The sirens came first.
Shrill, panicked wails that tore through the city's smog-choked sky, followed by the thunder of fleeing footsteps and the rumble of something far heavier than any machine. From his rooftop perch, Jerry Tenyson watched black smoke curl upward from downtown—coiling like fingers, like tendrils.
His chest tightened.
The echo inside him screamed.
"It's Subject-09," his mentor said, his voice a low growl behind him. The older man's coat billowed in the wind, his eyes narrowed toward the rising chaos. "Edward finally let it loose."
Jerry didn't speak. He didn't have to.
The pull in his bones had already begun—the same way it always started. A ripple beneath the skin, a pressure behind his eyes, a hunger gnawing at his spine. His reflection in the broken glass near his feet showed his veins glowing faintly violet, like a pulse of something ancient waking up inside him.
"Don't go," the mentor warned. "You're not ready to face it. Not yet."
Jerry turned. "It's already coming for me."
A beat of silence.
Then he leapt from the rooftop.
He landed hard, boots cracking the asphalt as people scattered around him. Screams echoed down the narrow alleyways as he sprinted toward the epicenter of the chaos. Flames licked the edges of shattered windows. A parked bus lay on its side, crushed like a soda can.
And then he saw it.
Subject-09.
It wasn't a monster—it was a massacre wearing skin. Ten feet tall. Elongated limbs covered in living armor that shimmered like scorched obsidian. Its face—or what passed for one—split open in jagged rows of teeth, gaping like a furnace. Its heartbeat boomed like war drums in Jerry's skull.
And worst of all—it spoke.
"Abyssborn."
The voice wasn't a sound. It was a pressure inside Jerry's mind, a language only monsters understood.
Jerry exhaled once. Then he let go.
The transformation came fast this time.
Predator Form. The shadows that curled around his arms hardened into plated limbs. His eyes lit up with the glow of the Abyss. Muscles twisted, sharpened. Fangs lengthened. Black ichor coated his spine, and a deep growl ripped from his throat.
The moment his feet touched the ground again, he lunged.
Subject-09 met him halfway.
The collision shattered the street. Cars flew. Windows exploded. Jerry's claws raked across Subject-09's chest, but the armor resisted. The monster twisted, grabbed Jerry by the neck, and hurled him through a building.
Brick and glass tore into Jerry's side as he slammed into a support beam. He staggered up, blood dripping from his mouth.
"Come on…" he snarled, rising. "I've survived worse."
The Neovoid pulsed. His hunger surged.
He charged again.
They clashed—once, twice, a dozen times—like gods dueling in a ruined temple. Shockwaves cracked the earth. Flames danced in the wake of their attacks. Subject-09's speed was inhuman, but Jerry's instincts were sharper now. He moved with precision, with rage, with control.
His mother's terrified face flashed in his mind.
Emily's hand, reaching for him.
The mentor's voice, warning of the anchor.
He roared—and his body responded.
Tendrils exploded from his back, grappling onto the monster. Jerry bit down on its arm, tearing through armor and sinew. Subject-09 shrieked. Its claws sank into his side, nearly gutting him—but Jerry didn't stop.
Predator wasn't enough.
So he reached deeper.
Something awakened.
His skin split in places as violet energy tore through him—Devourer Form (early state). His mouth stretched wider, filled with rows of jagged teeth. A second layer of armor slid over his body like liquid shadow.
And with a final roar, Jerry ripped Subject-09's head from its spine.
Silence.
The body collapsed with a thud that echoed through the burning street. The Neovoid inside Jerry pulsed... satisfied. Hungry. His heart pounded like a war drum, his vision flickering between monster and man.
He fell to one knee, breath ragged.
But the city was safe.
For now.
Hours passed.
The FBI would find the remains. Xyros Corp would deny involvement. The media would spin it as a gas explosion or gang warfare.
But Jerry?
He just wanted to sleep.
So he limped back to his apartment—clutching his ribs, eyes dimming, the monster in him finally silent.
He made it up the stairs, key trembling in his hand, and pushed open the door.
Dark.
Quiet.
Home.
But not for long.
Because as he stepped into the living room and closed the door behind him...
Four figures stood waiting.
Each cloaked in black, faces hidden by masks.
And the one in front stepped forward, raising a hand.
"No more running, Abyssborn."
(To be continued...)