On the radar screen... the dot returned.
"What... what is this?!" "The target is still active?!" "Impossible! The missile—" "Shut up!" the Military Commander roared, his face shifting in a heartbeat from triumph to grim resolve. "Get me a live feed. Now!"
A reconnaissance drone was launched. On the screen, Heracles appeared, standing in the center of the crater.
Alive.
His body was stained with soot and ash. His golden hair was now a dull grey from the debris. The tattoos had returned to their dark black hue, but they had spread further than before, coiling around his neck as if trying to strangle him.
It was clear the battle was taking its toll. The wound he had carved into his own chest and the missile's explosion had left him with several deep gashes. They were closing, but much slower than usual—his divine healing was flagging.
A heavy silence descended upon the operations room. Then, someone whispered in a trembling voice, "How... how did he survive a direct hit?!"
The encrypted phone in the room rang. The Commander picked up the receiver.
"Yes?" "Petrovich here." The voice was ice-cold. "Cease fire immediately." "Colonel, we are on the verge of—" "Cease," Petrovich repeated with a tone that brooked no argument. "I don't want him dead. We need him alive. Unit 77 will take over from here."
A brief silence followed on the line. The Commander exhaled in frustration, muttering a curse under his breath. "Fine," he finally conceded. "But tell me, Colonel... how exactly do you plan to take this monster alive?"
Petrovich paused for a fraction of a second. "That is no longer your concern." He hung up instantly.
[By then, Unit 77 had arrived at the site]
They fanned out as silently as shadows. Two hundred snipers took their positions at vast distances—dispersed and hidden. Each one carried a rifle loaded with specialized tranquilizer darts. A single dose was enough to drop a hundred full-grown bears in seconds.
Then, the ground force advanced. Five hundred soldiers, each equipped with specialized gas grenades and lethal weaponry.
Heracles heard them. His body was profoundly exhausted, but he was not one to yield easily. As he watched the soldiers closing in on the ground, he offered a small, cold, mocking smile.
Can you not grant me a moment of peace? I have matters that must be settled first!
BOOM.
BOOM.
BOOM.
Grenades flew from the soldiers' hands in every direction, landing around him and detonating in thick clouds of white smoke. The sedative gas filled the air in seconds. The white shroud closed in from every side—there was no escape.
Heracles reached out and caught one of the canisters before it could fully discharge. He looked at it with narrowed eyes. Then, it exploded in his palm. The gas billowed directly into his face.
He coughed. Once. Twice. He looked at the dense white fog now enveloping him like a ghostly cloak.
What is this? It is not as potent as the previous weapon.
He coughed again, a light, raspy sound. But he didn't stop. He stepped forward.
He emerged from the smoke cloud, the gas swirling around him like a misty shroud. His body remained upright, his eyes searching for a target. He found the soldiers. He advanced toward them.
"Fall back! Fall back now!" the field commander screamed.
The soldiers retreated rapidly, knowing they were no match for him in a direct struggle. From their hidden vantage points, the snipers saw exactly what they had been waiting for. Heracles was in their line of sight.
Thwip.
Thwip.
Thwip.
The darts launched from multiple directions, striking simultaneously. They hit Heracles in the shoulder, the thigh, the back, and the arm.
He stopped. He looked at the dart embedded in his left shoulder with indignant eyes. He didn't fall. He took a step forward. Then another.
His body began to reject the intruders.
Tack.
Tack.
Tack.
The darts fell onto the snow, one after another.
"More darts! Don't stop!" the commander ordered over the radio.
Thwip-thwip-thwip-thwip!
A second wave, far more dense. Darts struck again. And again. And again. Heracles' body continued to expel them, but he was slowing down.
Step. Another step.
He continued to approach the retreating soldiers like a machine that knew no halt. He reached out and grabbed one of them by the shoulder. The soldier froze, his heart nearly stopping. He felt Heracles' hand—pure, absolute strength, even in this weakened state.
But Heracles... did not harm him. He placed his hand slowly on the soldier's head, as if trying to say something.
Then... he collapsed.
Unconscious at last, his body slumped forward. The soldier he had been holding remained standing for a few seconds, paralyzed, unable to even breathe normally. Then, he looked down at Heracles sprawled on the snow and took a long, shaky breath.
