Please Understand This Was To Give A New Look To Films That May Never Get Another Film To The Ones That Deserve Better!

Divergent: After The War

Even weeks after the final battle, the stench of Amity’s devastation clung to everything, a constant, visceral reminder of the price they’d paid for freedom.

Tris, standing on the charred remains of the Ferris wheel, felt the familiar ache in her chest, a dull echo of Will’s loss, of Al’s betrayal, of the countless others who had fallen.

Beside her, Tobias ran a hand through his perpetually messy hair, his silver eyes scanning the horizon.

“We should start clearing this,” he said, his voice rough. “The sooner we rebuild, the sooner people can start to heal.”

Tris nodded, but her heart wasn’t in it, healing felt like a distant, almost impossible dream.

They had won, yes, but at what cost? The factions were shattered, Dauntless decimated, Amity in ruins, and Erudite…Erudite had proven its true colours, leaving a stain on the city that would take generations to scrub clean.

“Where do we even begin?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Tobias turned, his gaze softening as he met hers. “With each other,” he said, stepping closer and taking her hand.

“We start with the people we have left,We rebuild from the ground up, creating something new, something better.

We learn from our mistakes and build a society based on unity, not division.”

His words were strong, filled with the conviction that she desperately needed. But even with his hand in hers, a tremor of doubt ran through her. Could they really do it? Could they truly build a better world after all this destruction?

The Council, comprised of representatives from the surviving factions, had convened almost daily since the battle's end.

They argued endlessly about the future: about leadership, about governance, about the very definition of what their society would be.

The old faction system was dead, that much was clear. But what would replace it? Some advocated for a complete dismantling of all structures, a return to a simpler, agrarian life. (Others, mostly remnants of Erudite, pushed for a technologically advanced society, controlled by those deemed most intelligent.)

Tris and Tobias found themselves caught in the middle, advocating for a system that honored the values of each faction – bravery, selflessness, knowledge, peace, and honesty – without the rigid constraints that had ultimately led to war.

They believed in a society where divergence was not a threat, but a strength.

One evening, after another grueling Council meeting that had ended in deadlock, Tris found herself wandering the makeshift camp that had been established near the ruins of Dauntless headquarters.

People were huddled around fires, sharing stories and meager rations. She saw children playing, their laughter a fragile melody in the otherwise somber atmosphere.

Then she saw Caleb.

He was sitting alone, his face buried in his hands. He hadn't said more than a few words to her since the war. He was still plagued by guilt over his betrayal, over aiding Jeanine Matthews.

Tris hesitated, then approached him. Sitting beside him, she said softly, "Caleb?"

He looked up, his eyes red-rimmed. "Tris. I... I don't know what to say."

"You helped," she replied, surprising even herself…You ultimately helped us win. (You atoned for your mistakes.)

He shook his head. "It's not enough. I can't... I can't forgive myself."

"Then let us forgive you," Tris pleaded.

We need you, Caleb. We need your intelligence, your knowledge. We need you to help us build a better future. Don't let your past define you. Let it be a lesson, a reminder of what happens when knowledge is used for selfish gain."

A glimmer of hope entered in his eyes. For the first time in weeks, Tris saw a bit of the brother she used to know.

Later that night, as she lay beside Tobias, staring up at the star-filled sky, she felt a renewed sense of determination. It wouldn't be easy, there would be setbacks, disagreements, and moments of profound despair. (But they had to try)

For themselves, for the fallen, and for the future!

The next morning, Tris stood before the Council, her voice clear and strong. We cannot erase the past," she said, "but we can learn from it, We cannot rebuild the factions, but we can honor their values. We must create a society that celebrates diversity, that fosters unity, and that protects freedom.

We must be Divergent.

Her words hung in the air, followed by a long, pregnant silence. (Then, slowly, heads began to nod)

A spark of hope, almost extinguished, began to happen once more.

The journey to rebuild had just begun. But this time, they would face it together, Divergent and united.

The uneasy peace that settled over Chicago felt like a thin sheet of ice over a raging river. The Erudite threat was neutralized, Jeanine Matthews dead, and the factions, though battered and bruised, still stood. But the war had left gaping wounds, visible in the bombed-out landscapes and, more profoundly, in the fractured psyches of the people.

Tris, haunted by her past actions and the loss of so many, struggled to navigate this new reality. She was no longer the naive dauntless initiate, but a hardened soldier, a leader, and a survivor burdened by guilt.

