February 21, 2014 — Friday — Downtown Chicago Café — 1:14 PM
The café's glass front was fogged by the warmth inside. Amber light, the clatter of cups on saucers, the scent of cinnamon, damp coats, and ground coffee. They chose a corner table. Kai sat facing the door; Kiana and Cassie sat side by side.
She arrived three minutes late. Hair tied into a rushed bun, beige coat, a worn handbag hanging from her arm. She carried a sweet perfume, familiar yet distant. She stopped two steps from the table, measuring her words like someone gauging the distance between two shores.
"Hi, Cassie."
"Hi." Cassie straightened her posture, chin a little tense.
"I'm Kiana," Kiana said with a polite smile. "And this is Kai."
The woman gave a small nod and sat down. Hands resting on her bag, fingers fidgeting with the clasp. "Thank you for coming. You look… beautiful. Grown up." Her eyes flicked toward the waiter in a reflex of escape. "Would you like something?"
"Cappuccino," Kiana said. Cassie ordered a simple coffee. Kai asked for water. The waiter noted it down and slipped away.
The first questions were safe, neutral ground: how school was going, how training was, whether Henry still opened the gym at six in the morning. Cassie answered with pauses—plain, not cold. Kiana laughed at a memory here and there, keeping the conversation moving.
But when the woman drew a deeper breath and shifted the subject, the air thinned. She tried to push part of the blame for leaving onto Henry.
Kai watched from the outside, silent, like a spectator. He saw Cassie's fingers lock around the handle of her cup, knuckles whitening. Her chest rose shallow, as if preparing to swallow what she'd swallowed all her life. Blaming Cassie's father was easier, but it cut deeper than if she had admitted the fault was hers.
"I… I wanted to explain, Cassie." Her eyes dropped to her hands. "Back then, I was lost. Your father and I… life got too big. I was young, I wasn't ready. I was scared. I didn't know if your dad was the right person. Nobody helped me and—"
I've heard this script. I've been where Cassie is now.
Excuses without responsibility are just another form of abandonment.
His mind pulled the image of the photo frame in the apartment: Cassie and Henry, carrying the weight together. The woman searched for words, but they all circled back to herself.
"You're trying to explain why you left, as if there's some valid justification," Kai cut in, brow furrowed, eyes sharp as if he could see through her.
The woman blinked, confused. "I just—"
"This isn't about you." His tone didn't waver. "It's about the one who had to deal with what was left. Saying you were young and scared can be understood. But it's not an excuse. If you have something to tell her, you start with 'I'm sorry' and see if anything can be rebuilt from there."
The silence that followed was heavy. His words came more from who he had been in another life than who he was now. The hiss of the espresso machine was the only sound that filled the gap. Cassie didn't look away from her mother, but she slowly released the cup she'd been gripping so tightly. Kiana rested a light hand on her knee.
The woman closed her eyes for a moment, as if falling two floors inward. When she opened them again, her voice had no polish.
"I'm sorry." She swallowed. "I failed you. I left. There's no excuse. If you let me… I want to try to be someone in your life who doesn't hurt."
Cassie breathed long, her face softening a degree. "I don't know how I feel. But… we can try to have coffee again. No promises."
"That's more than enough," her mother said, a crooked, damp smile softening her shoulders. "Message me when you want. I'll be here."
The waiter reappeared, discreetly setting a check on a small plate. Kiana picked it up and paid without ceremony. Cassie rose slowly, hugging her mother from the side—brief, true, leaving enough space not to wound.
Outside, the cold bit their cheeks as they stepped into the street. The hum of cars carried life down the avenue, storefronts reflecting their three silhouettes. Kiana adjusted Cassie's scarf with both hands, an automatic gesture.
"How are you feeling?"
"Lighter." Cassie looked down at her sneakers, then at Kai. "Thank you… both of you."
Kiana smiled. "Shall we head to the mall? If we don't hurry, we'll miss the tickets."
"Oh, please," Cassie laughed—the first real laugh of the day.
They started walking. Cassie lingered half a step behind, watching them from the side—Kiana talking, Kai quiet but present. A thin, traitorous warmth tightened in her chest.
He noticed when I wasn't okay. At school… and now.
He stopped my mom from hurting me more than she already had.
She rubbed her eyes, shook her head as if to throw the thought away, and quickened her pace to catch up.
"Let's go," Kai said simply, tilting his chin toward the direction ahead and ignoring every earlier subject.
