The atmosphere in the hidden underground chamber was suffocating, as if the very walls themselves absorbed the darkness within. The soft flicker of candles cast eerie shadows across the cold stone floor, highlighting the twisted figures of Junko and Plague Doctor. The air was thick with the pungent, almost nauseating scent of burning incense and chemical fumes that emanated from an array of jars and vials stacked upon shelves. The room resembled a mad scientist's lab, but with a darker, more sinister vibe—a place where devious plots were born.

  Junko, the erratic red-suited clown, paced back and forth, his jester’s shoes making soft thuds against the floor. His mask flickered unpredictably between expressions, sometimes showing a wicked smile, other times an unsettling frown. His mind, always a chaotic whirlwind of impulses, was alight with manic ideas. His hands twitched as if ready to grab hold of something—anything—that could fuel his insanity.

  Across the room, Plague Doctor stood unmoving, his grotesque mask hiding his emotions, but his posture was one of quiet focus. His cloak billowed in the still air, and the faint clink of metal could be heard as his fingers absentmindedly tapped against the mask’s surface. He never spoke unless necessary, preferring to observe and plan in silence, letting the chaos around him unfold.

  "We need him," Plague Doctor's voice broke the silence, low and almost hypnotic. His words slid through the air like a whisper of venom. "Krishna. He's a threat to us, yes, but he could also be... a weapon."

  Junko’s movement halted abruptly. His head tilted toward Plague Doctor, his white mask shifting between emotions, the smile slowly curling upward in that signature way of his. "What are you talking about, Doctor?" Junko asked, his voice both intrigued and taunting, as if savoring the twisted ideas about to be unveiled.

  "His IQ," Plague Doctor replied, his voice taking on a deeper, almost reverent tone. "His intelligence is unparalleled. A mind like his is rare—one that could help us in ways we’ve only dreamed of. He’s not just any ordinary teenager; he’s someone capable of dismantling entire organizations, outsmarting heroes, and bending even the strongest forces to his will."

  Junko let out a low laugh, his voice cracking with unpredictable fervor. "And what makes you think he'd be willing to work for us, Doctor?" he asked, his grin widening, dangerous and unpredictable.

  Plague Doctor’s eyes glowed faintly from beneath his mask, an eerie light that seemed to pulse with every word he spoke. "He won't need to. He will become ours—whether he wants to or not." The words dripped from his mouth like poison, each one carefully calculated. "And with his new Catalyst, we could replicate his abilities—his brilliance. We could create an army. Clones. Soldiers with his intelligence, his power—an unstoppable force."

  Junko paused, his mind clearly processing the idea. His head tilted slightly, his grin widening into a smile of pure madness. "A clone army, you say?" He leaned forward, his tone almost gleeful. "Now that’s an idea I can get behind. Imagine an army of Krishnas, all operating under our control... Think of the destruction, the chaos, the beauty of it all. We would be unstoppable."

  Plague Doctor's expression remained hidden, but there was a flicker of satisfaction in the stillness of his stance. "Yes, but we must be cautious. We cannot allow him to discover our plans. The moment he knows what we intend, he'll fight back—and that’s not something we can risk, not yet."

  Junko’s eyes gleamed with a wild energy. "Of course. Patience, my dear Doctor. We’ll observe him, study him, see how his powers evolve. Let him think he’s safe, let him think he’s untouchable. Once we understand what he’s truly capable of, we’ll make our move."

  Plague Doctor nodded slowly, his fingers tapping once again against his mask, a rhythmic sound that matched his cold, calculating demeanor. "Patience will be key. But Krishna will be ours. We’ll have his intellect, his power—everything. And when the time is right, we’ll take everything he’s worth."

  As the conversation came to a close, Junko gave a final, eerie laugh, the sound echoing off the stone walls. "Yes, Krishna," he whispered to himself, his voice full of twisted amusement. "You’ll make a fine addition to our collection."

