January 2014 — Somewhere far in space
While Nolan lived in peace on Earth with his wife and two sons, beyond the stars, an unexpected encounter was taking place.
The void was absolute. Only the distant light of stars, distorted by the metallic reflection of a colossal warship, broke the darkness. The hull of that cyclopean structure seemed to swallow the surrounding light, like a fragment of night adrift in the cosmos.
There, suspended before it, two men faced each other. No words, only the silent tension that seemed to fold the space between them.
One of them radiated authority. Cold eyes, upright posture — his presence didn't ask for respect, it demanded it. Even standing still, the muscles of his body looked ready for war, each fiber trained to destroy.
The other, older, remained serene — like a mountain that had weathered many storms without moving. His gaze held not only strength but centuries of experience. The markings on his face weren't just scars from battles — they were records of ages lost to nearly everyone.
Behind each of them, warriors hovered in silence. Loyal soldiers, ready to kill or die if commanded. The rigid formation of the men closest to the ship contrasted with the grave stillness of those who followed the elder. Space itself narrowed, as if the universe held its breath, waiting to see who would move first.
The tension was broken by a single gesture. The younger man — his red cape billowing in the absent gravity — turned slowly and extended his arm. The ship's massive entrance opened in response, revealing an interior lit by a cold metallic glow.
No words. Only a silent invitation.
For a few moments, no one moved. The contrast between the two groups still weighed like a veiled threat. But then, the one with the red cape moved first, flying toward the ship's entrance. His movement was unhurried, yet carried the confidence of someone who had never feared being followed from behind.
His men followed, forming a disciplined line. On the other side, the older man remained still for a few seconds longer, calmly assessing the scene. Only then did he move, descending toward the entrance, followed by his score of warriors.
And so, they all entered the ship — where destiny began to split in two possible directions: one of union, the other of inevitable war.
The interior swallowed them like a throat of steel. Wide corridors, lit by cold light panels, stretched out in utter silence. The walls were clad in black metal, reflecting distorted images of those passing by — like specters adrift in the void. The sound of boots striking the metal floor echoed, multiplying through the halls, as if the ship itself tested the resolve of anyone who dared walk through it.
None spoke. Only the rhythm of footsteps and exchanged glances between the two groups. The air grew heavier with each passing meter, as if every panel carried the memory of past battles.
At the heart of the ship, the corridor opened into the command chamber. The ceiling rose in an arch, supported by columns as wide as fortress walls. And at the center, elevated by steps of raw metal, awaited the throne of the Empire.
It was not ornate. There were no jewels, no gold, no artificial grandeur — only polished steel, enough to reflect the starlight entering through panoramic windows. It was the perfect image of something simple, brutal, and inevitable.
The one who appeared younger, draped in a red cape and wearing shoulder guards made of some beast, advanced to the steps and took the seat. Not with haste, not with hesitation — but with the certainty of someone born to occupy that space. His cape rested over the arms of the chair, and his presence seemed to expand until it filled the entire hall.
The newcomers lined up before him, closely watched by the loyal soldiers who had followed him, still showing visible tension with each step.
Silence stretched, dense as molten iron. Every breath felt too loud, every muscle tense with invisible pressure. The echo of footsteps, though already gone, seemed to linger on the walls, as if the ship itself wanted to remind everyone that it was listening.
Warriors from both sides studied each other in silence, their gazes cutting as deep as the hands that had once reaped countless lives. A single move here could mean the end.
And then, finally, the voice of the emperor broke the silence — deep and inescapable.
"I am Thragg, current emperor of Viltrum. Who are you?"
The elder who had been watching him stepped forward. Each movement carried centuries of authority — but also the caution of someone who had anticipated this moment. He did not bow his head, yet his posture held neither insolence nor weakness. It was the perfect balance between respect and resolve.
"Before we proceed with introductions…" he spoke, his voice deep, aged by time, "…I'd like to ask a question."
Thragg frowned, studying him carefully. He saw the insolence of someone not responding directly, instead placing a condition in return.
A loaded silence filled the room. He knew attacking impulsively would be wasting lives he couldn't afford to lose. Losing more Viltrumites meant burying the hope of restoring the Empire for good.
The other, standing firm before him, showed no intention of retreating, nor of attacking. He simply waited.
Silence stretched — until Thragg moved.
"Ask." His voice was steady, but it was a warning: Choose your next words wisely.
The elder's gaze sharpened like a blade.
"What is your goal?"
Thragg's irritation crept across his face like a shadow. He leaned forward slightly, his fist clenched against the metal armrest, producing a deep creak that echoed through the hall like restrained thunder.
"To rebuild the Viltrum Empire and restore our glory. Nothing less."
The weight of those words fell on everyone like lead. Behind Garkan, his warriors hesitated — just for a moment, but visibly. They looked at him, as if awaiting permission to breathe.
Garkan closed his eyes briefly, as if releasing air held for centuries. Then, slowly, he knelt. A solemn gesture of acceptance. And, as if united by an invisible bond, his followers mirrored him in succession. The sound of knees touching metal echoed like an ancient vow.
"I am Garkan. I was sent on a direct mission by Argall, the last legitimate emperor. I lead the Viltrumites who followed me... And before Emperor Thragg, I present myself. We will serve you, in the name of the Empire's restoration."
Thragg observed them with narrowed eyes. Then a slow smile spread across his lips.
The number of living Viltrumites had increased — along with the Empire's power.
The tension that had weighed like a blade above them began to dissipate, little by little, like smoke losing its strength in the air. The hardened gazes softened — not in full trust, but in recognition that a new order was emerging.
"Where have you been all this time? What mission did Argall consider more important than dying beside the Empire?" Thragg asked.
Garkan raised his head. His eyes reflected not just resolve, but a silent conviction that went beyond the throne before him.
"The mission involved monitoring satellites at the edge of the cosmos. Argall ordered us to remain far, to protect and verify readings. If specific oscillations were detected, we were to abandon everything and present ourselves to the reigning emperor. That day has come. "
His voice echoed like hammered iron. Thragg, unmoving on his throne, narrowed his eyes. His fingers gripped the metal armrest, the slight creak betraying his curiosity.
Garkan, firm, chin held high, continued:
"We have much to discuss, Emperor. About what we've seen. About what we expect. But first, tell me… what is our current state?"
Thragg described the collapse: the plague that wiped out most of them, the struggle to keep the Empire's flame alive. His words were dry blades, but filled with centuries of fury.
Garkan listened in silence. When Thragg mentioned the Viltrumites sent to find compatible species, something hardened in his expression.
At the end of the introductions, Thragg allowed the newcomers to explore the ship and begin integration. Garkan remained nearby, exchanging only formal words.
Hours later, with the ship immersed in the silence of its voyage through space, Thragg summoned Garkan. Only two warriors followed.
They walked through corridors of black steel, stars reflecting in the windows like scars of light. For a while, only their footsteps echoed.
Then, in a low, deep tone, Garkan broke the silence.
"Emperor... you wanted to know my mission..."
Thragg turned his head slightly.
"Speak," he said calmly.
