Chronos HQ. Early Winter.
The world outside lay pale and dim beyond the towering glass windows of Lucien's central command room—a sky of cold iron, with snow dusting the edges of window-panes like ash. Frost crept along the base of steel frames, and the light overhead was diffused, sterile, clinical. Inside, the war table glowed.
A massive ring of thick, reinforced screens curved around the chamber. Each displayed a live video feed—world leaders, military generals, prime ministers, and religious leaders—each one framed in their own time zone, war rooms, and bunkers. Some feeds flickered dimly. Others blazed with red alerts and sirens.
Lucien stood at the center. His hands rested behind his back. The emerald green of his eyes caught the glow from the display. Behind him, Max stood near a side-console, arms crossed. Julian remained stiffly near the edge of the room, his expression unreadable. Isabelle and Kieran stood in silence, both observing without speaking.
Lucien began speaking—his voice measured, composed.
"I'm sure you've all seen what the enemy is capable of. They burned your cities. Massacred your militaries. Thrown you into chaos, and weakened your power."
He tapped his console. Dozens of maps unfurled in mid-air—projected displays casting eerie light across the room. Each map showed zones, alien sightings, and marked coordinates.
"I've devised a private military, specially created to fight off these alien entities."
"We developed countermeasures. Weaponry. Armor. Autonomous drones. Impermeable vehicles."
"Over two hundred thousand active units, all trained, all equipped and capable of fighting back."
"I'd like to offer assistance to you all, if accepted, I'll deploy an entire Chronos division to your respectful area immediately."
A wave of low murmurs filtered through the audio feeds—some voices skeptical, others tense.
One world leader narrowed their eyes. "How long did it take you to develop all of this, Mr. Cronus?"
Lucien responded. "Twelve Weeks."
"Forgive me for questioning, but it all looks more… intricate, to be made in just 'twelve weeks'."
Max's voice rose—sharp and unforgiving, "Forgive me for asking, but do you think your country could survive another 'twelve weeks' without our support?"
A heavy silence followed.
Lucien continued, his voice calm. "We're not asking for anything back. We're simply offering our support. Just as we've always had."
Some of the channels flickered—audio's muted.
Other feeds were cut.
Max sighed, and said—under his breath, "Ungrateful bunch."
Lucien watched the darkening screens.
Then he turned away from the projection ring. And as the glow of the war table dimmed, it cast a fading halo over his expression.
An expression that held no surprise.
***
Mid Winter.
The wind had taken on a cruel edge—sharp, slicing across the shoulders of Chronos soldiers, their breath steaming in front of their smooth white helmets. They stood silent in city squares, beside crumbling government buildings and graffiti-covered barricades. Chronos insignias shimmered on their chest, faint green thread-light pulsing gently in their armor's seams.
Children stared at them from behind curtains—parents pulling them away.
In the skies above, drone squadrons etched complex formations over frostbitten clouds. Armored vehicles carved slow, deliberate lines through roads. Checkpoints flared with complex surveillance systems that ran continuous scans.
And everywhere—whispers.
How did he build all this?
Did he already know it would happen?
Is he trying to take over?
The questions dove quietly in the air, everyone could hear them.
Something was imminent. Something everyone realized a bit too early.
Eventually, a leak came fourth. A secret military lab had captured one of the aliens and dismantled them. The discovery that would tear the world apart.
Inside its shell—Chronos designs.
Its core was a lattice of crystalized thread-light. Its frame echoed weightless elements that existed no where other than classified Chronos/Military contracted technologies. Its systems ran algorithms nearly identical to what the foundation of Chronos was built on.
By morning, it was everywhere.
Newspapers. Radios. Television.
By week's end, there were riots.
Chronos facilities worldwide were locked down. Chronos towers followed. All shutdown. Those in foreign countries were taken over by governments and local militias.
Chronos had lost its credibility.
All that remained now was people's trust in Lucius Cronus—a single thread that held a collapse that'd turn the world into debris and ash.