And so they went—three stretched shadows on the sidewalk, the mall's neon lights rising ahead like a small dawn.
February 21, 2014 — Friday — Chicago Mall — 2:52 PM
The mall was crowded, storefronts glowing, a sea of voices crossing without hearing one another. In the cinema lobby, posters of Lord of Relics II covered half the walls: a black dragon looming over a stone citadel, knights raised against the sky. The smell of butter from the popcorn machines mixed with the chill of the air conditioning hitting the glass windows.
They spotted them from a distance—Mark raised a hand in greeting, an easy smile on his face.
"Finally, everyone's here," Mark said.
He stood with July, Derick, and Becky. Becky made a face.
"Damn, looks like Kai actually made it on time," she muttered, disappointment on her face.
"Dude, every year you guys keep betting on Kai's reactions," Mark said with a smile.
Derick laughed, already turning toward the concession stand. "Great, Becky, you're paying for my soda—" He froze mid-sentence as if he'd been jolted when he noticed Cassie beside Kiana. His attention locked on her. He cleared his throat, tugged at his collar, trying to act casual—and failing spectacularly.
"Easy there, champ." Mark gave him a light tap on his chest, laughing. "Don't freeze up."
Becky rolled her eyes toward Derick.
"At least now he'll forget about the bet," she whispered to July.
When the group gathered, greetings were quick—handshakes, a hug here and there—except for Derick, who took a second too long looking at Cassie.
"Didn't know you were coming today." His voice betrayed more excitement than he meant to show.
"Last-minute invite." Cassie tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Good surprise?"
"One of the best," he replied, tugging at his collar again, unnecessarily.
Kai's gaze brushed over Becky, and the only thought that came was followed by a sigh.
Not a single scratch on her. Good.
Meanwhile, the ticket line was snaking back toward the wall plastered with movie posters.
"We'd better go now," Mark said, pointing toward the line.
"Actually, we should split up," Becky checked the time on her phone, practical as ever. "Someone gets the tickets, the others grab popcorn, snacks, and candy. Otherwise, we'll miss the trailers."
Kiana, Cassie, and July nodded.
"All right, but who's going to suffer in that line?" Derick crossed his arms, face like he'd been chosen for a sacrifice.
The group exchanged looks. Three seconds of silence.
Kai sighed. "I'll stay."
"Done," Mark said, already turning on his heel. Derick threw himself into melodrama—"your sacrifice won't be in vain, my friend!"—drawing laughter from July and Becky.
The split went: Becky and July for popcorn; Mark and Derick for snacks; Kiana and Cassie for candy.
The candy shop was a glowing rectangle: white shelves, glass jars filled with gummy bears, sour strips, and sugar-coated almonds; metal tongs chained to the counters; a digital scale on the counter plastered with faded superhero stickers. Pop music from the early 2000s played softly in the background.
"So… are you okay after everything with your mom today?" Kiana asked as they walked side by side, their reflections warping in the glass jars.
"Yeah… actually, better than I thought." Cassie smiled lightly, still biting the inside of her lip. "You two helped me a lot."
"I'm glad." Kiana smiled back but kept a thread of worry in her eyes, fidgeting with the elastic on her bracelet.
They stopped before a sea of colors. Cassie used the tongs to fill a bag with gummy bears and sour strips; Kiana picked out chocolates wrapped in metallic foil, two bars to share, and a handful of sea salt caramels because "they're perfect with trailers."
"Have you noticed Kai's been more distant this week? Feels like… the old him, you know?" Kiana broke the silence, her voice low so it wouldn't spread.
Cassie nodded, dropping the last pinch of candy into her bag. "I noticed. Viktor mentioned something, but I thought it best not to bring it up."
Kiana tilted her head. "What did he say?"
Cassie exhaled, looking away. "Not sure how you'll take this or how true it is… but according to Viktor, Kai liked a girl, and she showed up with a boyfriend. Viktor said he's not heartbroken or anything, but—as we know—when it comes to his own feelings, he ignores them like they don't exist."
Kiana barely reacted, as if it wasn't a surprise.
"I kind of already figured there was a girl."
Cassie raised a brow, disapproving. "And you'd just let her take him from you?" She sighed, still disapproving. "If it were me, I'd have done something already."
Saying it aloud nudged something she'd been avoiding—out of respect for her friend—but it was changing day by day.
Kiana looked unsettled, running her hand over the jars.
"I wish I could understand him, tell him what I feel, help… but I can't bring myself to ask. I can do anything else, but this is hard. You're better at it… maybe you could ask him."
