Obsidian Winter: Rise of the Black God of marvel

(Red Lake Prison — 10 Months Later)

Time in Red Lake had a strange rhythm—like a second heartbeat. One you forgot was there until it faltered.

Ten months had passed since Jeanyx Romanov shattered the attack in the yard. Since then, the prison had returned to its old routine—on the surface. But Jeanyx had learned long ago: stillness was a lie in places like this.

He noticed first in the workshop.

One of the older inmates—Pyotr, a skilled machinist who used to hum a tune from Minsk every night—stopped showing up. The guards gave no reason.

Then came Nils, a Finnish forger with two golden teeth and a sharp tongue. Found hanging from his own shoelaces.

Shoelaces weren't allowed in Red Lake.

Within weeks, six more men were either gone, transferred, or "suicided." No blood. No evidence. Just whispers.

And the guards? Not alarmed. Not even curious.

It wasn't the murders that disturbed Jeanyx.

It was the efficiency.

Red Lake was brutal, but never quiet. And this silence screamed.

He was in his cell that morning, shirt off, chest heaving with the rhythm of perfect pushups—palms flat on the cold stone, spine aligned like a rifle—when a sharp, deliberate knock echoed from the metal door.

He stopped at ninety-nine.

Straightened. Sweat shimmered across his back.

The square peephole in the door slid open with a metallic hiss.

A face appeared.

Grayed. Hardened. Familiar.

"Генерал," Jeanyx said, unimpressed, wiping his brow with a towel.(General.)

General Dmitry Ivanov smirked through the slot, scanning the room.

"Давно не виделись, Jeanyx. Вижу, ты воспользовался своим королевским статусом, чтобы обустроиться."(It's been a long time, Jeanyx. I see you've used your royal status to live in comfort.)

His tone dripped with both admiration and condescension.

Jeanyx's cell was unlike any other in Red Lake. A leather recliner from Milan sat beside an Egyptian cotton bed with gold-thread sheets. A polished desk held the latest American radio. Even the air felt warmer—thanks to a state-of-the-art air conditioning unit designed by Willis Carrier himself.

Jeanyx shrugged. "Что ты хочешь, генерал? Я занимался своей утренней рутиной, пока ты не вмешался."(What do you want, General? I was doing my morning routine before you interrupted me.)

His tone held no rank. No salute. Just boredom—and contempt.

Dmitry's smile thinned.

"Все еще дерзкий, даже здесь. Хоть ты и принц, ты заключённый, а я всё ещё генерал. Стоит помнить это."(Still fiery, even here. Even if you're a prince, you're still a prisoner. And I'm still a general. Best remember that.)

He pointed to the panjas bracelets Jeanyx wore—delicate silver chains adorned with snowflake motifs, worn on both hands since the age of five. A gift from a dead mother, the only thing his father had ever given him that had meaning.

"Ты должен быть благодарен, что я позволил тебе оставить их."(You should be grateful I let you keep those.)

Jeanyx met his eyes. Cold. Unmoving.

"Ты не позволил. Ты просто не смог их снять."(You didn't let me. You just couldn't remove them.)

Silence hung between them.

Finally, Dmitry exhaled and opened the door.

A dozen soldiers stood in formation behind him—armed, armored, and tense.

Jeanyx sat calmly on his bed.

"Что тебе нужно?"(What do you want?)

"Ты уже заметил исчезновения заключённых," Dmitry said.(You've noticed the disappearances.)

"Конечно."(Of course.)

"The royal family is... unsettled by how the war is shifting," Dmitry continued. "The Americans are circling like wolves. They need only a reason to enter. So... a program began. Quietly. To give us an edge. Super-soldiers. Enhanced biology. Based on a mold."

Jeanyx's expression didn't change.

"We found it in the mountains of Romania. In a corpse that had... changed. We brought it back. The research began. But so far, everyone who's been exposed to it has either died or... become wrong."

Now Jeanyx looked up.

"And let me guess," he said. "Отец предложил меня добровольцем."(Father volunteered me.)

Dmitry gave a humorless chuckle. "Он сказал, что ты—единственный, кто выжил после всего, что было. Если кто может выдержать это—то ты."(He said you're the only one who's survived everything else. If anyone can take it, it's you.)

Jeanyx stood.

He rolled his shoulders slowly, like a lion waking up.

"Ты пришёл, зная, что я откажусь. Привёл солдат, думая, что этого хватит."(You came knowing I'd refuse. Brought soldiers, thinking they'd be enough.)

Dmitry's smirk faltered.

Jeanyx stepped away from the bed and took his stance.

Bare feet grounded. Hands loose. Eyes like ice.

"Хорошо," he whispered.(Fine.)

"Попробуй."(Try me.)

The room exploded into motion.

The first two soldiers lunged—Jeanyx pivoted, slammed one into the bedframe, then twisted the second's wrist, snapping it with a brutal crunch and redirecting the blade into his own neck.

One down.

He grabbed the broken man's rifle, flipped it like a staff, and jammed the stock into the third's throat, collapsing his windpipe.

Two down.

They rushed him in pairs now.

He ducked under a baton swing and ripped the belt from one attacker, wrapping it around the man's neck and flipping him over his shoulder into a head-first collision with the recliner—the best chair money could buy, now soaked in blood.

Three down.

A soldier tackled him from behind. Jeanyx stomped backward, shattering the man's foot, and then elbowed him in the nose. Cartilage cracked. Blood sprayed the wall like spilled wine.

Two more charged with shock batons. Jeanyx grabbed a radio from his desk, hurled it into one's face, and tackled the other—using the momentum to slam him headfirst into the AC unit.

The hum of the machine stopped. Smoke curled from broken wires.

Six down.

They began hesitating. Too late.

Jeanyx grabbed a metal bed leg, pulled it free with a grunt, and spun like a storm—breaking arms, smashing kneecaps, knocking helmets clean off.

By the time the last two reached him, he was covered in sweat and blood, chest rising with labored breath—but not done.

He elbowed one, kneed the other, and delivered a final punch that ripped the man's jaw loose from his hinge.

All but one soldier lay broken, moaning, twitching.

The last one—barely crawling—was missing his leg below the knee, torn off at the thigh when he landed on the shattered radiator during the fight. He screamed, begged, tried to grab his tourniquet, but passed out before he could stop the bleeding.

Jeanyx turned to Dmitry.

Unmoving.

"Ты ещё хочешь попробовать?"(You still want to try?)

Dmitry looked around at the carnage, then slowly raised one hand—and snapped his fingers.

From the hallway, a second wave of guards stormed in—this time with tranquilizers.

Jeanyx dodged the first dart. Then the second.

But the third struck deep.

He stumbled.

Fourth.

Fifth.

He dropped to one knee.

Dmitry stepped closer as Jeanyx's eyes flickered.

"Ты солдат, Jeanyx. Ты оружие. Ты просто не понял, кому теперь служишь."(You're a soldier, Jeanyx. A weapon. You just haven't figured out who you serve now.)

Jeanyx's vision blurred.

The bracelets on his wrists shimmered faintly.

Then, darkness.