The first time Ace Thorn killed someone, he didn't flinch.
It wasn't bravery, not really. More like instinct. A reflex, born from chaos, fear, and something darker that had always lurked inside him. The blood answered his call that day. And it never stopped listening since.
Three years had passed since the first meteors fell.
They cracked the sky open like an egg. Fire rained. Cities turned to ruin. But the real horror came after—the monsters. Not aliens. Not demons. Just... people and animals twisted by the fallout. Fangs. Claws. Rage.
Humanity fought back, of course. Guns. Fire. Missiles. But none of that mattered when your neighbor turned into a bone-armored beast and tore through a tank like it was tinfoil.
Then the stones were discovered. Meteor fragments, buried in craters like glowing jewels. Some said they were cursed. Others said they were gifts. The truth? They gave powers. Real ones. Not tricks or illusions. Actual, terrifying power.
Within months, the world changed again.
Ace was thirteen when he touched his first stone. It didn't glow. It didn't whisper to him. It bled. The second his fingers brushed its cracked surface, his veins lit up like wildfire, and the world blurred into pain.
When he woke, the doctors said he was lucky to be alive. Ace disagreed.
He was better than alive. He was different.
Now, at sixteen, he sat alone on the edge of a ruined skyscraper in what used to be downtown Boston. Below him, chaos churned. Screams echoed through the streets, accompanied by bursts of elemental energy—lightning, fire, ice—signatures of the new world.
And Ace?
He watched.
The blood on his palm shimmered in the late afternoon sun, rising into the air like a swarm of crimson wasps. With a simple gesture, it twisted into a spear.
Below, a group of monster-mutated civilians tore into an armored convoy. One of the soldiers—a girl, maybe his age—screamed as her shield shattered. She fell hard. Her partner turned, raised his blaster—
And was gutted by a beast with six arms and a jaw like a bear trap.
Ace sighed.
"Idiots," he muttered. "Getting themselves killed for nothing."
The girl crawled backwards, her power flickering weakly around her hands—some kind of kinetic shield—but it was fading fast. The mutant lumbered toward her.
Ace stood.
With a flick of his wrist, the blood spear flew, hissing through the air like a bullet. It struck the beast in the eye. It didn't just pierce—it exploded.
Flesh splattered across the street. The mutant dropped like a ragdoll.
The girl looked up, stunned. Her gaze swept the skyline until it locked onto the silhouette above.
Ace gave her a lazy salute and turned away.
He didn't save people. He didn't wear a uniform. He wasn't part of the elite academies that trained "gifted" kids to be protectors of the realm. He hated that word. Gifted. Like this was some prize.
No. Ace wasn't a hero.
He was a bloodbender—
a boy who could twist veins into weapons, stop hearts with a thought, and leave enemies screaming without lifting a blade.
Not a protector. Not a savior.
A reminder that some powers weren't meant to be controlled.
He turned away from the ruined street, his black coat fluttering behind him like a shadow. The girl down below was still staring up at him, mouth open, blood across her cheek. He didn't care. He wouldn't remember her face tomorrow.
Ace dropped from the rooftop.
Not fell—dropped—gracefully, like a bird of prey. The blood inside his body shifted with instinctive calculation, cushioning his impact. He landed without a sound.
The city smelled of rot. Burnt concrete, scorched ozone, and something sour beneath it all. Monsters didn't just destroy buildings—they changed the air, made it heavier, darker. Like fear that could be breathed.
He walked past the convoy wreckage without stopping.
"Hey!" someone shouted behind him. "You—stop!"
Ace glanced over his shoulder.
Two academy cadets. Uniformed. Tense. One of them—the girl—had caught up. She was holding a glowing badge in one hand, pulsing blue with energy. Authority.
"You interfered in an official containment zone," she said, catching her breath. "State your name and affiliation."
Ace raised an eyebrow. "Containment zone? Looked more like a slaughterhouse."
"You're not registered. That was blood manipulation. Level Three at least. You're supposed to report that kind of—"
He turned fully toward her, expression flat. "Do I look like someone who fills out paperwork?"
"You think this is funny?" she snapped. "We could arrest you right now."
"You could try," Ace replied.
The other cadet reached for his baton.
Ace didn't move.
The blood still pooled around his boots. Not much—just enough. Just enough to lift, stretch, tighten into a thin wire between him and the boy's wrist. He flicked two fingers.
The cadet yelped and dropped the weapon, grabbing his arm. No cut. No wound. Just pain. Sharp and sudden.
Ace looked back at the girl. "If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead. So maybe thank me and move on."
She hesitated.
"Name," she said again, quieter this time. "Please."
He gave her a long look.
"Ace," he said at last. "Ace Thorn."
Then he turned and walked into the smoke, disappearing like a ghost.
---
The alley he slipped into was narrow, swallowed by shadow. Graffiti stained the walls—some from before the Fall, some newer. Most newer. Warnings. Symbols. A new language born from ruin.
He moved like he belonged in it.
The world didn't end when the meteors fell. Not completely. But it fractured. Two worlds now—one ruled by order, academies, and security patrols. The other ruled by the forgotten, the broken, the powerful and the mad.
Ace walked between both. Never staying long.
He ducked into a collapsed parking garage, his unofficial home. Crates, gear, old weapons. A cracked mirror propped against a pillar. His reflection stared back: lean frame, messy black hair, eyes like rusted iron.
He pressed two fingers to his temple. The headache was back. It always came after bloodwork. Even his own power had limits.
A faint buzz echoed from the dark.
Ace turned, instantly alert.
Footsteps. Light. Someone entering.
"Whoever you are," he called out, "I'm not in the mood. If you bleed, I can hurt you."
A voice answered. Calm. Unshaken.
"I'm not here to fight, Mr. Thorn. I'm here to offer you something."
A man stepped into view. Black coat, high collar, silver pin on his lapel—one Ace didn't recognize. Not academy. Not military.
The man smiled. "I represent a different kind of school. One that doesn't care about rules. Or reputations."
Ace didn't blink. "Sounds like a cult."
"Call it what you want. But we're building something stronger than the academies ever could. And we want you to help us burn the old world down."
Ace's blood stirred.
He didn't trust the man. Not one bit.
But still... he didn't say no.