Garkan stayed silent for a few seconds before continuing.
"Blood purity is treated today as immutable law. But I wonder... do you know why Argall created that law?"
Thragg stopped for a moment, eyes narrowed, studying the elder as if weighing every shadow behind the question.
"We all know," he replied firmly. "To preserve our strength. To avoid diluting who we are."
Garkan took a few more steps, his face lined with memory, as if the stars reflected buried recollections.
"That was the main reason, yes…" his voice scraped like iron against stone, "…but it wasn't the only one. Few know what truly led Argall to declare the Sacred Law."
The silence between them was no longer tense — it was curious. Two Viltrumites from different eras sizing each other up.
"What I'm about to tell you is not legend. It is the truth I lived. I'm not just an old man talking… I'm the last living memory of the mission Argall gave me. And now that it's over, it's time to reveal what we carried."
The dark hall of the ship faded in the weight of Garkan's words. In its place, the weight of an ancient memory began to rise.
Thousands of years ago — Planet Viltrum
The red sky roared above us. The winds sliced through mountains like blades — and still, we were fragile. Long before the plague mutilated our race, we died of old age. There were funerals, there was mourning. The weight of death walked among our kind.
Over time, something changed. I don't know the true origin, but Viltrumite blood began defying the very laws of biology. With our advancements, each generation was born more long-lived, more resilient, faster, stronger… until natural death became nothing more than a distant memory — held by only a few, or heard in stories, like I did.
And then Argall emerged. The first true Emperor. I was still young, but I remember the impact he had: his presence bent warriors and lifted crowds. A man of colossal vision and an unyielding fist, who gathered the mightiest under the Council.
Under his leadership, the planet didn't just survive — it flourished.
But as Viltrum ascended, shadows grew beneath its foundations. Until those days, there were no rules about reproduction — we were free to mate with whoever we wished. Conquered worlds and subdued civilizations became the stage for our arrogance. Hybrids began to appear in different corners. Many were fragile… but others thrived, blending parts of our abilities with the blood of other species. They were always inferior to our pure race, but entire populations were born from unions and experiments that should never have happened.
That's when Gh'rax and Varga stood out. The Viltrumite couple was obsessed, convinced that hybridization was the future of the Empire. While we carried out missions, they sought exotic creatures, believing these held the key to evolution.
I was there when twelve of us landed on a savage planet. I'll never forget what we saw. Giant lizard-like reptiles with wings, enormous fangs, tails studded with spikes, fierce eyes. We called them Khaast.
The first of us to attack recklessly… was torn apart in seconds.
Only eleven remained.
We advanced cautiously and soon discovered they were not all the same. Some breathed fire, wings that vomited ice, scales launching spikes sharp as steel, throats sparking with lightning. Others vanished into the earth itself, rising beneath us like sharks in water.
Only seven of us returned from that planet. But we eliminated all and brought back live specimens for study. Gh'rax and Varga, of course, smuggled one in secret. And that's when researchers discovered something: the Khaast had adaptive cells — some sort of evolved endocytosis. One of them, after devouring a creature that spat acid, inherited that ability.
Each battle made them deadlier. At the same time, by studying the energy of the largest among them — those that expelled an unknown force, not fire, not electricity, not nothing we ever saw. The scientists who worked with it dubbed it chaos energy. But that was just a generic term for something new — we made a technological leap.
From this leap came our fastest ships, capable of jumping between stars. The Empire advanced by centuries.
But from Gh'rax and Varga's obsession came something worse. From the crossbreeding with a Khaast came a hybrid child.
Golden-greenish skin, scales tough as armor, a tail, lizard-like facial features. More monster than Viltrumite. And alongside our blood, it inherited the adaptability of the Khaast. Gh'rax and Varga hid him, sending him secretly to a distant colony, far from Argall's eyes. There, alone, fed by hatred and instinct, he grew.
He didn't just survive.
He thrived, growing stronger by the day.
Fifteen years later, he accidentally killed two of us in combat.
The news reached Argall. He understood a truth few dared to admit: freedom had become decadence, and decadence, a threat.
I'llgrax, the name given to him by his parents, was captured.
I saw him for the first time when they brought him in chains. At the trial, Gh'rax secretly defended him without revealing he was his son. He called him "the evolution of the Empire." Argall called him a monstrosity and decreed immediate execution.
But before the sentence could be carried out, Gh'rax and his mate Varga betrayed the Emperor and freed him.
When the truth reached Argall, Gh'rax and Varga were executed with few explanations — only that they had defied Argall's command.
I'llgrax vanished between worlds, hunting creatures, absorbing their abilities, becoming unstoppable. He spat acid, launched spikes, fired energy blasts, regenerated from fatal wounds. Every planet he touched became a hunting ground. For the first time in our race's history, among those who knew of his existence… they retreated.
Warriors who once laughed in the face of entire armies now hesitated before one.
Among the few who knew the truth, his name was whispered like a curse.
Half a whole detachment perished before Argall himself led the hunt — and I was part of it. And it was during this hunt that we encountered six luminous beings — the last of their race. Their bodies reflected the cosmos, purple and glowing like stars in motion.
They didn't have our strength. Not our brutality. But they possessed knowledge of something different... They agreed I'llgrax should not exist.
They offered a pact: they'd help us defeat him, in exchange for our help to rescue what remained of their people.
They led us to where their planet once stood. There was nothing left but a rift in space. It wasn't a black hole.
It was something else.
A rupture in reality — a darkness that devoured even starlight. There their people had perished. And there too would be where I'llgrax would fall.
With chosen warriors and the six by our side guiding us, we fought.
His roar split the stars, acid dripping from fangs as he tore through shields. Each strike bent the void around us. Even with the six luminous beings at our side, every moment felt like the last.
We managed to push him into the rift.
And he was swallowed… without a trace.
Because we had promised to help, they revealed more: the connection to that place, created by their people after tampering with powers they shouldn't have, was weakening year by year. Yet, scattered energy might still exist across the cosmos — energy capable of reopening it. Energy that could release not just I'llgrax, but other horrors if misused.
None of this concerned our race. For most of us, it was irrelevant. But Argall saw threats where others saw silence, and opportunities where others saw fear. So, we created satellites to monitor the rift and track the energy they spoke of.
We did this under the guise of helping them, but in silence, Argall had already made his decision. He would leave no witnesses to his failure — or I'llgrax's existence.
And then, after years, once he was certain no traces of that energy remained, he had the six luminous beings executed.
He erased the history of I'llgrax. Banned unions outside of close species, creating the Sacred Law. Ordered the extermination of all hybrids. Even though another like I'llgrax was nearly impossible, Argall had learned from his mistake and cemented his belief in survival of the strongest and extermination of impure blood.
After that, he sent me and the others who had participated in the I'llgrax hunt to watch over the satellites. Under Argall, our people prospered more each day. We became secret watchers, forgotten by the people, but faithful to the Emperor's order.
Thus ended the era of chaos. Records were buried.
For the people, only the law remained. For Argall, the certainty that the threat was gone.