Cassie swallowed hard. A sharp pang tightened in her chest—recognition and conflict, brief as a spasm. Kiana's feelings for him weren't news, but hearing them out loud still pinched. She pressed the candy bag carefully, as if neat edges could help put her insides in order.
I'll… I'll help both of them.
Cassie drew a deep breath.
"You two helped me today, and he was there for me. I want to do something back. I'll talk to him. He's stubborn, but sometimes he listens to me."
Kiana's smile returned, relief softening her features. She bumped her shoulder lightly against Cassie's as they walked to the register.
The clerk weighed the bags—beep, beep—Kiana swiped her card, and they left with more candy than they could ever finish. The smell of popcorn drifted in the air, the movie title flickered above, and at the end of the line stood Kai, hands in his pockets, wearing the same quiet expression as always.
Some time later, inside the theater, they settled into a row: Kiana on Kai's left, Cassie on his right; then Derick, July, Mark, and Becky.
The lights dimmed, the dragon from the poster seemed to breathe life onto the screen. Everyone leaned forward, thrilled for the film—everyone except Kai, who moved as though on autopilot.
By the end, they spilled out with the crowd, the hum of credits still in their ears. When they pressed him about the movie, trying to pull him into the conversation, his answer was flat.
"The movie was fine. Except for the forced romance."
He said nothing else, but it was enough. Cassie and Kiana exchanged a glance, as if the words revealed more than he intended.
Since they had already eaten, despite the bags of candy, the girls decided to finish the night with ice cream. At the kiosk, Kiana ordered pistachio with dark chocolate, Cassie went for strawberry with yogurt, Becky and July chose plain cones. The guys came along for the chatter more than the sweets, stealing spoonfuls and laughing at a joke Derick found hilarious—alone.
When they stepped away, it was nearly time for some of them to head home. Becky and July darted into the restroom, Kiana got a call from home and moved off to answer. Mark pointed at the game store still open and tugged Derick with him.
"Two minutes, I swear."
That left only Cassie and Kai.
Cassie lifted her empty bottle toward him.
"I'm going to fill this. Coming with me, or would you rather go watch those two drool over games?"
She shoved the leftover candy bags into his hands and, without waiting for a reply, walked off. Kai followed—not by choice, just inertia.
The side corridor was nearly empty. The mall's noise was muffled, like a pillow over the city. Cassie pressed the bottle under the metal spout; water hissed steady.
"What's got you acting even more zombie than usual?" she asked, eyes on the stream.
Kai leaned back against the wall, hands in his pockets. "Just tired."
"That doesn't fly." She capped the bottle, turned to face him. "You've been somewhere else all week. And… today, at the café—you pulled me back when I was about to fold. Let me return the favor, even if it's clumsy."
"I'm fine, Cassie." Flat, steady. Eye contact that said he believed it.
"You're sixteen, not eighty. Screwing up is allowed. Hiding doesn't count as living." Her voice eased. "If you don't want to talk, okay. I'm still pulling."
A janitor lugging a heavy bag brushed Cassie's shoulder. She stumbled and, reflexively, braced both hands against Kai's chest. One second—too close. Cold air. Her eyes on his.
He tried to step back; the wall stopped him. Another heartbeat—too long.
Cassie blinked like she'd burned herself. Heat rushed to her face. She stepped back; silence pressed in.
She swallowed letting the heartbeat settle, faced him again, already building the cover.
"Viktor says you've been hung up on a girl who showed with a boyfriend," she managed. "Keep hiding and you'll look up and there's no one."
"Viktor… and his big mouth." He rolled his eyes.
"Don't twist it." Her tone was a little sharp, a shield for her own blush. "You're not stone. I don't need to hear your 'I don't want relationships' bullshit again. I don't know who that girl was, but Kiana likes you."
Kai remained calm. "You said it yourself, I keep repeating that I don't want relationships, she should already know."
"Be clear with her then. If you're going to tell Kiana no, tell her no. Just don't keep floating."
Kai sighed.
She turned for the restroom and slipped inside.
Cassie slid past Becky and July with a tight nod, ducked into a stall, locked it. She sat, knees up, forearms around them. Her heartbeat punched at her ribs.
Damn it. I almost kissed him. Why?
Heat climbed her neck. He helped me today and I repay him by making it weird.
She pressed her brow to her sleeve. I like him too. The admission stung and settled at once.
No. Not like this. Not to Kiana.