The soldiers approached with extreme caution, maintaining a safe distance at first. No one dared touch him. They waited. The body didn't move.
"Is... is it over?" someone whispered.
The field commander signaled forward. They approached slowly with thick steel chains, binding him with clinical precision—his hands first, then his feet, his chest, and finally his neck.
Silence. The commander contacted Colonel Petrovich. "Target in custody."
A brief silence from the other end. "Send him to me immediately. The chains are not to be removed until he arrives."
"Understood."
They lifted him and secured him inside a military helicopter. The doors slammed shut. The rotors began to spin with a deafening roar. The helicopter lifted off, banking away from the site of the chaos.
[At the Kozlov Residence]
Ivan, Natasha, and Olga stood before the television, watching the live broadcast with wide, disbelieving eyes. Olga had called them over frantically to see the news.
They saw him flying. They saw the destroyed police cruisers. And then, they saw him—the very man they had saved—chained and carried into a military transport.
"Who was that man?" Natasha whispered, her voice trembling with shock.
Ivan shook his head slowly, his eyes glued to the screen. "I don't know, child. But he... he is no ordinary man."
He placed his left hand on his right shoulder—the spot where the man had shoved him hours ago. It still ached with a dull, heavy throb.
"Who is he?" he wondered in a low, hushed voice.
[Washington, D.C. — Office of Senator Richard Shelton]
At that same moment...
The morning in Washington was as peaceful as it should be. Hot coffee. Congressional reports. The pale winter light filtering through the large window behind the desk.
Senator Richard Shelton was in his sixties. His grey hair was perfectly coiffed, complemented by a sharp navy suit and gold reading glasses. His was a face that had learned over decades to reveal nothing he didn't wish to be seen.
He was reading with intense focus. Across from him, Ryan Shelton was tapping his fingers on the edge of the desk with a nervous energy he made no effort to hide.
The Senator glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. "What is it?" "Nothing." "Ryan." The tapping stopped. "She just makes me so angry every time."
The Senator closed the report, looking at his son with the patience of a man used to this dialogue. "You know Sarah is still suffering from the loss of Alexander. Give her—"
The door was thrown open violently. James Carter, a thirty-year-old personal assistant usually known for his unflappable calm, ran in. His face was deathly pale.
"Sir! You need to see this immediately!"
The Senator looked up slowly, a look of clear annoyance on his face. "James. How many times—"
"Sir," James interrupted, opening a laptop with hands that wouldn't stop shaking. "Please."
James turned the screen toward him. A live broadcast. Siberia. A frozen highway. A naked man with long red hair floating in the air, transforming into a different form entirely before the feed cut out.
The Senator stopped breathing. "Enlarge the image before the cut," he said in a low voice.
James zoomed in on the face. The sharp features. The long red hair. The lean, corded frame. But there were tattoos on this man.
"He looks... he looks just like..." He couldn't finish the sentence. He couldn't.
"Dad? What is it?" Ryan said, his tone suddenly sharp.
The Senator didn't answer. He just stared at the screen, his face turning a slow, painful white. Ryan stepped behind him, looking at the screen. Then, he spoke in a carefully controlled voice:
"Dad. Alexander died a week ago. We buried him."
Silence.
"And look at him. He's covered in tattoos. You know Alexander never liked tattoos."
The Senator didn't respond. He stared at the screen, then whispered in a barely audible voice, "But he looks..."
"I'm leaving," Ryan said coldly. "I'm not going to sit here and listen to this nonsense." He walked out, slamming the door behind him.
The Senator remained alone with James and the screen. He stared at the face on the monitor. His hand reached out slowly toward a framed photograph on his luxurious desk. He touched the glass.
What happened to you, my son?
After several seconds, he made his decision. He picked up the phone. He dialed a number.
"I want every scrap of information on this man in Russia. Everything. Who he is, where he is, and what happened to him." "Sir... do you know this man?" "Just do as I say!" his voice rose higher than he intended. He took a breath, lowering his tone. "Now. Immediately." "Yes, sir."
He hung up. He turned back to the screen. On the monitor, the man was now on the ground, bound in heavy chains, being loaded into a military helicopter.
He wasn't moving.
To be continued...