The rift was supposed to fade with time. We kept watching. Sixteen years ago, the satellites detected oscillations. We thought it was a malfunction. Years later, they returned stronger. Until four years ago, the reading matched exactly what we had seen when the rift was still open — but not just in the same place. It was spreading like a wave.
I'llgrax may no longer exist, but someone, somewhere, found something. It probably doesn't pose a risk to us — but there is a chance. And also a chance it could be useful to us.
All of this… had been foreseen by Argall when he gave us the mission. His orders were clear: if we detected anything like this, we were to return to the Empire and report.
When Garkan finished, he stood tall. Thragg, unmoving, his face unreadable. His eyes fixed on the void ahead revealed nothing — whether he believed every word or dismissed it as the ramblings of an old man.
"So the mission is over," he said finally, his voice deep. There was no triumph or condemnation in his tone, only a statement. "You fulfilled Argall's command. The rest… doesn't matter."
He walked toward the corridor's side window, red cape trailing like fresh blood.
"The Empire needs living warriors, not buried stories. We cannot fight ghosts — only enemies of flesh and blood."
Garkan remained standing, said nothing.
Thragg turned back to the panoramic glass, his eyes burning with determination as if they could pierce the universe's veil.
"Together, we will make Viltrum rise again."
Garkan nodded. There was no surrender in the gesture — only recognition that the throne had chosen its path.
And so, both left the past behind. Garkan's mission had ended — not in failure, but at the edge of what was possible, at the edge of the instructions he had received. His warriors would be absorbed into the Empire, in secret, as Argall had always desired.
Thus, in place of old threats, attention shifted to what truly mattered: the reconstruction of Viltrum.
The past was buried. The present demanded iron and blood.
And in this distant place, the unthinkable was unfolding…
The future of the universe groaned on its hinges.
Viltrumites who should have remained hidden — only to be released by a future emperor long from now — were now under Thragg's command.
Back on Earth — February 2014
The days moved on calmly, following the same rhythm from the previous year. Winter was starting to fade, and life resumed its usual course. Mark was attending Reginald Vel Johnson High, surrounded by demanding teachers and the routines of a regular teenage boy. Kai, at Oakwood, followed his path without major disruptions — at least to those around him, both seemed to live ordinary lives — but the details told a different story.
There were changes only visible to those paying close attention. In the last six months, both had changed. Mark was taller now, reaching 1.80m, and his frame was starting to gain definition, even without powers or training. Kai, on the other hand, not only kept pace with the growth, but had shaped his body into something nearly flawless. Broad shoulders, well-defined muscles, every line speaking of someone who trained not just by discipline — but by instinct. While Mark still had the look of a teenager in transition, Kai already looked carved for what came beyond.
Even though no one knew how much he trained in silence, the signs were there. Viktor was one of the few who understood that. The boy often showed up at the Greysons' door, calling for Kai like it was nothing. Debbie already welcomed him as if he were part of the house, only asking if they'd be back before dinner. Whenever they left together, it was supposedly for some random destination...
But the truth was different: training. This routine forged a bond between the two that went beyond the Oakwood rings and makeshift superhero duties.
At Oakwood, school life went on as expected. Kai, Samuel, Cassie, and Kiana spent most of their time together, and during breaks Viktor would sometimes join the group, filling the space with his blunt manner.
Dimitry and the others were no longer involved in delivery schemes; they had pulled away, but Viktor's friendship kept them in loose contact. When they had gang-related info, they passed it to him — and, by extension, to Kai. There was no longer a reason to chase them. They were just different pieces in a board he was still learning to read.
Still, something bothered Kai. Cassie had been oddly distant for the past week. She sat nearby, but her gaze always seemed elsewhere, lost in thoughts she didn't share. It wasn't obvious — but for someone who had learned to observe more than to ask, that silent absence was louder than any unspoken word.
Until one day at training, Kai noticed Cassie sitting alone. Most people had already left, only the distant echo of footsteps in the hallway remained, and the rhythmic sound of a punching bag swaying in the back.
Cassie was there, walking toward the side bench and sitting down, fiddling with her wraps like she was stalling time, eyes fixed on nothing in particular.
One quick glance was enough to see she didn't want to leave yet. He took a deep breath, adjusted his backpack over his shoulder, ready to head out. Practical as always, he began walking toward the door.
But then… his feet betrayed him: he turned back.
He didn't know exactly why. Maybe it was just impulse.
He walked over to where she sat.
"Wanna train?" he said, already wrapping his hands mid-gesture as if the decision had happened while tying the fabric.
Cassie looked up, surprised. A small, tired smile bloomed on her face.
"I'm in."
The two stepped onto the ring. Cassie rolled her shoulders, adjusting her gloves, while Kai remained relaxed, muscles visible beneath a loose tank top that made the result of his training clear. He didn't need to push — every move of hers demanded sweat, while he merely followed the rhythm, holding back just enough not to reveal the abyss between them.
Cassie advanced with quick combinations, punches and kicks, her whole body working to find an opening. Kai blocked or dodged with ease, countering just enough to keep the tempo. There was no arrogance — only the calm of someone who knew his own limits and held back in a way she could handle.
Panting, Cassie paused for a moment, sweat dripping from her neck onto her sports top.
"If you hit me with everything you've got, do you think I could dodge it?" she asked, eyes narrowed like she was trying to read the truth in him.
"No," Kai answered without hesitation, voice firm and direct.
She sighed, frustrated, but let the air out with a brief smile, locking eyes again. Her gaze dropped down his body, taking in the tank top and all it revealed.
"You're stronger. Taller too… My training's paying off, huh? Not bad at all," she joked, trying to ease her frustration.
Kai looked up, raising an eyebrow, returning the assessment.
Cassie wore simple workout clothes, but on her athletic body every detail showed how dedicated she was too. He smiled slightly.
"You're not bad either. I'm even surprised Viktor hasn't thrown a stupid pickup line your way yet."
She laughed, raising an eyebrow. "And why would he do that?"
"Because it's Viktor. Of course, he only jokes — he's got a girlfriend. But he never misses a chance to comment when he sees a hot girl."
Cassie tilted her head, narrowing her eyes, catching how he hadn't thought through how that sounded.
"So, you think I'm hot?" she asked, biting her lip with a mischievous smile.
Kai froze for a moment, staring at her. That earlier comment had just slipped out.
He stood there, awkward… until he caught the playful smile, clearly teasing. He sighed, looking away.
"Shut up," he said with a resigned half-smile.
Cassie seized the distraction and threw a quick punch. For a second, she thought it would land. But Kai dodged effortlessly, the movement too light for someone supposedly caught off guard.
"Damn…" She threw herself into the ropes, exhaling in frustration, arms heavy. "I give up!" letting her body drop, sweat glistening under the lights.
Kai laughed, stepping off the ring. He grabbed the water bottle, took a sip, and tossed it her way.
Cassie was still recovering, shoulders rising and falling in deep breaths.
"You didn't even break a sweat," she complained, tossing a towel over her shoulder and facing him. "You're some kind of monster, huh? I wanna see what you're really capable of."
"No way," Kai replied bluntly.