  Meanwhile, at the hero's headquarters, Krishna was still deep in concentration, the weight of his new power settling over him like an unshakeable storm. The tests he had undergone earlier with Lifeblood had gone well—perhaps too well. He could feel the changes within him, coursing through his veins like liquid fire, his senses heightened to a level he had never experienced before. Every thought, every movement felt sharper, more deliberate. He was no longer just a teenager; he had become something more, something that both terrified and exhilarated him.

  Lifeblood had guided him through the initial stages of control, teaching him how to harness the Catalyst's immense power. Krishna had learned to manipulate temperature—he could heat or cool the air around him, create waves of energy that made his very presence feel like a force of nature. His body felt different, more alive, as if he were connected to something greater than himself. He had the power to heal injuries, to regenerate damaged tissue, to bend the very essence of life to his will.

  But with this newfound strength came an unsettling awareness: the world was watching him. The heroes, the villains, everyone who had ever underestimated him, they would all be looking at Krishna now. And the pressure weighed on him like a thousand tons. The people he once knew, the life he had once lived—it all felt distant, out of reach, like a dream fading in the morning light.

  Krishna stood at the window of the hero’s headquarters, gazing out at the city below. The sun was setting, casting a fiery glow over the skyline. The world had changed, and so had he. But little did he know, there were those out there who had already set their sights on him. Forces darker and more dangerous than he could imagine were already preparing to strike.

  the kidnapping

  The night air outside was cold, but inside the USCT headquarters, the warmth of Krishna’s room offered a sense of peace. However, peace was a fleeting thing, as Mika silently approached the door, slipping past the guards and into the compound with the stealth of a shadow. Her transformation abilities let her blend into the dark, unseen and unheard, a predator moving toward her target.

  She reached Krishna’s room, and with a deft hand, she twisted the doorknob, slipping inside. The room was quiet, the soft hum of the electronics almost lulling her into a sense of calm. But Krishna was there, lying in bed, unaware of the danger creeping ever closer.

  Mika’s heart quickened as she watched him, the steady rise and fall of his chest the only sound in the room. She approached him slowly, each step deliberate. He was so peaceful, so unaware. She couldn’t help but admire him for a moment, her heart aching with a strange, possessive longing.

  Carefully, she slid into bed beside him, her body instinctively seeking the warmth of his. His presence was like a magnetic force, drawing her in as she pulled him closer, his warmth radiating against her skin in a way that felt almost too perfect. The quiet of the room surrounded them, but within the silence, there was a kind of electricity. No words were spoken, yet everything seemed to unfold naturally, as if the universe itself had orchestrated this moment.

  Without hesitation, she pulled him into her arms, cradling him against her chest, his head resting lightly there as if it belonged. His body fit into hers so effortlessly, like the missing piece of a puzzle she never knew was incomplete. She hugged him tighter, almost as if she was afraid he might slip away from her, despite the fact that he was deeply asleep and unaware of the delicate intimacy between them. The softness of his hair brushed against her face, and she inhaled deeply, the scent of him so familiar, so comforting. It was a strange sensation, this need to hold him—this overwhelming desire to never let him go.

  His body shifted slightly in his sleep, responding to the warmth that she offered, but he remained unaware, lost in the depths of his dreams. Mika's lips, soft as a feather, pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, lingering for a heartbeat longer than she’d intended. Then, almost without thinking, her lips drifted to his cheek, grazing his skin with such care, as though she feared disturbing the peace between them. Her hand wandered into his hair, fingers tangling through the strands as if memorizing the texture of him, feeling the life that pulsed under his skin.

  The urge to hold him grew stronger, as if her very being ached to keep him close. Her arms tightened around him, pulling him deeper into her embrace, as if to shield him from a world that didn't matter anymore. Nothing else could matter when she felt the steady rhythm of his breath, the beat of his pulse that was so in sync with hers. This moment, this quiet connection, was the only thing that existed.