Lucien said nothing. He read the headlines. Watched the footage of his buildings being raided, taken-over, then destroyed. And in silence, he returned to his work. Not to win them back—but to prepare for what would follow.
They would fall. All of them. He was certain of it.
***
Chronos HQ.
The command wing had been retrofitted for broadcast. The central atrium was reshaped into a studio—towering black panels, lighting arrays, and long flood-lights that threw long shadows over the high-glass walls. The Chronos insignia pulsed across the backdrop.
Reporters lined the back rows behind bulletproof dividers. Cameras panned and adjusted. The live feed was global.
Max stood center-staged, in a dark gray suit.
"My name is Maximilian Crowe. Co-founder and Public-face of Chronos Industries"
His voice echoed through the hall—measured and sharp.
"We've watched people panic. We've read the accusations. Today, we meet them head on."
He paused, letting the weight settle.
"Chronos is not behind these attacks. Our technologies were never intended for harm. What you've seen—those mirror images, these mechanical horrors—are manipulations. Frame jobs created to paint Chronos's image black."
The screens behind him flickered—showing images of the dismantled aliens.
Max didn't flinch.
"This. This is not Chronos. These are systems that are being used against us. Because something is trying to break to our world."
The screens behind him flickered again—Chronos Soldiers were shown now, dressed in all white, with Chrono's insignia centered in their vests.
"This is Chronos. This is meant to protect you. That's what we strive for."
Lucien started approaching the stage.
Max stepped aside.
Lucien stood now in the center, calm and precise.
Green thread-light faintly bled through his coat seams. But people didn't seem to notice.
"I never asked for your faith," he bagan—cold and direct.
"I never demanded your trust."
"I simply built. Offered. And you accepted."
"I offered assistance no one else could... not because I seek control. But rather I know our foe. And they are terrifying..."
"Divided we stand no chance. But together. Maybe. Just maybe. We succeed."
His gaze swept the silent room.
"We are not your enemy—"
Before he could finish.
A tremor shook the floor.
Security alarms stunned everyone.
Weapons were now raised.
Then—
The far western wall detonated inward.
Shards of steel flew outwards.
People's screams were so loud you couldn't hear yourself think.
Dust clouds flooded in. Covering everyone's sight in black and brown.
An armed group surged in—a local militia. Thirty men and women in scavenged gear, painted helmets, modified weapons. They shouted over each other—blaming Chronos, cursing Lucien's name.
Chronos was unarmed—Max's choice.
Gunfire erupted. One sided. The enemy.
Bullets flew out in three directions.
Those aimed at Lucien were met with cold incompetence, simply frozen mid-air as they reached him.
The others were aimed at Max. However he was not in place when they arrived.
The last—Julian.
Max had jumped in front of him—shielding him with his own body.
He took two rounds before he hit the floor—one in his ribs, one clean through his thigh.
The moment Max hit the floor. It was as if the world had come to a stop.
Lucien had vanished.
And when he appeared. He was no longer human. Nor was he a god. He was chaos.
He stood over Max. Watching the fresh wound as Max lay there frozen on the floor.
A pulse of light—green, terrifying—rippled outward as the world began to move again. Shattering what remained of the broken world they stood in. Everyone around him was blasted back, smashing into reinforced glass and lighting rigs.
Lucien's coat burned away, replaced by a sheath of manifested green thread-armor. A ripple that adjusted as he moved. His eyes glowed then hollowed. His steps left shallow craters.
One attacker raised a grenade in his hand—Lucien was already behind him.
He stood there, holding the attacker in place, then in a cold psychotic move, pulled the pin and waited for it to explode.
The result of his actions were so terrifying that the rest of the attackers dropped everything they had and started running outward.
But he was not done.
Lucien raised his hand, grabbing the air and pulling it tightly down.
What followed was barbaric. Humans. All around him. Were crushed top to bottom.
A sight that tethered the last thread humanity had.
All that left now—
Total. Imminent. Destruction.