Thunder Brand

Aslan Khalifa picked up his warm sandwich, eyeing it critically as he took a bite. His teeth left clear marks on the whole wheat bread, thick with peanut butter, gravy, and butter, the flavors rich and savory on his tongue. He chewed twice, brow furrowing slightly, and then raised his gaze.

Around him, the entire restaurant seemed to hold its breath. People quickly lowered their heads, their eyes averted, hoping to escape his notice.

Aslan ignored the diners, his focus shifting instead to the trembling waiter behind the counter. "I specifically asked for Thunder brand peanut butter," he said, his voice low but dangerous. "This isn't it."

"I'm so sorry, sir," the waiter stammered, close to tears. "We… we sold out of Thunder brand today."

"Is that right?" Aslan shook his head slowly, feigning regret. "Too bad that also means your luck just ran out."

Without another word, he raised his gun and pulled the trigger. A stream of bullets tore through the waiter, who fell backward, his body riddled with holes. Aslan didn't stop there. He turned his aim on the rest of the restaurant, the gunfire shattering glass and splintering wood. Windows exploded into shards, tables broke apart, and the air filled with screams until, one by one, they were silenced.

In mere seconds, the room was a blood-soaked ruin. When his gun clicked empty, Aslan let it fall from his hand, casually reaching for his drink. He took a slow sip, savoring the flavor, before glancing around the restaurant now devoid of any life.

Unbothered, he continued eating his sandwich, seated calmly among the corpses and destruction as if nothing unusual had happened.

"You could've saved ammo."

The voice came from nearby, almost too close. Aslan barely reacted as a figure materialized beside him, standing casually in a pool of blood. It was the phantom he called "Destruction," a being that seemed to emerge from nowhere, watching the scene with a detached, almost clinical interest.

"I could handle all this for you," the phantom continued, its voice low and cool. "You don't need to lift a finger."

Aslan shrugged, taking another bite of his sandwich. "I know. I just prefer doing it myself. There's something satisfying about the feel of bullets ripping through flesh, the sight of the blood spray… You wouldn't understand."

"Only because you haven't fully adapted," Destruction replied. "We're a single entity now."

"Maybe." Aslan let out a snort, finishing his sandwich and licking the juice from his fingers.

Destruction gave him a brief, knowing look. "You've drawn quite a bit of attention. Someone might show up soon."

"Good. I'd welcome it," Aslan said, though he rose to his feet and began walking toward the door. He wasn't in the mood for a direct confrontation here, not in some forgettable little place. He wanted an audience, wanted his work to be noticed and admired. Picking a fight here felt trivial, and beneath him.

Something inside him had shifted recently—a change he was still learning to navigate. He could feel it, a strange new connection to Destruction, an urge to explore and hone this power. There was potential here, he knew, but he wasn't quite ready to wield it fully. Not yet.

But for the first time, he felt truly alive. As if he'd finally shed an old skin, waking to a new purpose. Ideas and plans flickered through his mind, half-formed but tantalizing. He had a chance to be something more, to carve out a legacy that no one could ignore. He'd make his mark on the city and the world, creating his ultimate masterpiece.

Outside, Aslan's eyes immediately fell on a sleek black car idling on the curb. Through the open window, a man in a well-tailored suit smiled and waved him over.

"Mr. Khalifa," the man greeted as Aslan approached. "I saw you were enjoying a meal, so I didn't want to disturb. But if you could spare a moment, I believe we could have a very mutually beneficial discussion."

"Oh?" Aslan paused, his interest piqued. "You want to talk? With me?"

"Could be a trap," Destruction murmured in his mind.

"Even better," Aslan thought with a grin, though he didn't bother to hide his amusement as he climbed into the car.

The door closed, and the car pulled smoothly into traffic.

"My name is Naoya Iwanaga," the man said, extending a hand. "We haven't met, but I've followed your work for a long time."

"I know who you are. CEO of Doubleday Technology." Aslan dismissed his hand with a nod. "I keep up with the news."

Naoya chuckled, a flicker of admiration in his eyes. "That does make things simpler. I'm here with a proposal."

Aslan raised an eyebrow, a faint smile playing on his lips. "I'm sure you've got plenty of other options besides me."

"For this? No one else comes close," Naoya replied, his tone serious. "I've reviewed your work. It's impressive—your taste for destruction, your need for visibility. I want to pay you to do what you do best, and in return, I'll make sure it's worth your while. You'll make more than you ever have, and I'll take care of the logistics—escape routes, transportation, even a new identity."

Naoya leaned in, lowering his voice. "It's an ideal arrangement for a man like you. I've studied your methods, and I know you make a point of standing out. But planning the perfect getaway isn't exactly your specialty, is it? I'll handle that part."

He searched Aslan's face, looking for any sign of reaction. But Aslan's eyes remained empty, unreadable.

"So, what's the catch?" Aslan asked, his voice flat.

"Only one requirement," Naoya said smoothly. "You'll use our equipment."

With a quick nod, Naoya gestured to his assistant in the front seat, who passed back a small box. Naoya opened it to reveal a sleek, customized pistol. Aslan picked it up, examining it closely, and noticed the engraved name "Stark" on the back.

"Stark… one of your rivals, I take it?" Aslan raised an eyebrow.

Naoya laughed. "You've been busy if you missed him. The man's name is plastered everywhere; hard to miss."

Aslan leaned back, his voice casual. "Yeah, I've been tied up. The death sentence and all… not much time to keep up with the headlines. So, who's this guy?"

Naoya's eyes darkened. "A problem. He's more than a competitor; he's a madman. Stark's disrupting the game, squeezing us all out. But if he thinks we're helpless, he's sorely mistaken. We're ready to fan the flames, but you… you're the spark."

"I see." Aslan let a slow grin spread across his face.

"You want to buy an explosive PR disaster," he said, savoring the irony.

"A rather targeted campaign," Naoya replied, his gaze steady. "So, what do you say?"

"Deal," Aslan replied, twirling the custom pistol in his hand.

"As long as the money's there."