  Her lips found his forehead once more, kissing him with a tenderness that seemed to speak of emotions she rarely allowed herself to acknowledge. Her fingers traced the curve of his jaw, marveling at the softness of his face beneath her touch. The world outside the confines of this small space felt distant, irrelevant. There was only this—only the warmth of him, the security of this intimate moment. She allowed herself to feel something deeper than she ever had before, the rawness of emotion that, for a fleeting moment, felt like a privilege.

  Time slowed, stretching with each breath, each delicate kiss, each soft touch that brought her closer to him. His body was warm against hers, his heart beating steadily in the silence of the night. With each movement, each affectionate gesture, she felt herself becoming more enmeshed in him, in the bond they were quietly creating. It was irrational, maybe, this connection—this fierce, uncontrollable need she felt. But it was real, undeniable.

  She kissed him again, softly at first, but with more intent this time. Her lips trailed down his neck, feeling the heat of his skin beneath hers, savoring the warmth that seeped into her with every touch. Her kiss lingered there, pressing against him as though to mark him as hers, to claim him in ways words could never articulate. Her hands gently roamed over his skin, memorizing the feel of him, every muscle, every curve, every inch of him she could touch.

  Mika’s heart beat faster, her breath hitching as a warmth spread through her chest—a fire, something fierce and undeniable. For the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to want, to need, to feel. She wanted him to understand the depth of her affection, the strength of her attachment. She wanted him to know that no matter what, she would be there to protect him—to guard him from the dangers of the world, and perhaps, from himself.

  Hours passed in this quiet cocoon of intimacy. Time, it seemed, had no meaning when they were together like this. The world outside could burn, and she wouldn’t care. She kissed him again, more deeply this time, her lips moving against his with a passion that was both tender and fierce. There was no hesitation, no barrier between them. In this moment, she allowed herself to give everything she could, to pour her affection into him, to show him, without words, the depth of what she felt.

  But even as the warmth of his embrace filled her up, Mika couldn't escape the pull of reality. She knew this moment couldn’t last forever. The mission, the life she had chosen—it all waited outside this intimate bubble. She couldn’t afford to forget that. Yet, for now, as she held him tightly in her arms, she chose to forget everything else. She kissed him again, her lips lingering on his in a way that spoke volumes of her attachment, her vulnerability, her desire to keep him close.

  Finally, after what felt like an eternity suspended in a moment of warmth and tenderness, Mika reluctantly began to untangle herself from Krishna’s embrace. Each shift of her body, each movement away from him, felt like a personal betrayal, as though she was pulling herself away from something essential. She hesitated, her breath catching as her fingers brushed over his face one last time. The sensation of his skin under her touch was imprinted in her memory—soft, warm, alive. She lingered there for a moment longer than necessary, as though she needed to commit this feeling to her very soul. The touch of him, the way he fit perfectly in her arms, the way his body had responded to hers—everything about this moment felt so intensely right.

  But she couldn’t stay. Not anymore. It was time to move.

  With a final, quiet breath, Mika gently lifted him into her arms, cradling him as though he were something fragile, something precious. His body was limp, completely unconscious, unaware of the depth of the situation he was now a part of. He remained in his peaceful slumber, oblivious to the choices that had been made for him. Mika’s expression softened as she looked down at him, her chest tightening with a strange mix of affection and possessiveness. He didn’t have to know everything yet. She didn’t need him to understand at this very moment. She had him now. And that was all that mattered.

  With practiced ease, Mika moved through the dark, quiet halls of the USCT headquarters. Each step was silent, each movement fluid and controlled. Her transformation abilities allowed her to blend into the shadows, slipping past any obstacles undetected. No one would notice her. No one would stop her. Not tonight. Tonight, she was untouchable. The air around her seemed to still as she moved forward, as though the very world had paused to let her do as she pleased.

  There was no turning back. She knew that. Once she crossed this threshold, there was no returning to the life she had known. But it didn’t matter. None of it mattered anymore. Krishna was hers. And that was the only truth she needed.