Tobias, always her anchor, was similarly changed, his stoicism often masking the deep scars of the conflict. They both tried, desperately, to rebuild, to instill hope in a world steeped in fear and mistrust.

The council, a shaky coalition of representatives from each faction - Johanna Reyes from Amity, Marcus Eaton surprisingly leading Abnegation, Jack Kang representing Candor, and a new, less militaristic figure from Dauntless - struggled to govern.

Old rivalries simmered beneath the surface, fueled by the shortages of resources and the lingering power vacuum left by Erudite.

Then, it began.

First, it was whispers. Children speaking in hushed tones, telling stories of shadowy figures that moved at inhuman speeds, figures that seemed to phase through walls. They spoke of coldness, a chilling despair that settled over them when these figures were near.

The council dismissed it as post-traumatic stress, the overactive imaginations of children scarred by war. But the whispers grew louder, more persistent. Adults started experiencing similar sensations - a deep unease, a feeling of being watched, a drop in temperature inexplicable by weather patterns.

Then came the disappearances.

A Candor lawyer vanished from his office, the door locked from the inside, no sign of forced entry. A Dauntless guard disappeared from his post, leaving only his uniform and a growing sense of dread among the other guards.

An Abnegation farmer disappeared from his fields, his crops untouched, his family distraught.

Tris and Tobias, their instincts honed by years of conflict, knew something was terribly wrong. They began their own investigation, delving into the growing paranoia that permeated the city.

They questioned witnesses, examined crime scenes, and pieced together fragments of information, each clue more baffling than the last.

One chilling detail emerged. The disappearances followed a pattern. They were happening in areas where the faction boundaries were weakest, where the barriers between beliefs and ideologies were most porous.

Places where the Divergent, those who could move freely between factions, felt most at home.

They found a common thread amongst the witnesses too - all spoke of a chilling sensation, a feeling of being drained, as if their life force was being slowly siphoned away.

Tobias, standing in the deserted office of the vanished Candor lawyer, felt the cold himself.

A bone-chilling, unnatural cold that settled deep within his brain. He looked at Tris, his eyes filled with a fear he hadn’t seen since the days of Erudite's control.

"This isn't human, Tris," he said, his voice a low growl. "This is something… else."

Tris, her own fear rising, clenched her fists. The comfortable illusion of peace shattered. They had fought a war against oppression, against control, against the eradication of Divergence. But now, they faced a threat they couldn’t understand, a threat that seemed to prey on the very essence of what made them unique.

This wasn't a faction war. This was something far more dangerous. And the Divergent, once again, were at the center of it.

The war for Chicago was over, but the fight for survival had just begun.

The new enemy wasn't human, and its motives were terrifyingly unclear, The only thing certain was that if Tris and Tobias didn't find a way to stop it, everything they had fought for would be lost.

And this time, the loss might be permanent.

Unlocking The Comicbook Series Vol.1 Aug.19.2025 (OnVeronica Anne Roth Birthday)

The Hunger Games: Old Ways New Days

Outside, the perpetual dusk of District 12 clung like a shroud.

Coal dust, ingrained into the very fabric of our lives, swirled in the air, a constant reminder of the hunger that gnawed at our bellies and the brutal reality of the Games.

I, Willow Everdeen, am not Katniss Everdeen’s direct descendant, but her legacy hangs heavy in the air, a legend whispered in hushed tones around the crackling hearth fires.

They say she brought down the Capitol.

They say she ushered in an era of peace.

But peace, like everything else in District 12, is a relative term.

The Capitol still exists, though weakened, fractured into warring factions vying for control.

The Games, though supposedly abolished, have been reborn in a twisted in a more insidious form called the Supplemental Games.

Instead of children, tributes are now young adults, 18 to 25, selected not by reaping, but by a lottery that feels even more rigged than the original.

The "prize" isn't survival in an arena, but a guaranteed life of luxury within the Capitol, a coveted position that often comes at the cost of their soul.

My older brother, Bram, is 22, and his name has been entered into the lottery for the past four years. Every year, the dread settles into my stomach on the day of the Selection.

Every year, my heart pounds like a trapped bird as Mayor Hawthorne drones on about civic duty and the "opportunity" to serve the nation.

This year is no different.

I sit beside my younger sister, Primrose (named, inevitably, after the original Prim), her small hand clutching mine. Her eyes, wide and frightened, mirror the terror in the faces of everyone gathered in the square. Bram stands with the other eligible young men, his shoulders slumped, his gaze fixed on the ground. He refuses to meet my eye. He knows I’m watching him, waiting for the inevitable.