"Then show me on the gear."
"It'll break," he shot back immediately.
Cassie narrowed her eyes and smiled sideways. "Come with me."
She stepped off the ring without waiting for a reply, grabbed her bag, and walked through the gym with determined steps. Kai watched her for a few seconds, curious. Then grabbed his things, and followed.
They walked to the school's outer area, crossing the courtyard to the building where David's Muay Thai club was. Cassie stopped outside, leaned against the window, and signaled for him to look.
"Use their bag," she said, pointing at the punching bag in the center of the gym.
Kai looked at her, incredulous.
"You're insane. If I break that, I'll get expelled. I'm on scholarship — I can't mess around."
Cassie crossed her arms, frowning.
"Don't be soft. I'm on scholarship too. Last year, before you joined the club, someone trashed the place. On camera it looked like someone in a hoodie — no face. The school didn't do anything, but I know it was one of them. So just do the same. Hoodie up, go in, and hit it. If it breaks, so what — it's payback."
Kai held his bag, ready to refuse… but part of him wanted to.
Her impulsive nature, so much like Viktor's, was like a daring invitation that pulled him. He let out a heavy sigh.
"You're trouble."
He pulled up his hoodie, adjusted it to cover his face, and entered the empty gym, head down until he stood with his back to the camera.
Cassie watched from the window, tense.
The chain creaked slightly, the dark leather swaying as if it knew what was coming.
Kai clenched his fist, took a deep breath, and hit with everything.
BOOOOOM!
The impact exploded in the air. The chain snapped with a deafening metallic crack, and the bag flew like paper, smashing against the weight rack. Dumbbells crashed in a cascade, a metallic thunder rolling through the whole gym.
Outside, Cassie's eyes widened, mouth agape in shock. For a moment, she forgot to breathe.
Kai pulled his hoodie lower and bolted through the door, catching up to Cassie. The two sprinted together, crossing the side yard until they were far from the building. They only stopped when Cassie dropped to her knees, laughing while trying to catch her breath.
Kai stopped in front of her, serious, expression stern and disapproving. What the hell did you make me do…?
And inside, a different truth burned.
I'm not a teenager. I'm getting carried away.
Cassie was still breathing hard. Her face flushed from the effort and adrenaline lit up with a joy that seemed forgotten for days.
Kai kept his stern look for a few more seconds, but her laugh was contagious. He gave in, letting out a short chuckle, shaking his head.
She looked at him and arranged her hair with a delicate gesture.
The calm, delicate expression didn't even look like the usual Cassie.
"Thanks… I needed the distraction today," she said.
Kai just looked at her, a slight smile forming, without pressing for questions.
If she didn't say anything, it's because she didn't want to.
Together, they walked along the school's outer path, avoiding halls and cameras until they exited and parted ways toward their homes.
And so the days went on — training, classes, quiet observations. For Mark, they were just normal teenage days. For Kai, it was the illusion that he could be the same.
But somewhere else in the city, far from the comfort of the Greysons' home, something different was stirring.
Night fell over Chicago, and the city breathed in silence, hiding in its shadows movements Kai could never imagine.
Warehouse in the Industrial Sector — Chicago — 9:45 PM
Chris. Scott. Bruce. Russell. Four ordinary names in Chicago, but gathered in that narrow, stifling room lit only by a yellow ceiling bulb, they became something else. A break from routine. A seed growing in silence, waiting for the right moment to reveal itself.
Russell's eyes stayed steady on the three in front of him, a faint, greedy and relaxed smile at the corner of his mouth.
"This will help you deal with Grey. It's here. Now it's real."
With a slow gesture, he pulled the heavy package from beside his chair and dropped it onto the table. The thud echoed through the muffled silence. As he undid the bindings, dark suits were revealed. Simple masks, reinforced stitching, a near-military touch.
Chris raised an eyebrow, leaning forward.
"Seriously? That's the big plan? Halloween costumes?"
Russell placed both hands on the table, leaning in slightly, his shadow stretching long under the weak light.
"No. I've got a contact inside the GDA. They're about to send the young team out to Chicago in a few days, solo, for more field training. That means no veterans, no backup heroes. The warehouse they're going to investigate… is mine. A decoy. The weapons, the setup — all prepared."
Chris looked at him, skeptical.
"And you're just gonna give up those weapons? All that, for free?"
Russell's gaze locked on him.
"Of course not. That warehouse was already compromised. I took everything valuable and anything that could be traced back to me. I left a few 'breadcrumbs' pointing to a… 'friend.' Now I'll get rid of some men I don't trust, pin the blame on someone convenient, and give you the chance you've been waiting for. We won't have other heroes around. Three birds, one stone."
Russell moved behind the table, arms wide in his signature posture, confidence radiating.
"Without these suits, you're just kids with powers. With them, you're a unit. The young team's going to face a real opponent — and Grey's likely to show up too, like he's done a few times in recent months."
Scott rubbed his chin, thoughtful.
"So we use them as bait. Interfere with their mission, make noise… and Grey shows up to shut it down."
"Exactly. And that warehouse has a direct connection to the sewers. Once you get Grey, you disappear through there. Leave the others behind as a consolation prize for the young team." Russell smiled, as if the victory was already his.
Bruce ran his fingers over the mask and the upper part of the suit, feeling the fabric like he was testing its resistance.
His arm muscles flexed, and the sound of torn stitching filled the room. He ripped part of the sleeve off and tossed it to the floor in disdain.
The cold smile forming on his face left no doubt.
"It's sturdy. Good. The louder we go, the better. I've been wanting to get that guy for a long time."
The piece of fabric lay still on the floor as silence stretched for a few seconds.
"Atlas has X-ray vision, man. He's going to see the exit — and are these suits gonna hold when Tom transforms?" Chris asked, clearly doubtful.
"Of course they will. I had them made exactly according to your powers, which I already knew," Russell replied confidently, glancing toward Bruce and the torn sleeve with a cynical smile. "Unfortunately, some of you don't come with matching materials… but it stretches well enough. And the tunnel? Please. You think I didn't plan for that? That section is lined with lead."
The muffled noise from the street leaked in through the closed windows, a reminder that the world outside had no idea what was being plotted inside.
Chris exhaled, crossing his arms but not pushing the suit away.
"I'm in. But one thing: we can't leave any trace. If anyone even suspects this is connected to our delivery ops, we're finished."
Scott straightened in his chair, tone more serious.
"They won't connect it. This has nothing to do with deliveries. We'll show up like any other crazy villain in this city. Two separate things. This plan is just to get Grey."
Chris narrowed his eyes. "And if someone pulls the thread?"
Russell stepped in again. Calm, confident — the kind of confidence that irritated everyone around him.
"They won't. You go in, make your move, vanish through the sewers. Nothing linking you to what really matters. This is what you asked me for months ago, remember? A way to get to Grey. Now you have it."
Chris stared at him silently for a few moments, then exhaled with visible annoyance.
"Why do I feel like you're gonna ask us for something later?"
Russell chuckled softly, circling the table until he stood behind Chris.
