Aslan Khalifa

Thunder City, Tixon Prison.

This isn't any ordinary prison cell.

It's a suite isolated from all other cells, no cellmate, no contact with other inmates, and strictly separated from the main prison block. In here, every whim of the inmate is granted. From extravagant meals to books and even the rare privilege of visits, almost any reasonable request is met by the prison guards with a quiet compliance. At first glance, it seems more like a VIP holding room than a cell for the most dangerous inmates. But ask anyone, and they'll tell you: this is a cage, one wrapped in silk to disguise the fact that it's reserved for the doomed.

No one wants to end up in this room, where "every request" is simply an eerie luxury extended to those with nothing left to lose. It's reserved for death row prisoners alone.

It's been years since anyone was placed here. The last inmate to occupy this room was executed three years ago—until now.

Now, the room belongs to Aslan Khalifa.

A month ago, he was sentenced to die for crimes so violent, so indiscriminate, they shook even those accustomed to the dark dealings of Thunder City. Since his conviction, inmates and guards alike have kept their distance. Inmates, even those with long rap sheets, knew better than to cross someone with less than a day to live, and the guards gave him a wide berth for much the same reason. After all, when a man has nothing left to lose, there's no predicting what he might do.

And when that man is Aslan Khalifa? Well, people whisper that it's best to leave him alone.

"Mad," "unstable," "vicious"—those were the words people used to describe Aslan. As if he was born for violence, his very nature as cold-blooded as his reputation. From a young age, he was known for his savage temperament, making his mark with gang violence and leaving a trail of bruised faces and broken bones in his wake. Eventually, he joined a small-time local gang, rough enough to be respected but not powerful enough to hold any sway.

Then, everything changed.

One night, following a dispute with his own gang, Aslan turned on them. Every single person in the room ended up dead. The bodies were found mutilated beyond recognition, a bloodbath that left the city's underworld in a state of shock. From that point on, he became infamous, his record a growing list of innocent lives and fallen officers alike. As he evaded the law, the number of bodies grew. In the end, he was apprehended in a police raid that ended only after half a dozen officers went down.

To say the trial was a mere formality would be an understatement. The death sentence was handed down with barely a question asked.

Aslan didn't seem to care.

With only a day left until his scheduled execution, he is alone in his cell, his expression detached, fists slamming repeatedly into the reinforced walls. The sickening thud of flesh on metal fills the air. Each blow splashes fresh blood onto the walls, his knuckles splitting and tearing with each hit, yet he doesn't stop. His body's pain is a mere echo, barely registering.

It's hard to say if he's really trying to break free, if he's testing the strength of his body against the unyielding metal, or if he's simply losing himself to his violent impulses in these final hours. The walls, of course, remain as unyielding as ever, while Aslan's bloodstained fists grow weaker, the broken bones within turning his movements sluggish.

The Thunder City Herald once described Aslan as "a wild animal in human skin, a mind ruled by muscle." He wasn't someone who killed with plans or schemes. He was simply destruction incarnate. But tomorrow, the world would be rid of him.

At least, that's what they thought.

"Heh... Look at you," a voice broke the silence, low and mocking.

Aslan paused, mid-swing, his gaze flicking toward the room. His eyes narrowed, searching the shadows.

There was no one there.

"You've got so much raw power," the voice purred, dripping with contempt, "and they're just... throwing it away. They've decided your story is over, haven't they? Putting an end to you as if they've got the final word."

The voice chuckled, a dark, echoing sound that seemed to seep from every corner of the cell.

"But you don't have to die tomorrow," it continued, voice smooth and full of twisted amusement. "What if tomorrow was just the beginning... of something much bigger?"

Aslan's eyes shifted, his body tense, scanning every inch of the tiny cell. His knuckles dripped blood, yet he didn't flinch. "Who the hell are you?" he growled.

The voice gave another mocking laugh. "Me? Oh, I'm just... you."

---

Elsewhere in the prison, the guards were tense.

"Keep your guard up, everyone," the warden barked, his hand resting on his holstered weapon as he walked down the corridor. "Eyes peeled. The second he crosses any line, you shoot. If he so much as breathes the wrong way, you pull that trigger."

The guard captain, walking beside him, seemed to falter. "Sir, with all due respect, I think we might be over-prepared. The guy's unarmed and alone. We're heavily armed and ready."

The warden glared at him, face set with grim determination. "You haven't seen what I've seen," he said quietly. "This man is the most dangerous individual I've ever come across. Treat him like you would a bomb that could go off at any moment."

Reaching the door to Aslan's cell, the warden took a step back, motioning to the captain.

"Now, open the door," he ordered, his voice hushed. "But be ready. He might try something."

The captain nodded, unlocking the door with a practiced precision. With a deep breath, he pulled it open.

The cell was empty.

"Impossible!" he shouted, a look of horror crossing his face. "This cell is sealed! How did he—?"

"Level one alert!" the warden snapped, spinning around. "We have a high-risk death row—"

But his voice caught as he turned.

There, standing in line among the guards, was someone he recognized with a gut-wrenching sense of horror. One of the "guards" wore a familiar face. Beneath the helmet, grinning with a sadistic glee, was none other than Aslan Khalifa.

The warden's blood ran cold as he realized that somehow, Aslan had escaped his cell. He must have overpowered a guard, stolen his uniform, and slipped into the escort party, following them like a shadow, a silent taunt of his captors.

"It's him!" the warden managed to choke out, but it was too late.

Aslan raised his stolen weapon. The air filled with deafening gunfire. Guards fell in a haze of blood and bullets, their bodies hitting the floor with sickening finality.

Aslan stripped off the helmet, revealing a face twisted with cruel satisfaction.

The warden's face blanched, his voice trembling as he tried to form the words. "You... how did you...?"

But before he could finish, a shape moved in the shadows, something grotesque, humanoid yet twisted. Its skin was a sickly green, its eyes burning with an unholy red.

The phantom loomed over the fallen guards, its long, clawed fingers twitching with a terrifying energy. Aslan had gained something in his final hours, something that bound itself to his very being. The creature was the manifestation of his malice, a being Aslan named with quiet reverence.

"Say hello to my new friend," Aslan sneered, looking down at the trembling warden. "I call him Destruction."

The phantom reached out, claws closing around one of the guards who had survived the initial onslaught, hoisting him off the ground as if he were weightless. The man's bloodied, terrified face turned toward Aslan.

"Please," he choked, gasping for breath. "I have a family…"

Aslan's smile widened, cold and remorseless. "Good," he said, his voice as sharp as a knife. "They'll have something to remember you by."

With a vicious twist, Destruction tore the guard's head clean from his body, spine still attached, a grotesque trophy dripping in blood.

The warden stumbled back, slipping in the pool of blood, hands shaking uncontrollably. He could barely breathe as he tried to hold onto some shred of control.

"I... I can get you out of here," he stammered. "The doors have fingerprint locks. You'll need my access to—"

Aslan's laugh cut him off. He bent down, picking up a knife from one of the fallen guards, his gaze dark.

"No," he said, voice laced with cruel amusement. "I just need your hand."