She breathed, slow in, slower out. Fingers combed her hair back; she pinched color from her cheeks, willing the red to fade. One more breath. She stood, squared her shoulders, and stepped out.
Kai was still there. "I'm sorry if I said something that upset you."
"You didn't. Just talk to Kiana." She said calmly, looking away.
He walked with her, raked a hand through his hair and let it fall—like surfacing from a deep dive. The irritating part was she was right. He hated how much it landed.
Minutes later, the group reassembled in the lobby. Quick goodbyes, talk of the next meetup, scattered laughter. July left first—oddly not with Becky this time. Derick's dad was picking them both up, so Becky stayed behind. Kiana ended her call and waved at Kai before leaving with the girls.
The mall's noise swallowed the group piece by piece.
Only Kai and Mark remained, descending the ramp into the cold street. They walked side by side, hands in their pockets, light bags swinging at their sides.
Later that night, after everyone was asleep, Kai lingered in the living room for a minute. The house was quiet. He sat, elbows on his knees, staring at his phone.
A message from Kiana glowed on the screen:
"Did you get home safe? Today was really nice. It's so fun hanging out with all of you. :)"
He opened the chat, stared for a few seconds, then turned the screen dark with a breath.
I defeat giant monsters and idiots with superpowers. How could I not have gotten home safely?
If he kept quiet, she'd do the caring for both of them—and that was a cruelty he could avoid.
I need to be clear with her. Otherwise she'll keep dragging herself into this. I can't keep drifting like this.
He set the phone on the table and climbed the stairs slowly. The decision was already made in his mind, taken in the same quiet way he took everything. But at least now, even though he didn't realize it, in an unexpected way what Cassie said changed something.
February 21, 2014 — Friday — Outskirts of Chicago — 10:52 PM
The black sedan purred at the curb, low beams cutting a dull cone through the night. The driver's window was half-rolled down. Behind the wheel sat the same bodyguard who had saved Russell before, both hands gripping the wheel, eyes fixed on the corner.
"Sir, they're after you. Get in the car. This is going to get dangerous. Are you trying to get yourself killed?"
Russell stood outside, drawing in the cold night air. He slipped off his blazer with calm precision, folded it without care, and tossed it into the back seat. Unbuttoning his shirt, he left only a tank top, veins standing out under the streetlamp's yellow glow.
"Relax… I've got this under control this time. I'm waiting for them." He jerked his chin toward the dash. "Stay in the car, roll up the window, and enjoy the show."
The bodyguard obeyed. Clack. The window slid up.
Two old cars swung around the corner like hounds on a scent—low suspensions, battered frames, engines snarling. One skidded sideways across the street; the other parked close behind, sealing off the block. Four men poured out, armed to the teeth: tactical vests, scopes, long muzzles for armor-piercing rounds. From the other car came two more, necks inked black, sun-weathered skin, eyes unblinking.
The Sangre Twins. Again.
They advanced without hurry, like men who already knew the ending. Russell chuckled alone, slid his watch off his wrist, dropped it on the back seat beside his blazer, and shut the door with a calm push. He stepped out into the center of the street, beneath the light.
The one on the left dragged his thumb across his throat—a silent order to eliminate the target.
The four grunts fanned forward, weapons snapping up, and opened fire.
RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!
Sparks leapt from the asphalt, casings scattered. At the tail of the barrage, one hefted a heavier rifle, barrel glowing faintly blue. He stepped forward and pulled the trigger—light punched across the night like a hammer.
"¡Hecho!" he barked, yanking the trigger again.
Russell raised his arm and let the blast hit.
Skin split. A black groove, smoke trailing. Then, in an instant, the flesh knitted back together, smooth—as if someone had hit undo. He looked at his own arm, grinning like a kid on a roller coaster.
The twins glanced at each other, brows hard. Silent.
Russell blurred in a crackle of sparks, air stinking of ozone, his body snapping forward in a jagged arc of speed. He reappeared at the shooter's back.
"Boo."
All four turned and fired point-blank. Bullets sank, flattened, ricocheted—he just smiled. He spread his hand and shoved the man's chest as though testing a shock absorber.
The man flew ten meters, smeared against a wall, collapsed in blood and viscera.
Another fumbled to reload. Russell caught the barrel, twisted, and drove the steel through the man's vest with a wet CRUNCH.
The third took an uppercut to the jaw; bone shifted, forehead caved, lights out before the body hit the ground. The last managed a breath to aim—Russell stomped, crushing him into the pavement.