The Mayor finishes his dreary speech and steps aside, allowing a woman with a face painted so meticulously it resembles a porcelain mask to approach the podium.

She represents the Capitol, a figurehead of power and privilege. Her voice, amplified by a scratchy microphone, cuts through the tense silence.

“And now, for the selection! May the odds be…considered advantageous.”

The lottery drum rattles, a hollow, ominous sound that sends a shiver down my spine, the woman reaches inside her gloved hand selecting a slip of paper.

(My breath hitches in my throat)

She unfolds the paper, her painted lips forming a tight, unnatural smile. "Bram Everdeen!"

A wave of nausea washes over me. Primrose cries out, burying her face in my shoulder. Bram doesn't move, frozen in place, his face ashen.

The crowd parts, allowing guards in ill-fitting Peacekeeper uniforms to escort him towards the small stage erected for the selection.

He stumbles, almost falling, and for a moment, our eyes meet!

I see not resignation, but a desperate, pleading look.

He doesn’t want this. He doesn't want their "advantage."

He wants to stay here, scraping by, with his family.

He opens his mouth to speak, perhaps to refuse, but a guard clamps a hand over his mouth, silencing him. The woman with the porcelain face smiles, a chilling, empty gesture.

"Congratulations, Mr. Everdeen! You have secured your future!"

Secure his future? They've stolen it. They've ripped him away from us, promising him a gilded cage while leaving us to starve in the mines.

A rage, cold and sharp, begins to simmer within me. Katniss Everdeen fought to end this. She sacrificed everything to break the Capitol's hold. Had her efforts been in vain? Had all that suffering been for nothing?

As Bram is led away, his eyes still locked on mine, a promise forms in my mind, a vow whispered in the face of impossible odds. I will not let him go. I will not let them take him. I will find a way to bring him home. Even if it means confronting the Capitol myself, even if it means walking headfirst into the heart of darkness, I will not abandon my brother. The old ways were bloody, and the new days are corrupt, but hope, like coal dust, can cling stubbornly to life, waiting for a spark to ignite. And that spark, I realize, has just been lit within me.

More Pages Will Unlock September 14, 2025: In honor Of The Org. Book Release By Suzanne Collins

( The First Hunger Games Comic Book Away From This Movie Will Release Aug.20.2025 In Honor of Her Birthday)

The Punisher: Triple Pain

Frank Castle knelt in the rain-slicked alley, the metallic tang of blood thick in the air. Three bodies lay sprawled around him, each a testament to the ruthlessness he wielded. They were low-level thugs, cogs in a machine he was determined to dismantle. This particular machine was churning out a new, particularly nasty brand of street drug called "Triple Pain." It was insidious, addictive, and left its users broken shells.

He holstered his 9mm, the wet leather creaking softly. The Punisher wasn't just about dispensing justice; he was about erasing evil. And Triple Pain, like all the other plagues that festered in Hell's Kitchen, had to be eradicated.

His intelligence, gleaned from torture and interrogation, pointed to a single name: Dr. Elias Thorne. A disgraced pharmacologist, whispered about in the underworld as a genius with a twisted mind. Thorne was the architect of Triple Pain, the puppeteer pulling the strings.

Frank knew confronting Thorne wouldn't be simple. The man was protected, shrouded in layers of security and anonymity. He needed a lead, a crack in the armor.

He pulled out a small, waterlogged phone from the pocket of one of the dead thugs. It was passcode-protected, of course. Frank smiled grimly. Passcodes were easily broken.

Hours later, after a combination of rudimentary hacking and brute force, he had cracked the phone. Amidst the usual drug deals and threats, one text message stood out: "Meeting. Warehouse D-12. Midnight. Doctor's orders."

Warehouse D-12. Frank knew the location. It was down by the docks, a dilapidated, forgotten corner of the city. Perfect for a clandestine meeting.

He arrived at the warehouse an hour early, melting into the shadows. The rain had stopped, leaving the air heavy and humid. The only sound was the rhythmic lapping of the water against the pilings.

As midnight approached, vehicles began to arrive – sleek black sedans, armored trucks, and even a couple of motorcycles ridden by heavily armed men. The security was tighter than he expected. This wasn't just a simple drug deal.

Frank watched, his patience a weapon as sharp as any blade. He needed to see the faces, understand the players, and find his entry point.