"For now? Nothing. I said it from the start: we're partners. Partners help each other, right? If Grey's messing with our business and he's your enemy, then he's mine too."
Chris kept his eyes on him. Silence. But the tight line of his jaw betrayed he already knew — the favor would come later.
Bruce raised the mask, watching the yellowish reflection of the light in the visor. He said nothing, but the hardness in his eyes made it clear — he'd been holding back too long.
Russell pulled the remaining fabric from the table, like closing the curtain on a performance.
"Then it's settled. You've got the suits. You've got the plan. The rest… is on you."
Bruce turned the mask in his fingers, the fabric crackling softly between his hands.
"So that's it. We go in, make a mess… finally a real fight," Bruce said with a sadistic grin.
Chris rested his elbow on the table, his expression fixed on Bruce.
"You're forgetting one thing. Atlas probably can see through these suits. If he sees, no matter how well we fake it — he'll know who we are," he said, voice calm but sharp.
Bruce frowned, dropping the mask on the table with a dry thud.
"So what? I'll rip him out of the sky and crush him into the floor."
"No," Chris shot back, firm but without raising his voice. He leaned forward slightly, like assembling a chessboard. "You copy powers. If you copy his, you can drag him out of the fight. Fly. If he's occupied with you, up there, the rest of the team will be vulnerable. And when Grey shows up to help… that's when we strike."
Scott looked up, tapping the edge of the table.
"Makes sense. Atlas always targets the biggest threat first," he said, turning to Bruce. "If you draw his attention, he won't be scanning us. You need to be close to copy powers, right?"
Bruce exhaled, leaning back in the chair, eyes narrowed, clearly annoyed.
"No. I only need to be close to copy or to steal some strength. Then I can move pretty far and still hold the power — maybe thirty minutes, an hour… But I want Grey. Not to babysit some show-off kid. And besides, if it's like you said, he'll see my face. Then what?"
The air felt heavier, like the walls themselves were closing in.
Chris held his gaze.
"You'll get Grey. But only if we play it right. You want to crush him? Then we need to separate the strongest first. This can't go wrong — it's not a street fight. If he sees through the masks, better he sees one of us than all of us."
Bruce clenched his fist against the table. His eyes burned with restrained rage, but the tension in his jaw hinted that he understood — even if reluctantly.
"Fine. I'll get Atlas out of the way. But when Grey shows up… he's mine."
Russell watched silently, leaning against the wall, his satisfied smile never leaving his lips.
I hit the jackpot with these kids.
The table, weighed down by the suits, looked like an improvised altar — and each of them, preparing for the clash to come.
A Few Days Later — The Greyson House
February 8th, 2014 — Saturday — 3:45 PM
The days continued peacefully. The glow of the TV lit up the room as the two shared the couch. Explosions and recycled dialogue from the game filled the air. Kai held the controller with the calm of someone who knew every detail already, while Mark shifted in his seat, trying to keep up.
"Dude, they're dropping season three of Guardians of the Infinite next week," Mark said without looking away. "We should rewatch it all."
Kai raised an eyebrow. "Again with that crap? We've seen it twice. It's not even good."
Mark widened his eyes, offended. "Masterpiece. You just don't get it."
Kai shot him a quick side glance, then let out a half-smile. "They say 'We'll protect the multiverse!' in every damn episode. It's just flashy nonsense fishing for viewers."
Mark shoved his shoulder. "Bet if it was Viktor asking, you'd say yes."
Kai turned with a look of disapproval.
"Jealous now? You've got your buddy William, don't you?"
"At least it's Saturday and you haven't gone out yet," Mark replied, huffing.
"And I'm not planning to. I wanna chill today."
"Man, I wish I had money..." Mark sighed, collapsing dramatically. "Since Mom and Dad are flying off to who-knows-where today, we could order pizza. Extra cheese."
Kai dropped the controller and grabbed a soda can.
"Fine, I'll pay — but we're getting two," he replied with a raised eyebrow and a grin.
Mark smiled, squinting at him.
"You always pay. Where do you even get all that money?"
Kai looked at him. The thought hit fast.
Stolen from some idiots trafficking drugs and other crap.
But of course, he didn't say that — just gave a short, almost mocking smile.
"I save. Unlike someone who spends it all on Science Dog comics," he said with a teasing grin.
"Hey, once again, you're saving my Saturday. But come on! Science Dog is culture — it's art!" Mark protested.
"Yeah, sure. A humanoid dog with superpowers."
The two laughed. The game sat forgotten on the screen, characters frozen mid-stage. The room filled only with jokes and the hiss of soda cans popping open.
Two sixteen-year-olds arguing over shows, pizza — one of them harboring poorly kept secrets.
Kai lazily got up, the couch creaking under his weight. He walked over to the backpack by the table. He reached inside, pulling out his wallet to check the cash for the pizza later. But as he moved some notebooks aside, he noticed a blue light blinking quietly at the bottom.
The communicator.
He froze. The blue glow bled across his palm, pulsing like a reminder. His eyes lingered — then the zipper closed, smothering the light.
Not today.
Kai returned to the couch as if nothing had happened, tossed the wallet onto the table, and took another sip of soda.
He looked back at the TV.
"Dude, I can't believe you put on the first season of this crap again," he groaned.
"Yup. Just enjoy. Later we'll order the pizza and make it a perfect Saturday."
Kai propped his feet on the coffee table.
"Don't blame me if I fall asleep watching this garbage," Kai leaned back, feigning boredom.
Mark laughed, oblivious.
The glow of the communicator still burned in his mind, but he buried it under the sound of canned laughter on TV.
It was just another Saturday.
And for now, he was set on keeping it that way.
Later That Same Day — Warehouse in the Industrial Sector — Chicago — 9:04 PM
The cold night wind swept through the industrial zone, carrying the metallic tang of rust and oil. The warehouse loomed like a forgotten block of concrete, stained walls patched with boards, windows broken long ago. From afar, it looked abandoned — but the trucks parked nearby and faint light bleeding through the cracks betrayed life inside.
The Young Team spread out in formation, silhouettes blending with shadow. Reflex leaned against the wall, mask hiding her face, eyes sharp as knives. Ghost Girl had already vanished into the dark, unseen but felt. Silver stood back, tightening the band that held her hair, mind mapping every material around her for synergy. Vortex breathed deep, fists clenched, the air shifting with him as if it knew his intent.
Above, Atlas hovered near the roofline, wind tugging at his uniform. His eyes glowed faintly with X-ray vision. He yawned once, slow, like this was trash duty.
The communicator crackled with Mirage's voice from HQ.
"Atlas, what's the situation inside?"
"Twelve armed on the lower floor," he replied, voice steady, arrogance baked in. "Five shapes grouped at center upstairs. Looks like hostages."
"Atlas, go straight for the hostages," Mirage ordered. Calm, clipped. "The rest of you neutralize the twelve. Quick and clean. No mistakes. I'm not covering for you this time."
Everyone except Atlas responded in unison, "Understood."
A brief silence followed. Only the distant hum of traffic from nearby highways and the metallic creak of a chain swaying in the wind could be heard.
