The first leak appeared at 2:13 in the morning.
By sunrise, the entire city had seen it.
A fragmented video spread across every major platform simultaneously—old footage corrupted by static and distortion, timestamps broken beyond verification. The clip lasted only nineteen seconds.
Nineteen deeply unpleasant seconds.
White wings unfolded against a black sky.
Buildings bent unnaturally around collapsing space.
People screamed somewhere in the background.
And at the center of the footage stood a figure wreathed in impossible Void-light while reality itself distorted around him like cracked glass.
The Angel of the Void.
Uialon.
The footage ended before destruction truly began.
That somehow made it worse.
---
By morning, District Nine had become quieter.
Not panicked.
Watching.
People still walked the streets. Markets remained open. Reconstruction continued. But conversations lowered whenever public screens replayed the footage overhead.
Fear returned carefully.
Like something remembered rather than discovered.
---
Inside a small neighborhood bakery, Elara sat near the window holding coffee she still wasn't entirely convinced humans actually enjoyed.
Across the counter, the exhausted owner adjusted a television volume downward with visible irritation.
"They've replayed the same clip for three hours," the woman muttered. "News stations are parasites."
The television shifted immediately to panel discussions.
Experts argued over fragmented history.
"—if the footage is authentic—"
"—there's still no confirmation that Lord Malachai and the Angel were—"
"—civilian trauma from the incident remains historically unprecedented—"
Elara remained silent beneath her hood.
Nobody in the bakery recognized her.
Mostly because nobody expected terrifying Void entities to quietly sit near windows drinking coffee while contemplating pastries.
The owner sighed heavily.
"Honestly," she muttered while kneading dough aggressively, "the current guy's been less destructive than half the politicians."
Several customers nodded immediately.
One older man frowned at the screen.
"Still doesn't mean I trust him."
"That's fair," the owner replied. "But my heating works now."
Reasonable argument.
Difficult to emotionally counter.
Elara looked quietly toward the rain outside.
The city felt different today.
Tenser.
Like memory itself had entered the room.
---
Elsewhere, Heroes Guild Headquarters had descended into controlled chaos.
"Where did the footage originate?" Chen demanded.
"No identifiable upload source."
"How is that possible?"
"Simultaneous mirror releases across seventeen independent networks."
Another analyst looked increasingly pale.
"There's more."
Nobody liked those words anymore.
Additional images appeared across the central display.
Old photographs.
Blurry.
Damaged.
Recovered from archives that technically should not exist publicly.
Most showed destruction.
One did not.
The room became very quiet.
A younger Malachai stood beside reconstruction workers decades earlier, long before the Uialon incident. No armor. No wings. No overwhelming Void presence.
Just a tired man carrying supplies while speaking to civilians.
Smiling faintly.
That photograph disturbed the older heroes significantly more than the battle footage.
Vale noticed immediately.
"You recognize this period," she said carefully.
Nobody answered immediately.
One older veteran finally spoke quietly.
"…That was before."
"Before what?"
The veteran stared at the image.
"Before he stopped sleeping."
The room remained silent.
Nobody asked further questions.
Because suddenly they didn't want the answers.
---
Elsewhere, high above the city inside his office, Malachai watched the same leaked materials in silence.
Hex floated nearby unusually subdued for once.
"That's…not great," Hex admitted.
"No."
"The emotional pacing of this manipulation is extremely intentional."
"Yes."
Another image flickered across the display.
Uialon descending through fractured skies.
Another:
Malachai sitting quietly beside emergency workers after a disaster decades ago.
Another:
Ruined cities.
Black wings.
Fear.
Hope.
Exhaustion.
The leaks weren't random.
They were constructing narrative progression.
Humanization.
Then horror.
Connection.
Then catastrophe.
Someone was teaching the public emotional association deliberately.
Elara entered quietly.
"The district feels different," she said immediately.
Malachai nodded once.
"They are reconstructing memory."
Her expression tightened slightly.
"Why?"
"To destabilize certainty."
Hex slowly rotated upside down.
"Which is unfortunately one of humanity's favorite hobbies."
Malachai enlarged one of the recovered photographs silently.
A younger version of himself looked back from decades-old grainy footage.
Calmer.
Softer.
Still exhausted.
Elara studied the image quietly.
"…You looked happy."
The room stilled.
Malachai did not answer immediately.
Outside, thunder rolled softly across distant skyscrapers.
Finally:
"That was a very long time ago."
Something about the way he said it made Hex unusually quiet again.
---
Far away from the city, hidden within abandoned ruins beneath layers of stolen archives and reconstructed data webs, the observer continued working patiently.
Hundreds of fragmented files floated across darkened screens.
Witness testimonies.
Psychological studies.
Heroic incident reports.
Civilian trauma records.
And at the center of it all:
Uialon.
The observer replayed the smiling photograph slowly.
Again.
Again.
Again.
A faint smile formed within the shadows.
"…There you are," the voice whispered softly.
Not searching for the monster.
Searching for the man before it.
Because that was the truly dangerous part.
And somewhere else in the country, another retired survivor quietly vanished before sunrise.
No witnesses.
No struggle.
Only absence.
The past, piece by piece—
was being gathered by someone who understood exactly how terrifying memory could become.