The Nevada desert was quiet for the first time in days.
A silence that didn't mean peace — it meant exhaustion. The kind that came after a massacre. The kind that made even the wind afraid to whisper.
Rows of bodies wrapped in charred blankets lay across the sand.
The air reeked of burnt metal and something worse — melted bone. The once-white tents of Base 47 were nothing but twisted skeletons of steel, their insignias reduced to ash.
Inside the command bunker, the surviving officers sat in the red glow of emergency lights.
Not one word was spoken.
Only the occasional static from the broken comms system.
Major Cole Winters slammed his fist on the table, hard enough to send a cup flying. "Forty-seven men, gone. Burned from the inside out. Not a single trace of their attacker left!"
Lieutenant Avery's voice cracked. "Sir, we found traces of gamma and lead dust... it's not radiation like we've seen before. It's something… evolving."
Winters turned, his eyes bloodshot from sleepless nights.
He stared at the holographic map of Nevada, the blinking red zones forming a shape — something spreading outward from one point: the site of the uranium vault.
"That's where it started," he muttered. "That girl. The one from Vegas. Nero Vex."
The name tasted like venom.
Nobody really knew who she was — just that she'd walked out of that hell alive, glowing faintly, dragging smoke like a shadow.
Captain Yura leaned forward, voice trembling. "Sir, are we sure it's her? Reports said she looked... human."
Winters barked a bitter laugh. "Human? Does a human vaporize fifty trained soldiers without leaving a bone to bury?"
The room went silent again.
Everyone stared at the hollow helmets stacked in the corner — their visors blackened, melted to the skulls beneath.
Outside, the desert wind screamed through the wreckage.
Private Ellis, one of the youngest survivors, was kneeling before a row of makeshift graves.
His trembling hands held a metal tag — his brother's.
He whispered through grit teeth, "They said it was a woman. How the hell could a woman do this?"
Corporal Rafe beside him muttered, "Not a woman. A monster."
Then after a pause, as if trying to convince himself, "And monsters can bleed."
He lit a cigarette, eyes cold, and stared at the distant horizon — where the heat shimmered like a mirage. Somewhere out there, the creature that killed their brothers was still breathing.
Inside the bunker again, Major Winters gave the order:
"Inform the Pentagon. We're activating Project HellHound."
Lieutenant Avery hesitated. "Sir, that program's banned. Those were... biological weapons."
Winters turned, his face stone. "So are they."
He pointed at the screens where data from the destroyed base flashed — faint thermal residues, strange pulse readings, all centering around Nero.
"Whatever she's become... she's part of something larger. And I'm not waiting for Washington to give us permission to bury it."
He turned to the team. "We hunt her down, and anything she's connected to."
He slammed his fist again. "We don't bring them back alive."
Night fell over Nevada like a black veil.
Outside the ruined base, Ellis placed his brother's tag in the sand and stood.
The ground was still warm. He looked at the stars — the same stars his brother used to talk about during long patrols.
"I'll make her pay," he whispered. "For all of you."
In the distance, lightning cracked over the desert.
But it wasn't from the sky — it came from underground, far beyond the horizon.
Something alive, something radiant, was moving beneath the sand.
And though they didn't know it yet, their hunt for Nero and Dr. Unown had already begun.
The revenge of men was coming.
But evolution had already stopped caring.
Beneath the Nevada desert, where the air was colder and the silence felt electric, a massive steel door hissed open.
The air that came out wasn't just cold — it was sterile, recycled for years, untouched by sunlight.
Rows upon rows of colossal containment pods glowed faint blue under flickering lights. Each one pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat buried inside machinery.
Stamped across every metal pod in black were three words: PROJECT HELLHOUND – CLASSIFIED.
Major Winters stood with his officers, their faces lit by the dull glow.
"This is the last resort," he said quietly. "These things weren't built for containment—they were built for extinction."
He turned to the scientist beside him, Dr. Malcolm Rye, the man responsible for the project years ago.
"You said they were too unstable for deployment," Winters muttered.
Rye's eyes reflected the pods. "Unstable doesn't mean useless. They were meant to replace us—machines that fight without fear, that never stop until the target is gone."
