"Time: 3 o'clock in the morning.

  The moon is overhead, casting its faint light over us—the perfect time for our mission. The government, which is supposed to protect its residents, is crumbling under its own incapability. Streets that should be filled with civilians are overrun by terrorists.

  Perfect odds for such a small mission...

  Then why did it go wrong?"

  A man covered in armor from head to toe thinks this while taking his last breath.

  With every passing second, his heartbeat slows.

  3 Days ago...

  "Somewhere in India, there is a warehouse where a few others and I were taken. According to the man who hired us, our mission was simple—but the moment he walked in, I knew something was wrong.

  Standing before us was the man who runs this country from behind the scenes—the richest man alive.

  If he couldn't get what he wanted, then it was up to us to accomplish a task that could very well mean the end of us."

  The man standing before them clears his throat.

  "Your mission is to acquire something that has been promised to me. You will be taken to the Qamaria and will be briefed by the men of jund al-Qamar and remember this

  I don't want that container, I NEED that container.

  So don't even show me your faces without it. "

  After speaking to the team the man leaves.

  Stolen story; please report.

  "We had planned to extract the container using a chopper, then transport it back to India via cargo ship. Our entry point was the war-plagued city of Qamaria, which we reached by plane."

  The pilot spoke through the microphone:

  "ETA: 1 hour."

  "As planned, we landed on an abandoned airstrip and made our way into the inner city—crater caused by a foab bomb that had been dropped an year ago.

  Little did we know, we had just entered the Devil’s Den.

  We split into three teams, each with five mercenaries, and began combing through the ruins of the old headquarters of Jund al-Qamar.

  The place was charred, filled with burnt bodies and scattered remains—evidence of a recent retaliation by the newly formed United Civilian’s Frontier (UCF), led by an unknown commander.

  We located the container. But unknowingly, we had stepped into the inner circle of hell.

  And then—"

  A sudden blackout."

  The entire place was swallowed by darkness.

  "'The squad switched on their flashlights and waited in tense silence for the other teams to return.

  But before the other teams could return, something else noticed our presence.

  We heard footsteps near us, but nothing was visible in the darkness.

  Panicking, we pointed our guns outward, forming a tight circle, each of us covering the other's back.

  Then, suddenly—a small blast.

  Our flashlights flickered out.

  In the chaos, one of our teammates was stabbed.

  He panicked and began shooting blindly—

  The muzzle flash briefly lit up the darkness, just enough for us to catch a glimpse of the thing that was hunting us.

  Its face was still hidden.

  One by one, he started killing us.

  Bullets had no effect.

  In panic, I ran—

  I could only watch in horror as my entire squad was slaughtered.

  Desperate, I kept banging on my flashlight, hoping it would turn back on.

  It finally did.

  I turned it toward the place where my team had been—

  And there he was.

  A tall, muscular figure cloaked in black, a bright red Oni mask glowing even brighter than the blood dripping from his body.

  The Japanese call him Oni.

  The Russians—Boogeyman."

  But the name he carries now is whispered in terror:

  “Satan."