Afterlife Department - Chapter 111 - Foreshadowing

Your prospects in life are determined by the elemental affinity for magic and streaks of the elements you possess.Logan Kress, a young boy who lost his parents to a plague, loses his elemental streak and affinity but gains something far more potent and potentially lethal in exchange.With his hair now pure white, he can wield magic like never before seen, opening a lot of opportunities for him but inciting the fury of beings infinitely more powerful than him.Read his journey for revenge as he hunts down those responsible for the plague, making allies and creating dangerous enemies along the way.

Hello, welcome to join the scp foundation, as a D-level personnel, you will get the following benefits:

First, you will get a unique identification number printed on your brand new orange clothes (prison uniform), such as D-213.

That’s not enough, you will also get a brand new name, which you will use to communicate with each other in the future! Like Billy-D.

As a D-Class, you just have to satisfy your superiors, and they’re good guys with guns! They will help you to have friendly interactions with all kinds of safe creatures (help the ten-meter killer lizard clean the room)

In order to protect your health at all times, our infirmary is always open, even if your work here is as easy as taking a walk!

When you’re done with a D-Class for a month, you can go home (and be shot), no matter what prisoner you were-

Don’t wait any longer, come and join scp!

- Description from novelbuddy

war, blood, and betrayal carved him into something else. A legend. A killer. A mercenary whose name struck fear into both criminals and so-called heroes alike.But now, the world had changed. Lines blurred between right and wrong, between justice and vengeance. Should he step into the light, wear the mask of a hero, and fight for a cause greater than himself? Or should he embrace the darkness that had always been his home, a place where morality was just another illusion?“Don’t box me in with your shallow ideas of good and evil,” he muttered, his voice calm but edged with danger. “I do what I want, when I want.”The air was thick with tension as he moved like a shadow through the dimly lit room. The writer had no time to react—one moment, he was scribbling nonsense about legends and myths; the next, a cold barrel pressed against the back of his head.The figure smirked beneath his mask, eyes gleaming with something between amusement and menace.“You wanna write fiction?” he whispered. “Then let me show you how real legends are made.”A single gunshot shattered the silence.As the writer’s body slumped over the desk, the man holstered his weapon, stepping into the faint glow of a flickering neon light.“It’s that simple,” he said, his voice unwavering. “I’m Deathstroke.”