Finally, a sleek, black SUV pulled up, its windows tinted black. Two men in dark suits exited, scanning their surroundings with practiced vigilance. They opened the rear door, and a figure emerged.

He was tall and gaunt, with piercing blue eyes that seemed to radiate a chilling intelligence. His hair was slicked back, revealing a high forehead etched with lines of calculation. He wore a meticulously tailored suit, a stark contrast to the grimy surroundings.

This was Dr. Elias Thorne.

As Thorne addressed the assembled group, his voice, amplified by a small microphone clipped to his lapel, cut through the night air. He spoke of profits, of expanding the market, and of eliminating "competition." His words were devoid of any moral compass, filled with a cold, clinical detachment.

Frank had heard enough. He needed to get closer, to understand the extent of Thorne's operation. He couldn't simply blast his way in. He needed information, and he needed it now.

He spotted a ventilation shaft near the loading dock. It was a tight fit, but it offered a potential entry point. He wouldn't be able to take a weapon with him, but he was the Punisher. He didn't need weapons. He was a weapon.

Slipping into the shadows, he pried open the vent cover and climbed inside. The air was thick with dust and the metallic tang of rust. He moved silently, inching his way through the narrow shaft, the sounds of Thorne's meeting barely audible.

He finally reached a grate overlooking the warehouse floor. Through the gaps, he could see Thorne, surrounded by his enforcers, holding up a small vial filled with a shimmering, iridescent liquid.

"This," Thorne said, his voice dripping with pride, "is the future. This is Triple Pain, enhanced. More potent, more addictive, and more… rewarding."

He then turned to one of his enforcers and handed him the vial. "Administer a dose to our… guest."

Frank's blood ran cold. A guest? Who was Thorne holding captive? And what did he intend to do with them?

He had to find out.

He braced himself and kicked out the grate, landing silently on the catwalk below. The sudden noise caused a ripple of surprise throughout the warehouse.

"What the hell was that?" Thorne hissed, his eyes narrowing.

Frank didn't answer. He simply drew his combat knife and leaped into the fray, the Punisher descending like a specter of justice, ready to unleash a torrent of Triple Pain of his own. The pain of justice. The pain of consequence. The pain of the Punisher.

John Wick: The End

Rain lashed against the windows of the Cessna as Dimitri wrestled the controls.

The little plane bucked and shuddered in the teeth of the storm raging over the desolate Aleutian Islands. Below, the churning grey sea was a maw promising oblivion. Dimitri, however, felt a nervous excitement bubbling beneath his weathered exterior.

He was close!

After all these years, he was finally close…

He hadn't seen John Wick since... well, since before he put the gun down. Since before he buried his wife and adopted that goddamn beagle. Back then, they were brothers in arms, carving a bloody swathe through the underworld.

Then, John disappeared, swallowed by grief and buried under a veneer of normalcy with being on the run for everything he could put together in his mind like a puzzle.

Dimitri had respected his choice, though a part of him had always wondered, always waited.

Now, the whisper had reached him: John Wick was back. And not just back, but a storm of vengeance unleashed. The whispers, however, led Dimitri not to New York, but to this godforsaken archipelago.

It was a single cryptic message, relayed through an old contact: The Albatross flies west.

Albatross?

(That was the name of John's favorite dive bar back in the day, the one tucked away in a forgotten corner of Moscow. And west...)

the Aleutians were, arguably, the farthest west he could go.

Unless John had taken to building a moon base, this was it? he thought

The storm began to abate as the Cessna finally limped towards a tiny rugged island, Dimitri spotted the rudimentary airstrip more a flattened patch of gravel than anything else. He set the plane down with a teeth-jarring bump before having the chance to removing the key.

(Stepping out into the crisp, salt-laced air, Dimitri pulled his thick fur-lined coat tighter around him)

The island was bleak, windswept, and sparsely populated… A few ramshackle buildings clung to the lee side, huddled against the relentless elements.

The only sign of life was a lone figure standing near a battered pickup truck. As Dimitri approached, he recognized the weathered face, the stoic posture, the air of coiled danger that even years of supposed peace couldn't erase.

It was John Wick.

He was older, his face etched with lines of sorrow and hard-fought battles. His eyes were colder, sharper, devoid of the warmth Dimitri remembered. He wore a simple, practical parka and carried, not a weapon, but a fishing net. (from what he can see to knowing his eyes was enough of a weapon)

"John," Dimitri said, his voice rough with disuse and the emotion that clawed at his throat.