  As she approached the entrance to the base of the terrorist group, Mika’s grip on him tightened just slightly, ensuring he was safe, secure in her hold. Her footsteps were unwavering as she carried him down cold, empty corridors, the silence between them growing more oppressive with each step. It wasn’t long before they reached a stark, sterile room. The atmosphere shifted instantly as she crossed the threshold. The room was cold, devoid of warmth, a dark mirror to the intimacy they had shared just moments before. The hard, barren walls seemed to close in on her, reminding her of the reality that awaited them both.

  Mika moved with calculated precision as she placed him in the center of the room, laying him down with gentle care. She lingered for just a second, looking down at his unconscious form, feeling a surge of something deep and possessive flare within her.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  The door clicked shut behind her with a finality that echoed in the empty space, the sound like the lock on a cage being secured.

  Her eyes remained fixed on him, her breath steady despite the storm of emotions swirling inside her. “Soon, you’ll understand,” she whispered to the stillness, her voice low but filled with dark satisfaction, a hint of something dangerous lingering beneath her words. Her gaze hardened, the intensity of her fixation on him unwavering. “Soon, Krishna, you’ll be mine. Completely.”

  The words were a promise, one that only she understood fully. The weight of the moment settled over her, a mix of triumph and anticipation. She had taken control. She had made her choice, and now she would see it through, no matter what. She would make him understand. She would make him hers, body and soul.

  And there was nothing in this world or the next that could stop her.

  Blood extraction

  The cold, sterile air of the lab wrapped around Krishna like a suffocating blanket as he slowly regained consciousness. His body felt heavy, his mind foggy, as if it were struggling to reconnect the pieces of his identity. The metallic scent of the room stung his nostrils, and as his blurry vision began to focus, he realized he was surrounded by machines, tubes, and strange, foreign instruments that seemed to hum with a cold, mechanical life.

  It was then that he remembered. The plague doctor. The blood extraction. His heart skipped a beat as the memory surged through him, vivid and painful. He had been taken. Extracted. Taken from everything he knew, everything that had ever mattered. Now, he was here—trapped in this clinical nightmare.

  His body still felt weak, as though it had been drained of something vital, something essential. His arm, which had been hooked up to an IV, tugged slightly at the restraints that held him to the cold metal table. His limbs felt sluggish, but panic was already beginning to set in. He couldn’t remember how long he had been here, how long he had been unconscious, but the nagging feeling of being watched never left him.

  He lifted his head, his pulse quickening as he scanned the room. It was eerily silent, save for the occasional beep or click of a machine. But it was the shadows that caught his attention—the tall figure standing at the far corner of the room, obscured in darkness. The figure moved into the dim light, revealing a face partially obscured by a dark, bird-like mask. The plague doctor.

  “Ah, you’re awake,” the plague doctor’s voice was cold, distant, and yet it carried a certain twisted satisfaction. “Good. I was starting to think you would sleep forever.”

  Krishna’s heart pounded in his chest. "What... what is this? What have you done to me?"

  The plague doctor tilted his head, observing Krishna with a cold, almost clinical interest. "We’ve done what was necessary. You were... a prime specimen. Your blood was key to our work. You see, we’ve made something very special."

  A shiver ran down Krishna's spine. "What... what do you mean?"

  The doctor didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped to the side, allowing Krishna to see a large glass chamber in the center of the lab. Inside the chamber was a figure—someone that looked... like him. No, not just like him. It was a perfect replica. A clone. The same face, the same features, the same body. But it was different. There was something off about the way the clone stood—like it was waiting for something, or perhaps someone.

  Krishna’s eyes widened in horror as he realized the truth. The clone. It was him.

  “What is this?” Krishna demanded, his voice shaking with a mix of fear and disbelief. “What have you done to me? Why? Why a clone?”

  The plague doctor seemed almost amused by Krishna’s reaction. He stepped closer to the chamber, tapping the glass with a gloved finger. "This... is your new reality. You’re going to have a front-row seat to what happens next. We needed you, Krishna. Your blood. It holds the key to unlocking something much greater than you could ever imagine. And this clone—this version of you—will play a crucial role in our experiments.”

