THE ETERNAL KEEPER

George stared at the mirror in terror, his breath caught in his throat. Dizziness swept over him like a crashing wave. But with sheer force of will, he straightened his spine and stood tall.

A voice behind him spoke, calm and unshaken:

"Oh, you know me, Doctor. Well, I am a little famous around here—it's only natural."

Then, in a tone that was both mocking and dangerously casual:

"Now, Dr. Helel, I only want to know one thing. Answer me truthfully, and I'll leave. No problem."

George didn't turn around. He didn't dare flinch. Though his insides twisted with panic, outwardly he composed himself, adjusting his posture with the grace of a practiced statesman.

"As expected of a legend," he said coolly. "Dr. Helel—the so-called savior, and the Federation's anomaly-hunter."

But inside, his nerves were screaming. Every muscle was locked tight, straining to remain still under the edge of the blade pressed coldly to his throat.

He kept his voice measured.

"What do you want?"

Striker didn't move. His blade didn't waver. His voice was low, mechanical, and devoid of emotion:

"That little meeting you had... with the Federation. What was it about?"

George's heart sank. How does he know about that?

That meeting had been wrapped in the tightest secrecy—an unscheduled, untraceable summit with the country's most critical personnel. No records. No leaks. Just a brief window for a world-altering discussion.

And yet... Striker knew.

George didn't even think. He just spoke.

"Well... where do I begin..."

And he told him—everything.

From the moment they were approached by the Revolutionary Group's leader, to the grim analysis of the planet drifting out of orbit… to the discovery of an unidentified cosmic force anchoring Earth in place, a force that had only just appeared.

He didn't see a point in lying. Not to him.

Striker remained utterly silent throughout the entire explanation. The only thing that changed was the blade—a subtle increase in pressure against George's skin. Not enough to draw blood, but enough for George to feel the tremor in Striker's composure.

He's shaken, George realized.

When the story ended, silence fell.

A minute passed.

Then two.

George's shirt began to soak with sweat. The tension was suffocating.

Then, finally, the blade lifted.

A breath he didn't know he was holding escaped as the voice behind him returned—cold, distorted, but less composed than before:

"Because of the news you've given me, I'll give you something in return. A truth."

"The Liberation Group is just a front. There's something far bigger—and deeper—behind it."

Before George could react, the blade was gone.

No sound. No movement.

Just… emptiness.

He spun around.

But the room was empty.

Striker had vanished.

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George looked around—nothing. No sign of the intruder. No trace of movement. Just the echo of silence pressing in on all sides.

With a cold breath, he sat back down in his chair, trying to steady his racing mind. Immediately, he accessed the surveillance system, pulling up the mansion's internal feeds.

Black screens.

Every camera. Every angle. Wiped.

The entire network had been hacked and scrubbed clean—like nothing had ever happened.

That was disturbing enough.

But what made George's skin crawl was something far worse.

Striker was 90% assimilated into his Record.

That wasn't just a sign of proximity—it was time. Exposure.

Striker had been stalking him, walking through his space like a ghost, long enough to be etched deep into George's karmic imprint.

And George had no idea.

A cold knot formed in his stomach.

He wasn't just caught off guard—he was being watched for days. Maybe longer.

And now, as he replayed the meeting at the Federation in his mind, it all clicked.

Of all the high-ranking officials… George had been the most exposed.

No bodyguards. No elite defense tech. Just a lazy net of cameras and his own overconfidence.

He had made himself an easy target.

And Striker had chosen him not because George was important…

…but because he was vulnerable.

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Striker darted through the alleyways, each step faster than the last.

His boots pounded against the wet concrete, the faint hum of kinetic boosters glowing beneath them.

His black combat suit shimmered with pulsing lines of light—like veins of energy weaving through armor built for war.

He didn't stop until he reached the edge of the city's shadow—a forgotten underground warehouse buried beneath rusted scaffolding and broken steel.

He stepped inside.

No guards. No security. No need.

This place had long since fallen off the grid.

Striker didn't bother to change.

Still cloaked in his full combat gear, the white skull mask stained from the night's work, he dropped into an old chair with a heavy, tired sigh.

"World ending… huh."

He said it softly, as if testing the words in his mouth.

It sounded absurd—insane, even.

But it came from Dr. George Helel.

And if there was one man he believed without question… it was him.

He leaned back, head tilted toward the ceiling as thoughts churned in his mind like a storm.

Old memories. Fresh anger. The weight of too many sins.

The Helix Syndicate.

His hunt wasn't over—not even close.

Even if the world ended tomorrow… even if fire rained from the sky…

He would still hunt them.

For vengeance.

For the ones they took.

For everything they made him become.

As he mused in his own thoughts he touched his watch slightly as light illuminated in four corners of warehouse

The underground warehouse is darker more in black—Striker preferred it that way. scattered across the space, soft-blue holograms floated in midair like ghostly screens suspended in silence.

Striker stood in the center of it all, surrounded by rotating schematics, engine diagnostics, and sleek design overlays.

His fingers moved like a pianist—graceful, fast, deliberate—as he manipulated the translucent projections. Panels folded open, parts slid apart and reassembled themselves virtually, showing dozens of mechanical variations within seconds.

At the center of it all, parked atop a raised platform like a beast on a throne, was his new machine.

The Revenant Mk IX.

A custom-built motorbike, black matte armor plated over an ultra-lightweight alloy skeleton. Neon veins pulsed under its frame, flickering like a heartbeat. The engine growled faintly even while idle—like it couldn't wait to run.

He zoomed in on the rear thrusters through the holographic interface, frowning.

"Still overheating at 87% output," he muttered, dragging a subroutine across the display. He rewrote the coolant protocols with one hand while adjusting the exhaust fins with the other.

Behind his mask, a faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

This wasn't just a bike—it was a weapon. A message.

Strong enough to ram armored convoys.

Silent enough to vanish without a trace.

His kind of poetry.

He turned his gaze from the screen to the real thing.

The Revenant's headlamp flicked on, as if responding to his attention, casting a ghostly white beam across the far wall. In the darkness, it looked alive.

Striker took a step forward, placing one hand on the machine's sleek body. The alloy was cool under his gloves.

"You'll be the last thing they see."

He turned back to the interface, now pulling up routes—old Helix Syndicate supply lines, abandoned safe houses, black-market movement reports. Red dots blinked across the map, one by one, forming a trail of blood he intended to follow.

"Let the world end," he muttered. "But not before I end them first."

The screen flickered again.

This is dr George helel's location

Striker's eyes lingered on it for a moment.

"Wake up, Doctor," he said under his breath. "You don't get to sit this one out."

With one final motion, he flicked his wrist—

And the entire interface collapsed into darkness.

Only the faint, menacing hum of the Revenant remained.

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