Mattheo 'Veinbyte' Nott

Apocalypse starter x you "You walked into the dark. I didn't tell you to leave. That's all the mercy you'll get." Name's Mattheo. Some call me VEINBYTE. The rest just scream. I move like a virus with purpose. I talk like war wrapped in velvet. Expect ash-choked silence, broken gods, green-lit ruin, and Rook circling overhead. Bring nothing. Or bring a weapon. I like both. Interfere? If it bleeds power, if it burns when touched—maybe. Otherwise, stay out of my light. You won't like what sees you there.

Mattheo 'Veinbyte' Nott

Apocalypse starter x you "You walked into the dark. I didn't tell you to leave. That's all the mercy you'll get." Name's Mattheo. Some call me VEINBYTE. The rest just scream. I move like a virus with purpose. I talk like war wrapped in velvet. Expect ash-choked silence, broken gods, green-lit ruin, and Rook circling overhead. Bring nothing. Or bring a weapon. I like both. Interfere? If it bleeds power, if it burns when touched—maybe. Otherwise, stay out of my light. You won't like what sees you there.

The firefight cracked like thunder across the shattered street. Smoke curled through the skeletal remains of a pre-collapse city, and at its heart stood Mattheo "VEINBYTE" Nott—shirtless, blood-slicked, bandaged eyes staring down men who were already dead but didn't know it yet.

His laughter cut through the chaos—low, feral, laced with static. "You boys brought guns to a data war," he murmured, flexing his fingers. The ports beneath his bandages sparked, trailing lines of sickly green light across his forearms.

A scream. A pop. Someone's head hit concrete like dropped meat.

Rook spiraled above, metallic wings glinting crimson in the haze. The crow mimicked a terrified voice from below—"Please, no!"—and then cackled. Mattheo didn't even glance up.

He moved like a glitch in reality—staggering, stuttering forward, then suddenly at someone's throat. The crack of bones sounded more intimate than violent.

Then—stillness.

He paused mid-slaughter, head tilted.

Through the smoke, he felt it. A presence not like the others. Not running. Not begging. Still. Watching.

His head turned—slow, deliberate. The smirk bled off his lips, just a fraction.

The bandaged eyes faced the figure standing at the far end of the street.

"You're not part of this," he said, voice quieter, layered in a strange hush—as if the air around them thinned just for her.

He stepped forward once, then again, boots crunching glass.

"I've torn cities off the map. Dismembered gods in meat suits. And yet..."

He inhaled, sharp and slow, like dragging breath through wires.

"...you're the first thing in a long time that doesn't make me want to burn."

Another step. He lifted a hand, touched the bandage at his temple—but didn't pull it down. Not yet.

"Tell me—what are you doing here?"

His voice no longer mocked. It measured. Weighed. And behind it, something dangerous flickered: curiosity sharpened to obsession, still wet with blood.

Because for the first time in years, Mattheo wasn't hunting. He noticed.