  Krishna struggled against the restraints, his body instinctively wanting to break free, to escape, but the more he fought, the more he realized just how powerless he truly was in this situation. The walls, the glass, the machines—it was all designed to keep him trapped, to keep him contained. His mind raced, desperate to think of an escape, but every plan seemed to fall apart the moment it formed.

  "You're nothing more than a specimen now," the plague doctor continued, his voice devoid of emotion. "A tool. And you will do exactly what we need, Krishna. The clone will serve its purpose, and you—well, you will remain here. Watching. Always watching.”

  Krishna’s chest tightened, a sense of dread overwhelming him. He wasn’t just trapped in this lab; he was being used. His body, his blood—it was all part of some twisted experiment. He could feel the weight of his situation crushing him, suffocating him from all sides.

  But there was one thing that burned in his mind. The clone. His clone. The doctor could control the replica. What would happen when the clone started to think, to act, to feel? Would it replace him? Would it become the new version of himself?

  "You're going to regret this," Krishna spat, his voice low but fierce. "You won't control me forever."

  The plague doctor chuckled, but it was a hollow sound, devoid of any warmth. "We shall see, Krishna. We shall see."

  The new monster

  Clone Krishna, designated as #7—the Tape Clone—was something far more terrifying than the original. From the moment he was created, the clone displayed an eerie mastery over his unique Catalyst: Tape. It was an ability that made him lethal in ways that were almost impossible to predict or defend against. His tape wasn't just ordinary. It had a sentience to it, an ability to move with fluidity and precision, responding to his will as if it were an extension of his own body.

  The clone's powers were as deadly as they were strange. He could stretch the tape to unbelievable lengths, using it to bind, crush, and manipulate enemies with terrifying force. The tape could constrict around a target like a boa constrictor, squeezing the life out of anyone unfortunate enough to be caught in its grasp. He could use it to snap bones, break limbs, or crush bodies with unimaginable pressure. The most disturbing part of it all? The tape moved without sound. It was completely silent, as though the very air around it held its breath.

  In battle, the Tape Clone was a ghost. He could whip the tape out with lightning speed, creating a snaking lash that would lash out, binding around a person’s neck or torso, squeezing tightly, and rendering them helpless before crushing them with sheer force. He could even coil the tape around multiple victims at once, like a deadly web, suffocating or tearing them apart simultaneously, all while remaining unheard.

  His signature technique, Tape Snakes, was even more deadly. The tape would extend like a serpent, coiling and twisting through the air with a deadly grace. With precision that seemed unnatural, the clone could form these tape snakes into blades, stabbing through people with ease. They could puncture flesh, tear through bone, and slice open organs before retracting with a smooth, fluid motion. The tape snaked through the bodies of his enemies like a predator, strangling or impaling with the same deadly ease.

  The most horrifying part? The Tape Clone could manipulate the tape into various forms—whips, chains, blades—each one deadly in its own right. He could strangle, slice, crush, or even hang his victims, each death an agonizing, slow demise that no one could escape once caught. No one could hear the attack coming. No one would ever know what hit them until it was too late.

  The soundlessness of his method only made him more dangerous. The tape snapped, crushed, and tore, but never a sound could be heard. A few seconds after the victim had been taken, there was no trace of struggle—no screams, no noise. Just the soft, eerie hum of the tape retracting into the clone's hands, ready to strike again.

  Krishna’s original body had been reduced to an observer, helpless in his sterile, cold lab as he watched this shadow of himself work with ruthless precision. The Tape Clone was more than a mere reflection—it was a perfect, terrifying embodiment of raw, merciless power. And as the clone moved through the lab, a dark, chilling smile formed beneath his bird-like mask, knowing that he was the one truly in control now.

  As he disposed of enemies, his ability to leave no trace of sound or chaos made him seem like a ghost, or a shadow—like something unnatural that had come to claim the world, one silent death at a time.

