The sterile stillness of the hospital room was broken by the muffled sound of footsteps and the steady beeping of the heart monitor. Marcus lay motionless, eyes half-closed, his mind drifting between the jagged edges of pain and the gnawing rage that had settled deep in his chest. The door creaked open, and two detectives entered, their presence a ripple in the otherwise stagnant air.
Detective Ramirez’s sharp gaze swept over Marcus, taking in the bandages and the faint, steady rise and fall of his chest. Detective Callahan loomed nearby, arms crossed, a furrow in his brow as he studied the man on the bed.
“Mr. Thompson,” Ramirez started, his tone tight with controlled urgency. “We need to understand what happened at Riverside Park. You did things there that no civilian should be able to do. We need answers, and we need them now.”
Marcus’s eyes remained fixed on the ceiling, unreadable and distant. He said nothing, and the silence thickened. The detectives exchanged glances, frustration tightening the lines on Callahan’s face.
“This isn’t a game, Marcus,” Callahan growled. “We can make things difficult if you don’t—”
The door to the room opened, cutting Callahan’s threat short. The man who stepped in was tall, broad-shouldered, and impeccably dressed in a black suit that seemed to absorb the light. He exuded a calm, lethal energy that made even these hardened detectives feel a pulse of unease. His dark eyes assessed the room with a glance before settling on the two men standing by the bed.
“I’m Mr. Thompson’s legal counsel,” the man said smoothly, his voice like polished steel. “This conversation is over.”
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Ramirez stiffened, eyes narrowing as he assessed the new arrival. There was something off, something predatory in the man’s stance. Callahan, with decades of reading danger in people, felt his fingers twitch closer to his holster out of sheer instinct. The stranger’s gaze flickered briefly to Callahan’s hand, and the faintest hint of a smile touched his lips—a silent warning.
“Outside,” the man said, the word carrying the weight of a command.
Ramirez hesitated, exchanging a glance with Callahan. The room seemed charged, as if violence could erupt with the slightest spark. But the man’s eyes held theirs, cold and patient. Reluctantly, Callahan nodded, and the two detectives stepped out, muttering under their breath as the door closed behind them.
The room was silent again, the tension shifting as the stranger’s eyes fell on Marcus. For a moment, there was nothing but the steady hum of the machines. Then, with a subtle flick of his wrist, the man tossed something through the air. Marcus’s reflexes, dulled by pain but still intact, snapped into action, and he caught the object before it fell to the sheets.
It was a coin—cool, metallic, and old. Marcus’s eyes widened slightly as he studied it. One side bore the image of a blue flame, stark against the dark metal, familiar and sharp as a blade’s edge. Recognition hit him like a jolt. The coin was more than a symbol; it was a mark, a silent message that connected the stranger to a past Marcus had thought he’d buried. A past tied to his old unit, a group known not by name but by whispered legend.
The man’s lips quirked in a cryptic smile. “The flame endures.”
Marcus’s throat tightened, the weight of the words sparking memories he’d kept buried. His voice was a rasp as he replied, “The flame cleanses.”
The man nodded, the small, satisfied expression on his face deepening before he turned on his heel and strode out of the room, leaving Marcus alone once more.
Marcus’s gaze fell to the coin in his hand. The blue flame on one side seemed almost to flicker in the dim hospital light. He turned it over, eyes tracing the inscription on the other side:
*“Through fire, darkness is cleansed.”*
A tremor ran through him, not from pain but from the awakening of something deep and unrelenting.