Silence. Two seconds. Only the drip of some distant air conditioner against the violence painted across that Chicago street.
Russell spread his arms, almost applauding, his trademark smirk.
"My favorite twins," he said, dripping irony. "Where's Salamanca? I wanted to give my condolences. Four of his men died mysteriously on…" He tilted his head toward the street sign. "Birchwood Lane."
The Sangres stepped forward. Boots scraped asphalt. One flexed his hands, tendons like cables. The other dug his fingers into a car door's crumpled edge, bending steel like foil. In the south they were known as Hermanos Sangre: brute strength, raw endurance, and a trick that had felled many—when one bled, the other grew stronger. Together, almost no one stood.
Russell cracked his neck and stepped closer, grin sliding back in place.
"I'm open to settling this with a chat. You've already got four funerals to—" He glanced at the man splattered on the wall. "Oops, make that three funerals."
The twins fanned out in perfect sync, cold eyes locked on him. The wind swept the empty block, carrying the stink of gas and metal.
They closed the distance until only a fist fit between them. The street held its breath. Then, as if a starter pistol fired, they charged.
Boots tore the asphalt. Russell rolled his shoulders loose, like a fighter who already knew the rhythm.
One shot a jab for his chin, then a cross for the ribs; the other swooped low, aiming for his legs. Russell slid half a step, the jab slicing air. He caught one wrist, and without looking, drove his knee into the other's forearm.
THUNK.
The sound was metal. His face didn't twitch—he hadn't felt it.
"Nice warm-up." He smiled.
The twins shifted angles, sharper now. The left fired a flurry to the torso—three quick shots—while the right went for a clinch, knees driving.
Russell stayed calm, savoring. He spread his hand through the air like brushing invisible wires, then pulled.
No wind. But something drained. Both stumbled half an inch, power slipping like water.
"Yeah… I'll take about ten percent from each of you." His tone was amused. "So this is how that kid feels… IN-CRE-DI-BLE!"
The right Sangre lunged. Russell countered with a straight to the sternum. CRACK. The man staggered, hunting for air. A hook to the other's jaw followed, then a barrage—short, brutal.
THUD—THUD—THUD.
Heads snapped, spit flew. Each blow echoed down the block until Russell stopped.
The twins staggered back, bleeding from mouth, nose, brows, their faces already bruised.
But instead of weakening, they swelled—pumped like lifters mid-set. They glanced at each other, veins bulging at their necks, pupils narrowing.
Together again, they rushed. One locked Russell in a crushing bear hug, biceps like cables pinning his arms. The other stepped back, cocked an overhand that could drop a truck.
It landed flush on Russell's face.
BLAM.
This time, he felt it. Blood poured from his nose and lips, cartilage crunched.
Still, he laughed, teeth flashing. "Now we're talking."
The one behind squeezed harder, trying to snap his spine. The other wound up for another strike.
Russell only grinned. The ground rumbled beneath his boots. His skin darkened.
From neck to knuckles, ribs to scalp, armor spread—purple, matte plates locking together, sprouting from bone. Not light. Not energy. Matter. A living shell sealed him, even his face hidden by a concave mask.
The Sangre's punch landed square.
TONK.
That blow—amped by their shared pain—had folded steel-skinned heroes and shattered riot shields.
His hand sprang open from the impact, fingers trembling. Russell hadn't budged an inch.
Russell didn't even rock back; the only thing that cracked was the pavement spider-webbing beneath his boots.
The Sangre scowled, trying to make sense of the madness.
"Maldito monstruo," he muttered.
From inside the shell, Russell's voice boomed. "My turn."
He bent, heaving the one on his back overhead, slamming him down hard enough to crack pavement. KRUNK.
The other swung again. Russell met him shoulder-first, bulldozing him into the hood of a cartel car. Metal buckled, man folded.
Russell tested his body, blow for blow. He crashed an elbow into a cheekbone—TAK—blood sprayed. A knee to the plexus—UFF!—the man doubled, spitting. Russell followed with a headbutt at whisper distance—TUNK—teeth clicked, nose broke, legs sagged.
The other unleashed a desperate combo, fists hammering the same spot on Russell's chest. He marched through it like it was nothing. Caught his face in one palm, drove him into the wall, and hammered three short shots into his gut. Air vanished, body folded.
The other staggered up, fueled by his brother's pain—but only to take a side kick to the shoulder. CRACK. Bone popped.
Bloodied, barely upright, rage smoldering in their eyes—the twins who had felled even powered foes couldn't touch him.
