In a secluded, heavily fortified building—one of Hydra's hidden strongholds—a man sat in a quiet room, reading a book with calm elegance. He wore gold-rimmed glasses, and his posture resembled that of a gentleman scholar. But appearances were deceptive.
This man was Whitehall—one of Hydra's top leaders. A relic of the war. A butcher hiding behind intellect. His hands were soaked in decades of bloodshed.
Suddenly, a steady rhythm of footsteps echoed from the hallway.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Whitehall closed his book, lifting his gaze toward the door with a composed smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He already knew who it was.
John Garrett had returned.
As expected, a cold, expressionless figure entered the room—Garrett, standing tall and silent.
"Welcome back, John Garrett," Whitehall greeted. "I assume you brought me what I asked for."
There was no reply.
Garrett simply stared at him, eyes vacant. Then, without a word, he raised his pistol.
Whitehall's face instantly twisted.
"Shit—!"
He dove behind the sofa just as a bullet ripped through the air, slamming into the wall where his head had been a second earlier.
"Are you insane?!" Whitehall roared. "Do you even realize what you're doing?! You dare raise your weapon at me?! I'll skin you alive, Garrett—drop that gun before you regret it!"
His voice thundered with rage, but Garrett remained silent—expression blank, movements precise.
Outside, the gunfire had triggered an immediate response.
Hydra soldiers burst into the room.
"Sir, what happened?!"
Whitehall wasted no time. "He's turned on us! Garrett's a traitor—take him down!"
"Yes, sir!"
Hydra's soldiers—loyal to the bone thanks to years of indoctrination—didn't hesitate. Though Garrett was a modified super-soldier, they rushed him without fear, weapons blazing.
The room erupted into chaos.
Gunshots cracked like lightning. Blood sprayed across concrete. Garrett fought like a monster—faster, stronger, relentless. Every time one soldier fell, another took his place, dogpiling him, slashing, stabbing, firing.
He killed without emotion. Without mercy.
But they kept coming.
Eventually, the weight of their numbers overcame him.
Garrett finally collapsed—his body riddled with bullets, a knife jammed into his ribs, and both legs mangled from an explosion. But even then... even on the ground... he kept moving.
Dragging himself forward, one broken arm clutching a dagger, he crawled toward the last enemy like a dying animal, hell-bent on finishing the kill.
Whitehall watched from outside, pale and wide-eyed.
The scene was horrifying.
Garrett had fought like a man possessed. Even the enhanced pain tolerance from the Deathlok program didn't explain this level of obsession.
"Insane bastard," Whitehall muttered, stepping cautiously into the blood-drenched room once the fighting stopped. "He's a goddamn lunatic…"
His voice trembled with a rare flicker of fear.
He had seen the moment a soldier stabbed Garrett through the chest—deep—and Garrett didn't even flinch. The moment when, even after losing his legs, he kept fighting—crawling, stabbing, like he had no concept of death.
No, that wasn't Garrett.
That wasn't the cold, calculating operative he knew. Garrett was a schemer. A survivor. He didn't throw his life away like this.
Something was wrong.
Something was controlling him.
Whitehall's mind raced. Could it be the mutants?
He clenched his fists.
As one of Hydra's top scientists, Whitehall had long known about the existence of mutants—those anomalous individuals with strange, often terrifying abilities. If one of them had tampered with Garrett… if they had gotten inside his head...
That would explain everything.
His brow furrowed deeply. "Damn it… if it's a mutant, this whole thing just became a lot more complicated."
And worse… he had no way to trace it back.
Garrett had revealed nothing. He hadn't said a single word before pulling the trigger. Even under the influence of some unknown ability, he was airtight.
Whitehall didn't know it, but the chaos that had just erupted inside his base had been triggered by one quiet order from Kurogai—a boy in an orphanage, whose glowing red eyes had commanded Garrett with unbreakable force.
And now Whitehall, for all his power, was stumbling in the dark.
He didn't know who the enemy was. He didn't even know what he was facing.
But one thing was clear: whoever had manipulated Garrett… was dangerous.
Too dangerous to ignore.
Yet for now, Whitehall chose caution over retaliation.
Because even Hydra knew when to tread carefully.
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