  The chaos that Tape Krishna left in his wake was unimaginable. The clone had been released from his containment by an unknown force, and in a span of mere hours, he had wreaked havoc on the world in ways that only he could. His silent, deadly tape wrapped around thousands of victims, strangling, crushing, and mutilating bodies with terrifying precision. In his path, he left a trail of 1,800 deaths, each one brutal and calculated. People never saw it coming—the tape snaked out from the shadows, and in an instant, life was snuffed out without a single sound.

  The atrocities weren’t limited to just murder. The Tape Clone was an unhinged force of destruction. Ten counts of rape followed in the wake of his bloodlust, as he trapped victims in his tape, manipulating their bodies with a terrifying, cruel force. The violence he wrought was unspeakable, and his brutality was only matched by his cold, calculated detachment. He moved through the crowds like a nightmare come to life, and by the time the authorities arrived, it was far too late. He had already disappeared into the night, leaving only his chilling signature: a shattered body, bound in tape, or worse, someone left barely alive, suffocating, strangled, or impaled by his serpentine creations.

  However, fate had other plans for the Tape Clone. His rampage came to an abrupt halt when he encountered the #3 hero—Marshall Hunter.

  Marshall Hunter was a martial artist unlike any other. His Catalyst, which made him 250 times stronger than a normal human, had been honed to perfection, and he was well-versed in every martial art ever created. His control over his own body was unparalleled, and his mind was an unshakable fortress of discipline. Unlike most heroes, Marshall was not just strong—he was a living weapon, a master of technique, balance, and precision.

  When Marshall Hunter engaged the Tape Clone, it was a battle of technique versus pure brutality. Tape Krishna was fast, vicious, and merciless, but his methods were chaotic. His tape could wrap around limbs, snap bones, and crush organs, but it lacked the kind of control that a seasoned fighter like Marshall could wield. Marshall was patient, calculating, and above all, unrelenting. He used his superior strength and martial prowess to counter every strike, every lash of tape. The Tape Clone tried to bind him, to strangle him with his tape, but Marshall moved with the speed and grace of a true martial artist, his limbs like weapons, smashing through the tape and rendering it useless.

  Marshall struck with precision, targeting key points of the clone’s body, breaking bones and limbs with surgical precision. Tape Krishna tried to retaliate, but every attempt only brought more pain, more injuries. Marshall Hunter wasn't just beating him physically—he was outmaneuvering him, exhausting him with calculated strikes that left the clone vulnerable. The more he struggled, the more his body broke under the sheer pressure of Marshall’s blows.

  It didn’t take long for the tide to turn. The Tape Clone’s movements became erratic, his tape snapping and crackling in the air like a desperate animal trapped in a corner. He tried to escape, but Marshall was relentless. In a final, brutal confrontation, Marshall shattered the Tape Clone’s ribcage with a devastating blow, his powerful fists crushing the clone’s bones with ease. His arms and legs snapped under the pressure, breaking with sickening sounds. The clone’s body crumpled to the ground, the tape no longer moving, lying useless and limp around him.

  Despite the severe injuries, the Tape Clone managed to drag himself away, barely escaping with his life. His ribcage was shattered beyond recognition, his limbs twisted and broken, his body a mangled mess of bruises, contusions, and fractures. He was nothing more than a broken shell of the weapon he once was—his strength, his speed, and his cunning were all rendered useless in the face of Marshall’s sheer power and martial discipline.

  With what little strength he had left, Tape Krishna crawled into the shadows, his movements slow and pained, leaving behind a trail of blood and broken bones. He had been defeated, but not destroyed—yet. The pain of his injuries was unbearable, but even as he collapsed into the darkness, his mind was already calculating, plotting his next move.

  Marshall had won this battle, but the war was far from over. Tape Krishna would heal, and when he did, he would return—stronger, more deadly, and even more unpredictable.