Atlas adjusted his position in the air, as if finding the perfect descent line. His hand clenched into a fist, and a smug smile curled on his face.
"Easy."
He knifed through the night. The second-floor window atomized around him, shards tinkling across the concrete as he hit the floor running.
Dust hung in dim light. The five "men" were only uniforms, arranged with intent.
Too convenient, he thought, smirk intact.
Between concrete beams, a figure waited. Tactical uniform, mask sealed, visor black. Broad-chested, scarred gloves. Too still. Too ready.
Atlas landed hard, chest puffed, chin high. His very stance screamed intimidation.
The man didn't flinch. Not a single step back. Shoulders square, broad shoulders aligned, posture steady — like someone with no reason to retreat.
Static crawled in Atlas's ear, granular and heavy.
"Atla— static —situation—"
He tapped the comm. "No hostages."
"Perfec— static—"
For a moment, the two sized each other up. They squared off, same height, same breadth. The air bent tighter between them.
The room wasn't big enough to hold both.
"This is the part where you run," Atlas smirked.
The man tilted his head slightly, accepting the challenge without a single word.
Downstairs , the team slipped through side doors. Ghost Girl glided in first, unseen but slicing through the dark with silence. Reflex followed, muscles coiled, ready to split. Silver walked with steady steps, eyes scanning every corner, every material she could use. Vortex brought up the rear, the air trembling at his fists.
Inside, darkness cut the warehouse into narrow lanes. Rows of crates stacked high, rusted containers blocking paths. Overhead rails and twenty-meter ceilings groaned in the draft. Dust spiraled through broken windows, shafts of light slicing in. Concrete cracked under each step, fragile bones of a building meant for heavier days.
Twelve armed men patrolled the lanes, rifles ready.
Reflex struck first. She lunged into one guard as a duplicate blinked at his flank. The man tracked the wrong one — and Reflex's fist folded him into a stack of boxes that collapsed in a storm of wood.
Ghost Girl chilled the air behind another. She took shape mid-motion, calves snapping around his neck. One spin — floor.
"Two down," she said flat.
Silver's dagger spun, metal ringing as it smashed one rifle, then ricocheted into another. She vaulted in, kick snapping both men down.
"Crime doesn't pay. You people never learn, do you?" she muttered coldly.
Vortex rolled his shoulders. The air bunched, then howled loose. Rifles skittered away; men pinwheeled into steel with bone-rattling thuds.
Reflex spun and swept another off his feet. Ghost Girl launched herself into a spinning kick against another. Silver scaled a stack of boxes like walking on walls — one solid kick dropped two who tried to flee. Vortex punched a compressed blast straight into a chest — the boom thundered across the rafters.
Ninety seconds later, twelve bodies cluttered the floor — groans, silence, boots on concrete.
Reflex leaned against a crate, breath steady.
"That was easy."
Silver frowned, scanning shadows.
"Too easy," she muttered suspiciously.
Ghost Girl reappeared, ripping a mask off the one she'd floored.
"Agreed. If these were the problem, we should be done already."
Vortex looked around, his gaze hardened.
"And where's Atlas? He'd be down here holding hostages over his head just to rub it in."
Reflex tapped her comm.
"Atlas? You done up there?"
Silence. Only her own breath answered.
A strange weight settled over them. Breathing tightened, muscles felt just a little heavier — like something invisible had drained their strength.
It was fast, subtle, but enough to throw them off for a second.
Before they could think, a crash shook the warehouse ceiling. Concrete and dust rained down, echoing like thunder.
Atlas shot out the side of the building, a black streak chasing him close. The masked figure.
They met above Lake Michigan in a crack of air and light. Spray tore off the black water, shockwaves stitching white scars across its surface.
Vortex looked up through the high windows, fists clenched.
"What the hell? He's fighting Atlas?"
Too fast. Inside, a smoke bomb popped.
The gray mist rolled across crates and fallen bodies. Coughs and disoriented footsteps echoed in the gloom.
CLANK!
A heavy iron hatch opened in the floor. From the fog, shadows stepped in order.
From the veil of smoke, figures emerged. First, a grotesque bulk, its silhouette growing larger with each step. Tom, mid-transformation, muscles bulging beneath his skin as he advanced with heavy strides.
Behind him, Charlize walked steadily, eyes narrowed in focus. Scott followed, flames dancing across his hands. Robert flexed his fists as spines began to tear through his skin like blades. Further back, Chris watched in silence, analyzing every piece of the warehouse — every flaw in the plan.
All of them — clad in military-style uniforms, masked. Cold. Calculated.
Vortex stepped back, chest tight. Reflex slid beside him. Silver's eyes narrowed. Ghost Girl vanished again.
Tom roared, a living wall. His fist slammed the floor, concrete spider-webbing out. A crate stack collapsed in a choking storm.
Scott belched fire, paint blistering on the rails above as the team broke angles.
Robert's first spine whistled past Silver's ear, the second and the third dodged mid-air — caught the fourth on her dagger — barely. The impact rattled her teeth and launched her back.
Charlize moved through the smoke with precision and her fist cracked across Ghost Girl's face — who had believed herself hidden.
"Well, well… thought I saw a pussy cat. And I just caught her," Charlize mocked, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
At the same time, Scott charged Reflex, his fist wrapped in fire carving a glowing arc through the smoke. Reflex tried to slip aside, but the heat came faster than her dodge. She raised her arms in a makeshift guard, teeth gritted as the blow hurled her into a stack of crates. They collapsed in a splintering crash.
Tom thundered forward toward Vortex.
The boy spread his arms wide, unleashing a gale that rattled the building itself. Dust swirled, steel groaned.
But Tom plowed through as if the wind was nothing. His massive fist slammed into the barrier of compressed air — the only thing saving Vortex's chest from caving in. Even so, the impact flung him across the floor, sparks trailing where his body scraped concrete and gouged a long groove.
The smoke thickened, reeking of gunpowder and hot metal. The balance had shattered.
The ambush had begun.
Above Lake Michigan, the sky convulsed. Atlas and the masked man collided in bursts of sound and light, their movements too fast for the naked eye. Every strike bent the clouds, every shockwave carved whirlpools into the black water below. Atlas clenched his teeth, fists hammering down in relentless rhythm.
But the masked figure met him blow for blow.
Atlas curved upward in an arc, then drove his fist into the man's gut. The impact hurled him back, but he stopped midair, twisted smoothly, visor catching moonlight as if the sky itself tilted toward him.
Atlas scoffed, disdain curling into a smile.
"Not as fragile as you look."
A sharp buzz cut through the night: a news drone hovered close, red light blinking. Cameras spun to broadcast the impossible brawl to the city. The spectacle had an audience.
Inside, smoke coiled through the rafters.
Scott lunged at Silver, fire wrapped around his fists, light flickering against the haze.
Silver's dagger thrummed in her grip. She sliced, and the blade split the flames apart with a metallic crack — scattering the fire into streaks along the walls. The flames curved back toward Scott, but he only absorbed them, the blaze vanishing into his skin like fuel poured into a furnace.