He typed a command into the panel. "If you want Nero Vex found... they're your only chance."
A hiss of gas filled the chamber. The lights dimmed.
One by one, the pods opened.
The first Hellhound stepped forward, hydraulic limbs unfolding like a predator stretching after centuries of sleep.
It was eight feet tall, armored in dark alloy that shimmered faintly, as if alive.
Its hands were not hands at all but weaponized extensions — each finger could fold, shift, and align into shapes that hummed with energy.
Its chest bore a glowing insignia of the U.S. military, half-scorched, half-welded.
Its legs—if you could call them that—ended in rotating tire mechanisms capable of propelling it faster than sound.
And its eyes... were twin beams of cold red light, scanning the soldiers with silent judgment.
Dr. Rye spoke softly, as if to an animal he once loved:
"Designation: Unit H-01. Capable of tracking heat, radiation, sound, heartbeat… even thoughts, if they spike fear. You wanted monsters, Major. Here they are."
Major Winters stepped closer, unflinching. "Do they understand orders?"
Rye nodded. "They understand revenge. It's what they were programmed to feel."
The Hellhounds began to move, each one awakening in perfect mechanical sync.
Their bodies hissed, vents releasing thin trails of smoke.
The sound of metal scraping the floor echoed like growls in a cage too small for beasts that big.
Captain Yura whispered, "They look alive…"
Rye answered, "That's because they are. Their neural cores were grown, not built. They think, they learn, and worst of all—they remember."
Major Winters raised his voice.
"You were made for one mission. Track and neutralize a rogue bio-cybernetic anomaly known as Nero."
At that, all eight Hellhounds turned their heads simultaneously toward him.
The red lights in their eyes sharpened.
Winters' throat went dry, but he didn't flinch.
He continued, "Your target is located somewhere near Las Vegas. You are authorized to engage with full discretion. You bring me her remains—whatever's left."
One of the Hellhounds tilted its head slightly, as if processing his words.
Then, for the first time, it spoke—its voice metallic, echoing, almost human.
"...Define remains."
The officers went silent. Even Winters felt a flicker of unease.
"Whatever confirms the kill," he said. "That's your definition."
The Hellhound's red eyes flared once, like an acknowledgment. Then, without further command, it turned toward the exit shaft, its heavy steps shaking the metal floor.
Within minutes, the desert night above the facility split open with light.
A hatch opened in the dunes, and the first Hellhounds raced into the darkness — rolling on bladed tires, tearing through the sand, their metal bodies reflecting moonlight.
From a distance, they looked like spectral predators — part machine, part myth.
And for the first time since the massacre, the humans in Nevada felt hope… though none of them realized the truth:
The Hellhounds were not just weapons.
They were the next phase of evolution — and like all evolution, they didn't plan on stopping.
Outside, the desert howled.
Eight red lights cut through the darkness — the Hellhounds in motion, sand exploding beneath their speed. Their sensors pulsed, catching traces of radiation, heat signatures, even the faint electromagnetic residue left by Nero's prosthetics.
Each step was a silent thunder, each scan a whisper of death on the wind.
But far away, beneath layers of steel and silence, in a small bunker lit by soft white lamps, time moved slower.
"Hygiene Protocol for Synthetic-Biological Entities."
Nero frowned at it, her sharp cybernetic eyes flickering with mild annoyance.
"You seriously made this a written rule?"
The doctor adjusted his tone calm as always.
"Hygiene is not optional, Nero. Your skin-graft layer requires daily cleaning or it risks corrosion and infection. You may not feel it, but you'll malfunction if you ignore it."
She leaned back, crossing her arms. "So what? You want to supervise that too?"
A flicker of discomfort broke his professional calm. "No. Of course not. That's precisely why we're discussing boundaries now."
The hum of distant generators filled the pause.
Unown looked at the list again .
He said, quietly, "You're more human than you think, Nero. But your body needs rules both for the human and the machine parts. It's not about control. It's… about keeping you alive."
Nero's gaze softened slightly. "Alive," she repeated, as if testing the word on her tongue.
"You mean functional," she corrected him with a faint smirk.