  The heroes had been tracking the remnants of the terrorist group for days, piecing together fragments of intelligence that pointed toward a hidden lab deep in the heart of their operation. It was there that Krishna, the original, had been held captive by the twisted experiments of the Plague Doctor and his dark creations. The time had come for the heroes to move, and they weren’t just going in to stop the terrorists—they were going in to wipe out everything the lab represented.

  #1 Hero, Lifeblood, led the charge. His power was overwhelming—strength, speed, regeneration—he could obliterate anything in his path with ease. But it was more than just his physical prowess; it was his unwavering resolve to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves. Krishna’s suffering had been etched into his mind, and there was no force in the world that could stop him from saving the boy. His body pulsed with energy as he blasted through the entrance, the walls crumbling under his might.

  #4 Hero, Meltdown, followed closely behind, her Catalyst Energy surging as she released bursts of destructive power. She was a walking furnace, a weapon of pure annihilation. As she entered the lab, she burned through any resistance, her energy blasts lighting up the dark interior like fireworks. No one stood a chance against her fiery rage. She wasn’t just fighting for Krishna’s freedom—she was fighting to destroy everything the lab stood for.

  #6 Hero, Zephyr, was the calm in the storm. With his Catalyst Air, he manipulated the air currents, creating shields of wind to protect his comrades and sweeping enemies off their feet with gusts that knocked them out cold. His Zen-like control over the environment allowed him to manipulate the battlefield, keeping everyone safe while they focused on the mission. He could move like a gust of wind, invisible and untouchable, and he used that ability to ensure the team reached Krishna’s cell undetected.

  #7 Hero, Command, was the last of the team to enter, but he was just as vital to the success of the mission. His Catalyst Control allowed him to manipulate anything he touched, from metal walls to the very air around him. He was a tactician in battle, commanding the flow of the fight with unrelenting precision. He disarmed enemies before they could react, controlling the lab's machinery to help disable the traps set by the terrorist group. His presence was silent but deadly, his actions calculated to guarantee the team’s success.

  The lab, a cold, sterile facility filled with the remnants of human suffering, was no match for these heroes. They moved in perfect synchronization, their Catalysts and powers complementing each other as they tore through the compound. The Plague Doctor’s sickening experiments were obliterated in the blink of an eye.

  As they reached the holding cells, they found Krishna. He was barely conscious, his body broken, battered, and bruised from the torture he had endured. Lifeblood wasted no time. With a single motion, he tore open the door, his hands glowing with the energy of his Catalyst, and lifted Krishna out of the cell with ease.

  "You're safe now, kid," Lifeblood said softly, his voice filled with warmth and reassurance as he cradled Krishna in his arms.

  Meltdown, still radiating heat from the energy blasts she had released earlier, immediately started to burn through the lab's interior, making sure to leave nothing intact. The walls crumbled as she obliterated the equipment used to create clones and conduct sickening experiments. The lab would never be used again for such purposes.

  Zephyr created a whirlwind around the group, lifting them off the ground and protecting them as they moved toward their escape route. His winds shielded them from any counterattacks, his mastery of air manipulating the environment to keep them safe from harm.

  Meanwhile, Command carefully controlled the lab’s systems, locking doors behind them and ensuring no one could follow. He sent commands to the surveillance cameras, disabling them one by one so they couldn’t be tracked or traced. His movements were precise, leaving no room for error.

  The lab, once a place of horrors and pain, was now a crumbling wreck. With their mission accomplished, the heroes turned and made their way back toward the exit, Krishna in tow. He was still unconscious, but his body was healing with every passing moment, the regenerative power of Lifeblood’s presence working to counter the damage done.

  As they exited the lab, they left behind a scene of total destruction. The terrorist group's operation had been shattered in one fell swoop, and the twisted experiments on Krishna and others would never see the light of day again.

  With Krishna safe, and the lab in ruins, the heroes took a moment to look at each other—knowing that this victory was more than just saving a life. It was a message to the world that no matter how dark the forces of evil grew, there were those willing to fight back, to protect the innocent, and to dismantle the horrors before they could spread.