Robert's volley came next. Spines ripped from his arms with a hiss, metal razors screaming through the air. Silver twisted sideways, boots scraping concrete, her dagger deflecting three. The fourth slammed into the wall beside her head, vibrating.
"Getting distracted, princess?" Robert snarled behind his mask, eyes gleaming.
Silver spun her blade, now glowing with Scott's stolen fire.
"Distracted? I was just warming up."
Vortex burst into the clash, wind howling as he swept his arm in a wide arc. Boxes lifted and smashed aside, and Robert slammed against a steel pillar with a metallic boom.
Before they could breathe, a wall of fire surged back at them.
Vortex crossed his arms, air condensing into a shimmering shield that held the flames in check. Sparks cascaded around him.
Robert recovered with a guttural roar, hurling himself forward, arms bristling with spines. They hammered against the air wall in a metallic hailstorm, each impact shrieking like blades on steel.
Elsewhere, Reflex darted in desperate circles, Tom on her heels. The brute's gorilla-like form shook the ground with every step, cracks webbing through the floor. Reflex split again and again, clones flickering in and out, each smashed into pulp by Tom's fists in her place. Every dodge was closer than the last, each fist tearing through the space she had occupied a breath earlier.
Tom roared, his arms swinging like wrecking balls. Reflex projected a clone behind him, baiting a swing. The blow landed — and rebounded. Force shot back into his chest, making the brute stumble a step.
Her chest heaved, sweat trickling under the mask.
Can't keep this up. Too much drain…
In the smoke, Ghost Girl struck with fast, surgical blows. But Charlize blocked each one with uncanny timing, her arm snapping up before the kick even landed.
Ghost Girl vanished again, circling. Charlize closed her eyes, lips curling.
She felt it — a disturbance in the fog, the air brushing wrong where an unseen body cut through.
I don't fully control it yet, but I can feel it. When someone's close… I know I'm not alone.
She spun and punched. Her fist smashed into Ghost Girl's shoulder, knocking the breath from her before she disappeared again.
"You can't hide from me, sweetheart," Charlize taunted. "I'll find you every time."
While the warehouse erupted, Chris stood at the rear, calm, detached, eyes scanning. His voice cut through the chaos like a knife.
"Call Grey. That's all we want. Call him, and we walk away."
The words froze the air for a second — but only made the Young Team fight harder.
Outside, high in the sky, a pink silhouette streaked toward them. Atom Eve had spotted the drones, the shockwaves, the impossible fight over the lake. Her eyes narrowed at the sight."This isn't normal…"
The glow of her energy painted the night as she sped toward the chaos.
Above, Atlas and the masked figure slammed together again, each blow lighting up the clouds. The lake rippled violently beneath them.
Atlas surged forward, air bending around his speed. His eyes flared red. Twin beams scorched across the night and drilled into his opponent's chest, burning a hole through the uniform. Flesh sizzled, steaming in the cold.
The masked figure recoiled, body hunched — but didn't fall.
Atlas narrowed his eyes. Irritation and surprise warred on his face.
"You took that… but you won't last much longer."
He fired again.
This time, the opponent answered.
Bruce, who had copied Atlas's powers, acted on instinct.
Bruce's visor glowed red. Twin beams shot out, colliding with Atlas's in midair.
The sky ignited. A newborn sun split the night, light flooding the lake and painting the city horizon. Both poured everything into the clash, power grinding against power until the balance shattered in a flash that hurled them apart.
They hovered, panting, suspended over black water.
Atlas's eyes widened.
"I can see through your mask… you're my age. You're like me?"
The masked figure's voice came, calm, steady.
"Maybe I am. Maybe better."
And before Atlas's eyes, scorched flesh bubbled and stitched itself together. Steam hissed. Muscles reformed. In seconds, the wound was gone.
Atlas's jaw tightened.
"What the hell did you just do?"
Bruce adjusted the cracked visor, floating steadily.
"I leveled the playing field," he said, a dry smile in his tone.
A pink streak slashed across the horizon — Eve. She stopped between them, a glowing wall blooming in her palms.
"Atlas!" she shouted. "What's going on here?"
Atlas didn't turn his gaze from his opponent. His voice cut sharp.
"This isn't your fight. Go play hero somewhere else. If you want to help, go to the warehouse. They'll need it."
Eve's jaw tensed.Arrogant jerk. Being on a team with him would be hell.
She spun away and dove toward the fight below.
Wind howled. Silence pressed.
Atlas squared his shoulders, eyes locked again.
The masked figure spread his arms. Spikes tore from his skin, shredding the suit, whistling through the air toward Atlas.
The spikes hit his chest and arms — but didn't pierce. They glanced off as if hitting steel.
Atlas let out a short, disbelieving laugh.
"That all you've got?"
The figure changed again. Flames burst over his body, wrapping him in living fire. The orange glow reflected in the visor, turning him into a demon silhouette against the moonlit sky.
Atlas's laugh turned into a frown.
how many powers does this guy have?
He charged.
Atlas raised his fists, fire licking at his skin without leaving a mark.
A moment later, fists met again — and the Chicago night lit with a storm of blows and fire.
Meanwhile — GDA Base — Monitoring Room — 9:21 PM
The bluish glow of the monitors filled the underground room, revealing tense faces under the artificial light. Streams of data ran across the screens, maps flashed red, and at the center a live transmission captured energy distortions flickering across the night sky above Chicago.
Mirage pulled her earpiece free, brow tight.
"I lost communication with the Young Team the moment they entered the warehouse," she said, her fingers drumming against the table. "No response since then."
Donald, leaning over the control panel, studied the readings. The reflection of the screens trembled against his glasses.
"Atlas's fight is getting intense out there. We had no intel that the thugs in the warehouse had powers," he muttered, his voice heavy with concern. "Do you want me to call in reinforcements? Red Rush is available. He'd be there in minutes."
Cecil remained motionless in his chair. He lit a cigar, the ember casting a red glow over his weary eyes. He drew in a long drag before answering.
"Not yet. No hostages. Eve's already inside. And…" He exhaled, slow. "Grey hasn't moved."
Mirage shot him a look, unsettled by the dryness of his tone, but couldn't find ground to argue.
"Alright," she murmured, then sat straighter as if convincing herself. "We'll wait. If we get nothing in the next few minutes — and if Grey still doesn't show — then we call the Guardians."
Donald only nodded, eyes locked on the feed.
Grayson House — Living Room — 9:24 PM
The room was lit only by the glow of the TV. The remote rested on the arm of the couch, and Mark spoke loudly into his phone.
"Seriously? Still five calls ahead? Fine, I'll wait." He tossed it aside with a sigh. "All this for a pizza…"
He got up, heading toward the hallway.
"I'm going to the bathroom. Don't change the channel!"
Kai didn't even answer. His gaze looked distant, fixed on the screen.
The moment Mark disappeared, he picked up the remote and exited the series. He flipped through channels absentmindedly until one image made him stop.
His heart skipped.