The doctor looked up at her — the faintest ghost of a smile behind his tired eyes. "Sometimes there isn't much difference."
For a while, neither spoke.
She dipped the towel into the water and wiped her forearm — metal gleamed beneath patches of living skin, a seamless fusion of flesh and alloy.
The scars of surgery crossed her body like maps of old battles.
"I don't like people looking at me," she murmured.
"I know," Unown said softly. "That's why I'm not."
"Do what you're comfortable with. I only ask you keep the biological layers intact. They're part of what keeps the Unown link balanced."
Nero exhaled slowly, tension fading.
For the first time in a long while, she felt something close to trust — fragile, but real.
"Doctor…" she said quietly. "You ever regret binding me?"
He paused. "Every day. But not because I don't believe in you. Because I believe the world doesn't deserve what you could become."
Her expression softened — but before she could answer, the bunker lights flickered.
The monitors hissed.
A faint, rhythmic pulse appeared on the radar.
Unown leaned closer. "No… that's not right."
"What is it?" Nero asked, already standing.
The screen flashed again.
Multiple heat signatures — moving fast, synchronized, coming straight toward them.
Unown's eyes widened. "They've released the Hellhounds."
Nero's voice went cold. "Then they're already too late."
Above them, under the desert stars, red beams swept across the dunes — hunting, scanning, sniffing for her trace.
Inside, Nero tightened her wrist locks, the faint click of metal echoing through the room.
The war wasn't waiting outside anymore.
It was already on its way.
The bunker was silent except for the faint hum of old servers.
Nero sat cross-legged on the floor, drying her hair after a shower, watching Dr. Unown sift through layers of encrypted files like a ghost looking for his reflection.
"Why are we even digging into that junk site again?" she asked. "Isn't the dark web where you found that shady pizza recipe and almost melted my neural port?"
Unown didn't respond. His tone was distant, analytical.
"There's a pattern here. Multiple data drops, same upload signature, but no traceable source. Like someone's bleeding information intentionally."
He opened one more file. Its title appeared in green glitching text:
HELLHOUND_PROGRAM_V2_LEAK
The screen filled with distorted schematics — not text, but frames of a creature that didn't belong to any science she knew.
Humanoid at first glance, yet monstrous when viewed fully — eight feet tall, built from titanium-fiber mesh and biomechanical muscle. Its hands ended in shifting gun modules, its spine threaded with cables like veins. Twin red eyes burned even through static.
"What… what is that thing?" Nero whispered.
Unown tilted his head. "Designation: Hellhound. A black-budget project from years ago — erased, never announced, not tied to any Unown database. The leak is fresh. Someone uploaded this less than twenty-four hours ago."
Nero frowned. "So… someone wants us to see this?"
"Possibly. Or warn us," Unown said softly.
He scrolled further. There were short, corrupted logs — fragments of test reports:
'Unit HH-07 achieved thermal vision through solid steel…'
'Memory imprint test failed — subject grew self-aware.'
'Termination impossible without critical system meltdown.'
'Awaiting external approval for live deployment.'
The last line blinked faintly, auto-updating as if still active.
Nero's voice broke the silence. "Live deployment? Wait—these things are still being used?"
Unown leaned forward. "No. They were released."
"What do you mean released?"
He turned to her, his eyes reflecting the red light of the monitor. "Someone unleashed them. And the timestamp of the first appearance… matches our attack in Nevada."
The realization hit her like a slow wave. "So… they're hunting us?"
"Not just us," Unown said. "Anything that carries a trace of God of Evolution material. That includes you."
She took a breath, rubbing her temples. "How did you even find this file?"
"The dark web has hidden layers—places you can't enter unless you carry a certain neural signature," he said, glancing at her meaningfully. "Yours opened it for me."
"So, whoever leaked this knew I'd find it."
Unown nodded slowly. "Exactly. That's what worries me."
He reached to disconnect the server drive, but before he could, the entire feed glitched violently. The chatbox flickered alive, lines of text appearing one after another:
UNKNOWN USER: Do not run.
UNKNOWN USER: They are already on the surface.
UNKNOWN USER: Keep her alive, Namola-6.
UNKNOWN USER: The next phase begins.
