THE LAST TITIAN

Bruce awoke to the gentle caress of warm sunlight on his skin, the rhythmic sound of waves crashing against the shore pulling him from the depths of unconsciousness. He blinked against the brightness, squinting as he took in his surroundings. The soft, powdery sand of Tulum stretched out beneath him, and the vibrant turquoise waters of the Caribbean Sea sparkled invitingly in the distance.

He sat up slowly, feeling the grains of sand cling to his bare chest. His long hair fell messily around his face, and he brushed it aside, revealing dark blue eyes that scanned the horizon. He was still wearing his black jeans, frayed at the hem and split at the seams, remnants of his hasty escape from Creel. The fabric clung to him, damp from the ocean, a reminder of the chaos he had left behind.

The beach was nearly deserted, save for a few distant figures enjoying the sun and surf. A couple of surfers rode the gentle waves, their laughter mingling with the sound of the ocean, creating a serene backdrop that felt almost surreal. The palm trees swayed lazily in the warm breeze, their fronds rustling softly, as if whispering secrets of the tropical paradise surrounding him.

Bruce took a deep breath, inhaling the salty air, but the tranquility was deceptive. He knew he couldn't linger here for long. The shadows of his past loomed large, and he had to keep moving.

He spotted a small beach shack in the distance, its weathered wood and thatched roof blending seamlessly with the tropical surroundings. It looked abandoned, but it could provide the cover he needed. As he approached, he noticed the door was slightly ajar, inviting him in.

With a cautious glance over his shoulder, Bruce slipped inside. The interior was dim, filled with the scent of salt and aged wood. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light that filtered through the cracks in the walls. He could hear the distant sound of laughter and music from a nearby beach bar, a reminder of the life that continued outside while he remained hidden.

Bruce leaned against the wall, taking a moment to collect himself. He was more than just the Hulk; he was Bruce Banner, a man searching for a way out of this mess. He knew that General Ross wouldn't be searching for him here—not in this sun-soaked paradise. But he couldn't afford to let his guard down.

As the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the room, Bruce felt the weight of his reality settle heavily on him. He needed to find a way to leave Mexico, to slip through the cracks and disappear into the vastness of the world once more. The thought of escape consumed him, a dark necessity in a life that had become a relentless chase.

As Bruce leaned against the wall, the dim light of the shack flickering as he took in his surroundings. His gaze drifted to the corner, where a weathered closet stood, its wooden door slightly ajar. The closet was a relic of a bygone era, its surface marred by the passage of time. The paint, once a vibrant shade of turquoise, had faded to a dull hue, peeling in places to reveal the raw wood beneath. Rusty hinges creaked softly as he approached, the door hanging at an angle that suggested years of neglect.

He reached for the handle, the cool metal sending a shiver through his fingers. With a gentle tug, the door swung open, revealing a haphazard assortment of items crammed inside. The interior was dim, but Bruce could make out a few hangers, their fabric faded and frayed. A couple of old beach towels lay crumpled at the bottom, their colors muted by sun and salt.

But what caught his eye was a dark blue t-shirt hanging on one of the hangers. It looked worn but sturdy, the fabric soft and inviting. Next to it, a pair of blue jeans hung loosely, their denim slightly faded but intact, with no fraying at the hem. A pair of sneakers rested on the floor, scuffed but still functional, their soles showing signs of wear but promising comfort.

A smile crept across Bruce's face as he reached in and pulled out the t-shirt. The fabric felt soft against his skin, a stark contrast to the roughness of his previous clothing. He quickly slipped off his frayed black jeans, the fabric catching on his skin as he peeled them away. The cool air brushed against his legs, a welcome relief.

He stepped into the blue jeans, feeling the sturdy denim encase his legs as he fastened the button and pulled up the zipper. They fit well, offering a sense of normalcy he hadn't felt in a long time. The jeans hugged his waist comfortably, and he appreciated the lack of wear and tear.

Finally, he bent down to grab the sneakers. They were slightly worn but still held their shape. As he slipped them on, he felt the familiar comfort of laces tightening around his feet, grounding him in a way that was both reassuring and invigorating.

Standing in front of the mirror that hung crookedly on the wall, Bruce took a moment to assess his reflection. The old clothes transformed him, giving him a semblance of normalcy amidst the chaos. He looked like a man ready to face the world, even if that world was fraught with danger.

With a renewed sense of purpose, Bruce stepped out of the shack, ready to embrace whatever lay ahead. The sun was setting, casting a warm glow over the beach, and he knew it was time to move. The shadows of his past were closing in, but he was determined to get out Mexico.