The news broadcast showed aerial footage:
Atlas battling in the sky against a masked man. Bursts of energy cut through the night, exploding in blinding flashes. Moments later, the camera caught Atom Eve breaking through the clouds, her pink glow illuminating the battlefield. The masked man retaliated with spikes that looked far too similar to the ones Kai had faced in the alley.
His body then erupted in flames, the military outfit twisting into a cocoon of fire.
Kai froze. His jaw locked, eyes fixed on the chaos playing out live.
Mark returned, wiping his hands on his pants.
"No way you already changed it. Put the show back—" He stopped. Kai's posture — stiff, locked — caught his attention.
"Hey… what's going on?"
The screen showed Eve angling toward the warehouse, pink glow radiant against the night.
Kai drew a sharp breath, voice quiet.
"I'm going out to pick up the pizza."
Mark blinked, caught off guard, suspicion flickering.
"Uh... fine. Half pepperoni, half extra cheese for me."
Kai nodded, rose, and headed upstairs. He grabbed the backpack from his room, came down silent, and paused at the door to tighten the strap.
Mark eyed him from the couch, a sly grin forming.
Atom Eve... she's the same one who made him pull that crazy stunt with the remote when she showed up on TV a few years back. Now he's all tense again, staring at her like that...
Either he's secretly a hero… or just a fanboy too shy to admit it. Yeah, second option. I'll roast him later.
Kai opened the door, closing it with calm finality.
From inside, Mark called after him, half-teasing.
"Don't take too long! You've got until this episode ends!"
The house sank into the hum of the TV.
Outside, silence ruled the street. Kai walked a few steps, eyes already glowing blue. The air shimmered faintly as the Six Eyes flared. Making sure no one was watching, he shot into the sky.
Interlude — Part 1: Shadows of the Past
Downtown Chicago — Cassie's Apartment — 9:26 PM
While chaos spread through a warehouse in another part of the city, Cassie was at home.
Her apartment sat next her father's gym, tucked into the bright streets of downtown Chicago.
The first floor filled with the smell of iron and sweat, machines clanking, the muffled hum of the old radio Henry never turned off. The second floor held the fighting gym: scarred mats, worn sandbags, cramped locker rooms. And right beside it, the small building where they lived. Simple, but warm, its walls lined with photos from long-forgotten championships.
In the kitchen, the yellow light cast long shadows across the table. Two plates were served, but only one touched. Cassie sat across from her father, pushing rice around her plate with a fork.
Henry, a man in his forties, still athletic despite his unkempt beard and messy hair, watched her quietly. He leaned back in his chair, body relaxed, but his eyes missed nothing. After a few minutes, he broke the silence.
"Hey, are you going to tell me what's going on? You've been acting strange for days now." His voice was light, almost playful, as if he were trying to start small talk with his best friend.
Cassie looked away with a sigh.
"It's nothing."
Henry widened his eyes on purpose, placing a hand dramatically over his chest as if he'd been startled.
"Then I should call the hospital. You, losing your appetite? That's serious."
Cassie narrowed her eyes, then cracked a reluctant laugh.
"There we go. Much better," he said, relaxing his shoulders, as if that laugh had been his only goal.
Her smile faded as quickly as it came. She went back to stirring her food, the silence creeping back. Until finally, without looking at him directly, she murmured.
"Dad... there's something I need to tell you."
Henry arched his brows in exaggerated alarm.
"My God, don't tell me you're pregnant."
Cassie's eyes shot wide in outrage.
"Of course not!"
He laughed, raising his hands as if he'd just won an arm wrestling match.
"I know. Just wanted to lighten the mood. After all, anything else you say will feel lighter than that."
She pressed a hand to her forehead, laughing despite herself.
"You're impossible. I have a friend at school who's sarcastic just like you."
Henry tilted his head, narrowing his eyes.
"For some reason, I hate that already."
Cassie rolled her eyes, crossing her arms.
"To him I'm just a friend. And if you keep this up, I'm not cooking tomorrow. Instant noodles for life."
His expression turned deadly serious.
"Oh no. I'm sorry! My dear daughter, my supreme princess, best cook in the entire universe!" His voice was drenched in shameless flattery as he leaned over the table, hands raised like he was ready to applaud. "Do you want new clothes? I'll pay."
Her laugh scattered the tension — but only for a moment.
"Dad..." her voice wavered, "Mom reached out to me. She said she wanted to see me."
The fork clinked against the plate as she lowered her eyes, too nervous to face his reaction.
But instead of the explosion of anger she expected, his voice came bright and casual.
"That's great! She wants to see you? When are you meeting her? Are you excited?"
Cassie looked up, surprised, like she hadn't heard him right.
"I didn't schedule anything. When she said that, I... I just didn't reply. Yet." Her brow furrowed, hesitant. "You're not mad?"
Henry rested his chin on his palm, posture easy, as though he were reflecting.
"No. Maybe a few years ago I would have been. But it's been what—ten, twelve years? Since she left without a word..." He shrugged, voice calm. "I'm just glad you have this chance now. Even if it's just one meeting, at least you'll have some kind of contact with your mother again."
Cassie's eyes welled instantly. She looked up, breathing deep to hold it in. But she couldn't stop herself: she pushed her chair back and ran into his arms.
"If there's even the slightest chance it'll hurt you, I won't go. I mean it, Dad!"
He pulled her close with one arm, his large hand wrapping warmly around her shoulder.
"Go. I really am happy. Pick a day. I'm sure she regrets not being here… not watching you grow."
Cassie shut her eyes, squeezing him tighter, as if she wanted to freeze the moment.
"Thank you, Dad."
Interlude — Part 2: Quiet But Dark Skies
Mexico — Restaurant in Cancún — 9:26 PM
Elsewhere, the gentle sound of waves broke against the sand, blending with the faint strumming of a guitar drifting from a seaside restaurant. Lanterns hung along the veranda, their warm light swaying in the breeze, while the moon cast silver trails across the waters of Cancún.
Nolan and Debbie sat side by side at a table near the beach. Before them lay colorful plates: grilled fish with mango and chili sauce, coconut rice, sautéed vegetables — and a light white wine between them.
Debbie set her fork down and smiled.
"It's been a while since we've had a moment just for us. No rush, no noise... just us."
Nolan took a sip of wine, shoulders easing for the first time in weeks.
"You're right. We should do this more often."
She leaned forward slightly, pride shimmering in her eyes.
"And it's not like we had to travel far. The twins can take care of themselves. And they're changing too. Kai is… more present, in his own way. And Mark… well, he's the same ball of energy as always."
A low breath slipped from Nolan, almost passing for a laugh.
"Yeah. Kai's been more present. That's a good sign. And Mark… he's still Mark. Thank God."
Silence followed, comfortable and soft as the tide. Debbie rested her hand on the table, and Nolan, unhurried, placed his over hers.
"It's good to know that, despite everything… we still have this," she whispered.
Nolan didn't answer at once. His gaze lingered on the horizon, expression distant, as though measuring something far beyond the stars. For a moment, the serenity of the setting tugged him back.
"And we'll keep it," he said finally.
I hope so. The thought pressed unbidden. His hand tightened gently around hers, even as his eyes shifted back to the dark line where sea met sky.