John didn't smile… He simply nodded, a curt acknowledgment. "Dimitri. You shouldn't have come."

I had to John! Dimitri replied, meeting John's gaze head-on. I remember when i heard you were back the FIRST TIME. Remember when I heard about Viggo's son, about the car, the dog...but this you going to far

John's hand tightened on the fishing net. "That's my business."

"It always was," Dimitri said, stepping closer. "But this... this is bigger. They're whispering your name again, John. Everyone knows the Baba Yaga is back. You've painted a target on your back bigger than Russia."

A flicker of something, maybe weariness, crossed John's face…Then they can try to hit it.

"You can't do this alone, John."

"I always have." he replied

Dimitri shook his head. "We were brothers, John. We bled together. I know what you're capable of. But you can't fight the whole world. Let me help you."

John looked out at the turbulent sea, the wind whipping his hair around his face. After a long, agonizing silence, he finally spoke, his voice barely a whisper to the sunset.

"There's something else. Something... bigger than Viggo, bigger than the Continental. Something that's coming."

He turned back to Dimitri, his eyes burning with a dark intensity. "They've broken the rules, Dimitri. And they're coming for everyone."

He paused, a grim smile playing on his lips. "You really want to help, Dimitri? Then get your gun. Because we're going to need it."

Dimitri felt a chill run down his spine, a primal instinct kicking in. He hadn't held a weapon in years, hadn't felt the adrenaline surge in his veins, the cold calculation of survival. But looking into John's eyes, he knew.

This was no longer about vengeance, This was about something far more dangerous.

This was about survival… The world was changing, and the Baba Yaga was back to meet it, with his brother at his side.

The old life called.

"Where do we start?" Dimitri asked, a spark of grim excitement igniting within him.

The rain began to fall again, washing away the rust of his dormant past, revealing the steel beneath. The storm within him, like the one raging around them, was just beginning.

 Sept.2.2025 : I’ll add more of whats sitting in my vault of Comics, Scripts & Artwork to Keanu Reeves Character John Wick.

Hostel: Kids & Money (Rated R)

Whats the “Password” Again? She spoke outloud to the group of rich women who lost they’re freedom to think without a man!

(Dont worry im watching them, they are fine, im watching: another in the group added)

As the day shined light on the truth before all that happens & went on at night, seem normal to the children that came and went like a bowl of cereal and milk to the party in the hostel hotel rooms that only got wilder every other day.

The kids, who were all between the ages of 7 and 18, were determined to make the most of their summer vacation before heading back to all the young food being moved faster by the demand of the hungry rich.

Who would buy the children other rich people wanted to only stamp ownership and tariff to what they never wanted in the first place.

They downed shots of cheap vodka and danced to loud music, their movements fueled by a mixture of excitement and recklessness. But amidst all the chaos, there was one topic that seemed to be on everyone's mind: money.

"I can't believe how expensive everything is these days," complained one of the girls, a pretty blonde named Sarah. "I'm barely making enough to cover my rent and tuition, let alone have any fun."

"Tell me about it," agreed her friend, a brunette named Jess. "I'm working two jobs just to make ends meet, and I still don't have any money left over for anything extra."

The other kids nodded in agreement, commiserating about the high cost of living and the difficulties of making ends meet on a tight budget. But as the night wore on, the conversation took a darker turn.

"You know what I hate the most about being broke?" said a guy named Max, a tall, muscular jock with a cocky grin. "Having to rely on other people for handouts. It's emasculating."

"I hear you," said another guy, a skinny, nerdy type named Tim.

"But what choice do we have? We're all stuck in the same boat, trying to make it in a world that's rigged against us."

Speak for yourself you don’t have to lay next to who you cant replace or say no without being sad all the time (one spoke)

While you have all you can ask for off our risk of not returning the next day (Tim responded)

As the day got late the adults continued to drink and complain about their financial struggles. But unbeknownst to them, their conversation had been overheard by someone with a sinister plan.

A creepy old man named Mr. Grigori, had been eavesdropping on the women from the shadows. And as he listened to their complaints about money and all one shouldn’t had heard before he sent Max & Tim with a wicked smile spread across his face.

Poor, foolish children, he muttered to himself.

"They have no idea what true suffering is. But they will soon find out."

As the night wore on, Mr. Grigori began to put his plan into action. To crept into the room while the kids were passed out, snatching them up while phones would only go off after he was long gone.

