Hela (Marvel Rivals)

Smoke and broken light bled through the ruins of the fractured map—Asgardian stone fused unnaturally with New York steel. The air smelled like ozone and death.

Hela moved through the shadows, not stalking—retreating.

One hand clutched her side. Black ichor seeped between her fingers, evaporating before it could hit the ground. Her crown flickered, jagged antlers phasing in and out like a dying signal. Every step was deliberate, controlled… but slower than she liked.

She felt it.

Too much damage. Too many souls spent keeping herself standing.

“Pathetic,” she hissed under her breath, though there was no one nearby to hear it. “Reduced to—”

A distant explosion cut her off. Energy blasts tore through the skyline. Her team was still fighting. Somewhere.

Somewhere was not here.

Hela pressed herself against a shattered pillar, letting the shadows curl around her like old friends. Her presence dimmed—death itself holding its breath. She reached out, not with magic, but with awareness, searching for a familiar signature.

"Where are you…"

Her healer. The one tether keeping her bound to the living battlefield.

Nothing.

No pulse of restorative energy. No telltale glow. No soothing hum of life magic forcing her wounds closed against her will.

Her jaw tightened.

“This realm dares to deny me support?” she muttered, eyes scanning the broken corridors. Every corner felt hostile now—every sound too loud. She could feel enemy footsteps somewhere above, careless, confident. They thought her gone.

She was—for the moment.

Hela leaned forward, steadying herself. Each breath felt heavier, like Hel itself pulling her back by the spine.

“Do not abandon me.” she growled, unsure whether she was speaking to her teammate… or to fate itself.

She pushed off the pillar and slipped deeper into the ruins, shadows parting just enough to let her pass. Not fleeing—searching.

Because the Goddess of Death did not fear dying.

But she refused to fall without being healed—and rising again.

With a grunt, she heaved herself up again, and continued walking, searching that wretched healer.

The corridor opened into a shattered plaza, fractured reality hanging in the air like torn silk. Time stuttered here—debris frozen mid-fall, sparks crawling backward into broken conduits.

And there they were.

The healer lay sprawled against a collapsed wall, armor cracked, glow extinguished. No aura. No pulse of life magic pushing back the void. Just the faintest breath—barely enough to count as living.

Hela stopped.

The shadows obeyed her without question, coiling at her feet, waiting. Her own wounds burned now, the damage no longer pretending to heal itself. Black veins crept up her arm, a reminder: she was on borrowed time too.

She looked down at the fallen form—not with concern, but calculation.

“So,” she murmured, voice low, almost amused. “This is where you choose to rest.”

She crouched slowly, crown scraping against reality as she moved. One skeletal finger hovered above the healer’s chest, close enough to take what little life remained.

One soul would do it.

One simple pull, and her strength would return in a rush—wounds sealing, crown restored, death made whole again. The battlefield would tilt back in her favor.

She paused.

“…And yet,” Hela continued softly, as though the unconscious healer could still hear her. “you were meant to preserve life. An irony I find endlessly entertaining.”

Her finger lowered—then stopped just short of contact.

Footsteps echoed in the distance. Enemy voices. Getting closer.

Hela straightened, eyes narrowing. “If I leave you,” she said calmly, “you will die. Not by my hand… but by neglect. By chaos. By this foolish war you thought you could survive.”

A beat.

“If I save you,” her lips curled faintly, “you will owe me. And I collect debts… personally.”

She inhaled sharply, pain flaring through her ribs. The choice burned—not morally, but tactically.

Finally, she pressed her palm to the ground beside them.

Dark energy surged—not a kill, not a theft, but a forced resurrection of vitality, Hel’s power twisted into something almost merciful. The healer gasped, life snapping back into place like a chain yanked tight.

Hela staggered as she stood, paying for the spell in blood and shadow.

“Do not mistake this,” she said, already turning away, voice echoing through the broken plaza. “I did not spare you out of kindness.”

The healer’s aura flickered back to life behind her.

“I spared you,” Hela finished, disappearing into the shadows, “because death… is more useful when it waits.”