There are no heroes left, the chef thought to himself as he surveyed the wreckage of his Michelin starred restaurant. His reason for living. His dream.

Tears flowed from his eyes as he watched the last hero lie on the floor, motionless, blood flowing from a now obliterated eye socket. They had had no chance.

He watched his patrons, many of them rich and privileged and unaccustomed to such things, cower in fear under their tables. Tables he had excitedly picked out for this new venture for him, this new chapter. One of his patrons had demanded the villain stop their violent rampage that instant. The villain had responded by slamming the man’s head into the table over and over and over again. He was unrecognisable now, just a heap of damaged flesh and destroyed brain. His wife lay on the floor flung over his body, sobbing and wailing uncontrollably.

The chef watched as the villain continued his destructive path through the clientele of the restaurant, slashing, ripping, stomping, cackling uncontrollably the entire time. These pale marbled floors would never be clean again, would forever be marked by blood and the horrific tragedy that befell here.

“I am death reborn.” He gloated, his voice deep and otherworldly, his pupils black and blown. He looked like a demon, the chef thought. Maybe he was a demon. Only something not of this Earth could wreak this much violence, this much destruction, this much pain.

And now the villain turned to him, a maniacal grin gracing his face, a crazed look in his eye. The chef knew that it was now his turn, his end. His eye fell again to the mutilated hero as the villain advanced. There were no heroes, not anymore. They were all dead.