was easy to spot—a burly young man with a broad grin, lifting weights that seemed just a little too heavy for him. As he laughed at a joke someone told, his jaw extended wider than normal, retracting just as quickly. A weird, almost useless power—but he carried it with pride.

John stepped up. “Chomp.”

The young man blinked, then grinned. “Hey, you’re Damaged, right? I hear about you sometimes.”

John nodded. “Yeah. Got a couple of questions.”

Chomp wiped his hands on his shorts. “Shoot.”

John got straight to the point. “I heard you were approached by someone recently."

Chomp’s smile faltered for the first time. “Oh. That guy, the one with the black mask.” He exhaled. “Yeah, he showed up outta nowhere, started talking about how I was ‘wasting my potential.’ Said if I was tired of being just some low-level grunt, I could join something bigger. That I could ‘be more.’”

John narrowed his eyes. “Be more how?”

“He said they had ways to improve my ability,” Chomp said, tapping his jaw. “Make me stronger, faster. Make my bite actually dangerous.” He chuckled but it was forced. “I told him no. I like my life the way it is. My power’s my pride.”

John studied him for a second and felt a flicker of respect. Chomp might not have had much, but he owned what he had.

“That all he said?” John pressed.

Chomp thought for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah. Just that something big was coming. That I’d regret not being part of it.”

John exhaled through his nose. A man in a black mask, promising criminals with weak powers a chance to be more.

It wasn’t enough to piece everything together yet.

But it was a start.

For now John

headed back into the streets, he still had his job to do and he knew eventually this case would open up again.