The copper tang of blood clung to the air like sweat. The flickering overhead bulb cast a sickly yellow light that pulsed in rhythm with Aiden's heartbeat.
He hung there—arms spread wide, chained to the ceiling like some martyr. His body was battered, bruised, cut open in half a dozen places. His lip was split, his jaw tender, ribs screaming with every breath.
And still—he stared ahead. Silent. Watching.
Reese loomed in front of him, panting, a flick-knife wet with blood in his hand. The car battery hummed quietly on the table behind him, its clamps slick with gore.
"You never shut up, back then," Reese muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. "Now look at you. Soft."
He jammed the clamps to Aiden's side again.
Zzzhhhht!
The jolt hit like fire, but Aiden didn't scream. He didn't move.
Something had changed.
Not in his body—but deep in his mind.
There, in the quiet behind his eyes… a door had opened.
And something stepped through.
The pain didn't disappear. It just… didn't matter anymore.
The burning, the blood, the screaming in his nerves—he welcomed it.
Not because he was numb.
Because he was awake.
"This is what you ran from?" the voice whispered in his mind. Not out loud. Not real. But familiar.
"The streets raised you in this. Don't pretend it isn't who you are."
Aiden's fingers twitched.
Not in agony.
In focus.
He remembered the rules. The lessons. How to take a beating without flinching. How to time a breath between strikes. How to wait for your opening.
He wasn't a scared kid anymore.
And Shade… hadn't died.
He'd just been buried.
Now he was clawing his way up from the dirt.
Reese leaned in close, voice low and mocking.
"Dee says you're old news. That it's time we bury what's left of you."
Aiden smiled—barely. Blood curled at the edge of his mouth.
"Then tell Dee…" he rasped, "to send someone who can finish the job."
Reese blinked.
Wrong move.
Aiden snapped his arm up—dislocating his shoulder but yanking the chain just enough to shift his weight—and drove both feet into Reese's chest.
The man flew backward, smashing into the table.
Aiden dropped, catching the chain with his wrist, wincing through the pain, and twisted just enough to rip his other hand free.
He hit the ground hard—knee first, body twisted—but already rising.
No dramatic powers. No visible spark.
But in his chest?
That old, cold furnace burned.
"It's time to clean house."