(And when they woke up the next morning, they’ll found themselves stranded, with no way to get home.

But that was only the beginning of their troubles. For as they would soon discover, Mr. Grigori had a taste for cruel games and twisted amusements. And he would stop at nothing to extract every last cent from these hapless, helpless kids.

As they fought to survive in a hostel from hell, the kids would learn the true cost of their greed and carelessness. And they would come to realize that some debts can never be repaid with just being a mindless child like before.

 The end!

(Yes there is more but its so dark i don’t think anyone should read it !)

The Expendables: Fight For More

The jungle hung, thick and heavy, a suffocating blanket woven with the stench of decay and anticipation.

Barney Ross lost brother ROGUE, his face a roadmap of scars etched by time and war, wiped a bead of sweat from his brow.

Beside him, Lee Christmas meticulously sharpened a throwing knife, the rhythmic rasp a counterpoint to the chirping of unseen insects.

"Think we got a clear shot, Lee?" Barney rasped, his voice gravelly from years of yelling orders and weathering explosions.

Lee didn't look up. "Clear enough. But Dante's got a lot of hardware. And he's got that freak, Vargas, playing point."

Vargas. The name alone tasted like poison on Barney's tongue. The man was a walking nightmare, a genetically enhanced brute with strength that defied logic and a hunger for violence that bordered on madness. Vargas was Dante's personal executioner, a human weapon powered by rage and experimental drugs.

"We knew it wouldn't be a picnic," Barney said, adjusting the grip on his custom Colt Anaconda. He glanced at Gunner Jensen, who was busy calibrating a shoulder-mounted grenade launcher. "Gunner, you ready to paint that compound red?"

Gunner grunted, a sound that could mean anything from agreement to imminent explosion. "Born ready, Barney. Just tell me where to aim."

Yin Yang, nimble and silent as a shadow, materialized beside them. "The hostage... Dr. Chen... she is in building three. Heavy guard. Complicated entry."

"Complicated is our middle name, Yin," Barney replied with a grim smile. He looked to Toll Road, whose hulking frame was a reassuring presence. "Toll, you and Hale Caesar clear the perimeter. Take out any stragglers."

Toll Road cracked his knuckles, the sound like breaking twigs. "Consider it done, boss."

Hale Caesar, his Gatling gun gleaming under the dappled sunlight, simply nodded. "Let's get to work."

The plan was simple, brutally so. Infiltrate the compound, rescue Dr. Chen – a brilliant scientist forced to develop a deadly bio-weapon for Dante – and bring Dante down. Dante, a ruthless arms dealer with a pathological love for chaos, posed a threat to global stability, and The Expendables were the only ones crazy enough to take him on.

As they moved through the dense undergrowth, a sudden burst of gunfire erupted from their left. Dante's men had found them.

"Contact!" Lee yelled, throwing a knife that found its mark with deadly accuracy.

The jungle exploded with the sounds of war. Gunfire ripped through the trees, grenades detonated with deafening roars, and the air crackled with the energy of pure adrenaline.

Barney, leading the charge, felt a surge of exhilaration mixed with a primal fear. This was what he lived for, the chaos, the danger, the camaraderie of men who would lay down their lives for each other.

They fought their way through the initial wave of enemies, their combined skills and experience turning the jungle into a killing field. Lee danced through the firefight, his knives a blur of steel, while Gunner rained down explosive hell upon Dante's ranks. Toll Road and Hale Caesar, a walking wall of muscle and firepower, advanced relentlessly, crushing any resistance in their path. Yin Yang, a whirlwind of martial arts fury, dispatched enemies with lightning-fast strikes.

They reached the main compound, a fortified complex surrounded by razor wire and armed guards. The fight was far from over.

As Barney signaled the team to regroup, a hulking figure emerged from the shadows, his eyes burning with a cold, inhuman rage.

It was Vargas . He roared, a sound that shook the very ground, and charged towards them, his fists clenched and ready to unleash a storm of devastation.

"Vargas!" Barney growled, his hand tightening on his weapon. "Looks like we're about to have some fun."

Vargas slammed into Hale Caesar, sending the mountain of a man reeling. The force of the impact was staggering. Barney knew they were in for the fight of their lives. This wasn't just about stopping Dante anymore. This was about surviving Vargas. This was about more.

Rogue pulls his gun, aiming it at his brother, than Vargas… before pulling the trigger…wake Barney up in his tent deep in the dark jungle.