Then the system collapsed into static.
Unown froze. "They… knew our codename."
Nero looked up, face pale. "Dr… what next phase?"
Before he could answer, a low mechanical growl echoed from beyond the bunker door — heavy, metallic, alive.
The wall sensors flared.
Something massive was moving across the desert floor — too fast, too steady.
Unown whispered, "The Hellhounds aren't just data anymore."
Outside, the storm screamed, and through it came a sound like chains dragging through steel.
Then — a single, thunderous bang.
Dust fell from the ceiling.
Nero turned toward the echo, eyes wide.
Unown's voice was cold now.
"They found us."
The night outside the bunker was no longer quiet.
It roared — not with thunder, but with mechanical breathing. The ground shook like it had a pulse.
Through the cracked metal shutters, Nero could see them — the Hellhounds.
Five… six… no, eight of them, crawling through the sandstorm like armored demons, their red optics burning through the dust.
Dr. Unown's voice inside her mind sharpened like a blade.
"Engaging defense mode."
Before Nero could even move, her body reacted.
Her veins shimmered faintly with blue circuits. Her heartbeat slowed, synced to an alien rhythm.
The first Hellhound lunged.
Nero's hand moved faster than she thought possible — slamming into the metal beast's chest, throwing it backward with a burst of unseen energy. Sparks scattered into the desert wind.
She gasped. "What the—"
> "Don't think. I'm using your neuromuscular channeling," Unown said coldly. "Focus forward."
Another one leapt.
Her left arm twisted, becoming harder, stronger — the skin gleaming faintly like liquid steel. She kicked, spun, slammed. A mechanical growl shattered.
She didn't even feel her own breath anymore.
The sky burned orange with explosions from the base. Military drones whirled above, scanning for targets.
Every strike felt automatic, like a simulation — Nero's body was just a vessel, and Dr. Unown was the ghost inside.
But then, without warning, something flickered in her vision.
Red letters began flashing across her sight.
[ALERT: UNOWN REST REQUIRED]
[SYSTEM OVERLOAD – NEURAL DRAIN 90%]
"Wait—what's happening?!" Nero shouted aloud.
Dr. Unown's voice crackled.
"...Processing fatigue. Neural host overheating… I need to—"
Then silence.
[UNOWN OFFLINE]
The power vanished from her limbs like a switch had been flipped. Her arms felt heavy. The circuits dimmed. Her body, now only human again, stumbled back.
"Unown?! You can't leave me now—"
No answer.
Another Hellhound's shadow loomed over her, blocking the burning sky.
Its red eyes locked onto her trembling frame.
"Please, wake up…" she whispered. "I can't do this alone—"
The creature advanced. Its metal claws struck the sand with the rhythm of death. She tried to run, but her body wouldn't respond like before. The power was gone — no speed, no strength. Just her.
Her mind screamed a hundred thoughts — survival, escape, fear, rage. None of them mattered.
The Hellhound reared up, and for the first time, she saw its face properly — not monstrous, but constructed.
It raised its arm. The wind howled. She closed her eyes, waiting for the end.
But before it struck, the memory of Unown's voice echoed faintly in her fading thoughts.
"Speak for those who can't speak for themselves."
She smiled bitterly. "Guess that includes me now…"
The next second — a blinding flash.
Her body was thrown backward by the shockwave. She hit the ground hard, the breath leaving her chest. The desert wind carried the metallic scent of burning circuits.
Her vision dimmed. Through half-closed eyes, she saw the sky — a fractured horizon painted red and gold.
Then, faintly, a digital whisper returned inside her head — broken, weak.
"Nero… I'm… sorry…"
The sound faded. Her pupils reflected the last light of the fire before the world went black.
Silence followed.
Only the wind moved, sweeping over the battlefield filled with smoke and embers.
The Hellhounds stood still for a moment, scanning the wreckage, then turned toward the horizon — their mission complete.
In the ruins, half-buried in sand and glass, Nero's body lay still — the faint blue lines across her skin slowly fading away.
A final screen flickered in the dust beside her fallen headset core:
[UNOWN REBOOT IN: 72 HOURS]
Then the device went dark.