The Brooklyn underground HYDRA base, once a symbol of Dietrich Voss's power and influence, now felt more like a tomb. Inside his dimly lit office, the man who had once commanded fear from both his subordinates and enemies sat slumped in his chair, his appearance a far cry from the ruthless leader he had been. His usually immaculate suit was rumpled, his hair disheveled, and his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep and too much brandy.
The recent attacks on HYDRA's hidden bases had not only crippled their operations but had also shattered Voss's reputation. The promotion he had spent years scheming for was now an impossible dream. Worse, his standing within HYDRA had plummeted. Where once he had been feared, now he was mocked—a failure who couldn't stop a single man from dismantling their empire.
His superior, Daniel Whitehall, had made his displeasure abundantly clear. Support had been withdrawn, budgets slashed, and daily reprimands landed on Voss's desk like clockwork. The message was unmistakable: he was being abandoned.
And yet, despite the destruction The Wraith had wrought, Voss still didn't understand why. Who was this man? Why had he targeted him specifically? HYDRA's vast intelligence network had turned up nothing—no past, no motives, no weaknesses. The Wraith had simply appeared one day, and since then, chaos had followed. Above all, The Wraith attack pattern seems to suspiciously targeting just him, like chasing him with utmost vendetta.
The most infuriating part was that he and HYDRA couldn't fight back not in secret or even openly. They couldn't expose their losses to the world, couldn't even acknowledge they were at war. The Wraith somehow knew this. He reveled in it. Every attack was a calculated humiliation, forcing HYDRA to bleed resources, money, and personnel in a battle they couldn't win on his terms.
And now, Voss knew the truth—he was the sacrifice. His failures had crossed HYDRA's bottom line, and the organization was cutting him loose. A realization that dawn of him, after so long stood untouched amongst the herds of lions, a single entity knocked him off his high horse, and naturally many were enjoying his downfall.
A knock at the door interrupted his brooding. Peter Haggs entered; his expression grim. "Sir, Director Whitehall has cut our funding."
Voss didn't look up, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "How much?"
"Ten percent of our original allocation," Haggs answered reluctantly.
"BAM!!...Damnit!!". Voss's fist slammed onto the desk, the impact rattling the empty bottle beside him. "Those ungrateful bastards!" he snarled. "They're wringing me dry before tossing me to the wolves."
Haggs hesitated before nodding. "It… seems that way, sir."
There was no sugarcoating it. HYDRA was methodically severing Voss's branch from the organization, leaving him to wither. And in HYDRA's world, those who became burdens didn't just fade away—they were erased.
Voss took another swig of brandy, the burn doing nothing to dull the dread settling in his gut. His time was running out. And this deliberate action from Daniel Whitehall further solidifies that HYDRA upper echelon were throwing him away, cutting him off as an offering to The Wraith. HYDRA know war against the Wraith would do a lot of damage to them, so as always, they cut their tail before it's too late.
The air in Dietrich Voss's office was thick with tension, the scent of spilled brandy mixing with the acrid tang of fear. Voss's fingers drummed impatiently against his desk as he glared at Peter Haggs.
"Sigh~ Any news on The Wraith?" Voss demanded, his voice hoarse from alcohol and exhaustion.
Haggs swallowed hard, his posture stiff. "Two days ago, he hit two more bases. That leaves us with only ten operational facilities in New York. His current whereabouts remain unknown, sir."
Voss's jaw clenched. "Where is that—"
"BOOMMM!!!!"
The explosion tore through the base with the force of a thunderclap. Voss was thrown from his chair, his body slamming against the wall as glass shattered and debris rained from the ceiling. The impact left his ears ringing, his vision blurred. For a moment, the world was nothing but chaos and deafening noise.
"What? What is going on?!" Voss staggered to his feet, his balance unsteady. His office was in ruins—windows blown out, papers scattered, the once-polished floor now littered with broken glass.
Haggs wasn't faring any better. He clutched his head, blood trickling from a gash on his temple. "I—I don't know, sir!" he gasped, his voice barely audible over the blaring alarms that now echoed through the base.
Then came the gunfire.
The staccato bursts of automatic weapons, the screams of men, the panicked shouts of orders being barked—and then abruptly cut off. The entire base had erupted into madness.
Voss stumbled toward the security monitors, his heart pounding. The screens flickered with static, but the images they displayed were unmistakable.
Hallways that had once been orderly were now war zones. HYDRA soldiers—elite operatives trained for combat—were being slaughtered. They fired blindly; their bullets useless against the shadows that moved like living nightmares.
"What is that?!" Haggs whispered, his voice trembling as he pointed at the feed.
Voss snatched the tablet from his hands, his blood running cold at what he saw. "Let me see!".
"What is this? An alien?". Voss shocked and befuddled as he watched the security feeds. Anyone would befuddle as him if they saw what is going in the feed itself.
Matted black figures, their bodies wreathed in shifting tendrils of purple and black smoke, tore through HYDRA's defenses like a storm. Some were humanoid, their forms sleek and predatory. Others were monstrous—twisted amalgamations of beasts and myth. A towering, shadowy Medusa slithered through the carnage, her serpentine hair hissing as HYDRA agents froze in terror before being ripped apart.
"[RUNN!!! AARRGHHH!!!!!]"
In the security feeds, HYDRA soldiers were being shredded and mercilessly killed by these matted black creatures, no one were left behind alive. Bullets passed through them as if they were made of mist. Explosions barely slowed their advance. They moved with unnatural precision, their attacks brutal and efficient. Limbs were severed. Throats were torn out. Men were devoured alive, their screams silenced before they could even finish.
It wasn't a battle.
It was a massacre.
And then, amidst the carnage, he appeared.
The Wraith.
Clad in his sleek, futuristic armor, his trench coat billowing behind him like the wings of death, he walked through the gore-streaked halls as if it were nothing. His mask—a featureless, menacing visage—turned toward a security camera, as though he knew exactly who was watching.
"It's him," Voss breathed, his hands shaking. "He's come for me."
The tablet slipped from his fingers, clattering to the floor just as the feed cut to static—the last image burned into Voss's mind being The Wraith's unblinking gaze, staring straight into his soul.