MARVEL : Starts From Zombie universe

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ShareIn the quiet corridor, the soft patter of rain against the glass filled the air. Dim lights cast faint halos on the gray walls, enhancing the somber mood.

At the far end of the hallway, a door stood slightly ajar, with a faint light spilling out from within. Inside was a small, sparsely furnished hospital ward. The faint sound of rain and the occasional creak of the building's structure were the only sounds.

An old man with silver hair lay in the hospital bed. His face, lined with the years, was pale but calm. His hands rested gently on the quilt, and his eyes were closed as though he were meditating or perhaps dreaming.

A faded black tattoo of numbers marked his arm—remnants of a past long gone. On the nightstand beside him sat a gleaming purple helmet, its surface unmarred, yet heavy with significance.

Suddenly, the old man's eyes snapped open, and four distinct reflections flickered in his bloodshot blue irises.

The unexpected visions made his already overworked mind grind to a halt. He blinked furiously, trying to comprehend what he was seeing.

"Not again," he thought. These apparitions, these ghosts from the past, usually came to haunt him only in the moments before sleep—not like this, in the middle of his waking hours.

But he composed himself and began to analyze the hallucinations, if only as a means to distract himself from the overwhelming weight of his existence.

The figure on the far left held a metal staff. His demeanor suggested he could end a life with just a flick of his wrist.

The two figures in the middle looked unremarkable at first glance, though the sight of one—a skull-faced specter—struck a chord of familiarity. That fleeting recognition, however, vanished almost as quickly as it came.

It was the fourth figure that made the old man freeze in shock.

A face, one with the same silver hair as his own, stared back at him. His eyes widened in disbelief, and his breath hitched.

The sight triggered something deep within him, like an old wound suddenly reopening. His lips trembled as the weight of the realization hit him, and then his face crumpled, giving way to tears.

The old man wept uncontrollably, his sobs echoing through the quiet ward. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."

The Punisher, standing at the foot of the bed, watched the old man cry without a trace of emotion. His face remained stoic, and his grip tightened on the gun he held—a weapon meticulously crafted to avoid using any metal.

"I thought Magneto was supposed to be a warrior, not a broken man in a hospital bed," the Punisher growled, his voice cold with disdain. His eyes locked on the old man's forehead as he raised the gun.

BANG.

The silence of the ward was shattered by the gunshot. Blood sprayed across the pristine white sheets, and the dim light in the room flickered before going out entirely. Outside, the rain continued to fall, indifferent to the violence within.

Moments later, four figures stepped out into the empty street. The surrounding area was eerily silent, save for the rain. Nearby, the ground was littered with the mutilated remains of Magneto's subordinates.

"What now? Magneto is dead. What's the next move?" the old man, Stickman, asked softly. He adjusted his posture, wincing at the strain on his back. He was too old to keep up with the relentless pace set by Pietro, who had led their escape.

Adrian turned to face him, his expression unreadable. "The rain will stop by morning, and when the people of Salt Lake City see the bodies, they'll assume it was just another atrocity by their masters."

He wiped the raindrops off his face, his voice calm but steely. "Eventually, Magneto's followers will realize he's dead. Those vying for his throne will rise to power."

Matt Murdock, standing nearby, nodded and absently wiped the water off his sunglasses—a habit from his days of sight, long before he lost his vision.

"Isn't that exactly what Magneto's reign was like? Nothing's changed," Stickman remarked.

Adrian motioned for Frank Castle and Pietro to get into the car. Turning back to Stickman, he replied, "There will be some differences. In an effort to secure power, they'll treat their subordinates slightly better—for a time. But few can command like Magneto did. This is only a temporary reprieve. We'll be back here soon enough."

Stickman shrugged. "Fair enough. So, what's next? Are you going after the Hulk now?" he asked with a hint of sarcasm. "If so, let me know—I might want to sit that one out."

The vast wasteland was ruled by four supervillains: the Hulk, Magneto, Doctor Doom, and the Red Skull. With Magneto dead, Hulkland was the closest target geographically.

Adrian ignored the jab and held up Magneto's purple helmet, examining it closely.

The Punisher had claimed Magneto's life, but Adrian had taken what truly mattered—the helmet. A device that could shield its wearer from all forms of telepathy and psionics. In a world full of telepathic threats, it was a priceless asset.

"No," Adrian said at last. "We're not going after the Hulk. Let him have his fun for now."

He placed the helmet on his head, adjusting it as though testing its fit. After a moment, he climbed into the passenger seat of the car. He turned to Stickman, who still stood outside in the rain.

"Let's go find an old friend of yours. First, the X-Men. Then, you'll join me."

Stickman hesitated for a moment, then sighed and climbed into the car.

Far away, in a desolate canyon, a group of identical men worked together to bury corpses in a large pit. Their murmurs and curses were faint, lost in the wind.

Suddenly, they froze in unison, their heads snapping up to look at the horizon.

A faint roar echoed across the yellow sands—the unmistakable sound of an approaching engine.

End of Chapter