Russell let the armor recede. Plates sank beneath skin, leaving only the gleam in his eye.
"I'll let you live." He straightened his collar like fixing a tie. "Tell Salamanca things have changed. For wrecking my car last time, my cut goes up ten percent." A pause, smirk twisting wider. "Today, since my car's fine… let's call it five percent. For emotional damages."
The sturdier twin staggered upright, brother limp at his side. Their link flared, veins bulging, eyes sharpened.
He lunged blind, fist dragging the block with it.
Russell just flicked two fingers, bored. "Quiet."
The world flipped. Sky and ground traded places, horizon folded. The twin's step turned to stumble, swing to clutching air.
He staggered, dizzy, unable to tell left from right. Charlize could only manage that standing still, focused—but Russell wove it mid-stride, like he'd been born with the switch.
"Poor thing…" He closed in, voice low. "You'll give Salamanca my message." Two pats to the man's chest, almost friendly. "Start practicing your balance."
Russell turned his back, unhurried. Sodium lamps painted golden puddles on grimy asphalt.
The bodyguard popped the rear door. Russell slid in immaculate—no sweat, no scratch.
The driver's voice shook with disbelief.
"That was… How did you… You wiped them out."
Russell said nothing. The confident smile stayed fixed as the city slid past the windows.
But in the padded silence of the backseat, a thin line trickled from his nose. Bright red. He wiped it with the back of his hand, frowned at the smear.
So it wasn't just lab paranoia…
I overused it testing these last few days.
He pulled a handkerchief, the fabric soaking crimson fast.
They said my cells overload with prolonged use. Fine. Then I need a fix. With Radcliffe dead, only Dr. Mikhail's left.
His gaze hardened, already moving pieces.
I'll get him out of prison. And I'll put him to work for me.
Few days later — February 25, 2014 — Tuesday — Oakwood, Boxing Club
It was just another day of training. Near the end of practice, when most had already left, Cassie noticed Kai in one of the rings, pulling off a glove. She nudged Kiana with her elbow.
"Go on, remember what I told you." Cassie said, jerking her chin toward the ring.
Kiana looked at her, then at Kai. She drew a breath and walked to the apron, leaning an arm on the padded edge. Kai tilted back his water bottle, eyes flicking to her for a second.
"You've been quieter these past days," she said softly. "People are saying it's because of a girl… Is it Atom Eve?"
The bottle froze mid-tilt. Kai lowered it, staring at the blue mat for a moment.
"Another one with that story."
He lifted his gaze, scanning the gym. His hand snapped, tossing the bottle in a perfect arc.
THOK.
"Ow! What the hell, man?" Viktor yelped from the far side, kneeling to put gear away in the cabinet.
Cassie bit her lip not to laugh. Kiana let out a small giggle.
"Not 'what the hell,'" Kai said from the ring. "It's so you learn to keep your mouth shut."
"You didn't say it was a secret," Viktor shot back, tossing the bottle back.
Kai caught it without looking. "Go screw yourself." The words carried more friendship than anger.
Viktor flipped him off with a grin, stuck his tongue out, and went back to work.
Kai shook his head with a sigh that was both tired and resigned.
"So it was her after all," Kiana said quietly, still leaning on the apron.
Kai held her gaze.
"It wasn't that. Just Viktor's dumb ideas… and that thing at the warehouse, when I was fighting those powered guys and she stepped in. One wrong thought pulled another."
Kiana gave a small smile, sincere.
"Alright. No need to explain. If it upset you, it upset you."
He didn't answer. He only stared at her for a few seconds, then looked away, fingers on the last glove strap.
The silence broke with the soft squeak of rubber when Kiana vaulted the ropes in a fluid leap. She landed steady on both feet.
Kai arched a brow.
"Just to close out practice." She tied her hair into a high ponytail and slipped on the gloves right there, knocking them together.
Outside, Cassie nudged Viktor. Her chest tightened for a second, heartbeat kicking hard in her ribs. She almost held back—but then forced the gesture through, elbow against his side. Viktor grinned wide, already enjoying the scene. The two quietly left the gym, like people dimming the hallway lights and shutting the door without sound.
Kiana swept the empty gym with her eyes. 6:42 PM. The water cooler clicked faintly in the corner. "Well… it's just us now. And you're the only one who can make me go serious in the ring. Can I go all out?"
Kai weighed her for a moment.
"You can. Rules? Just a warm-up?"
"Ten minutes. If I make you fall, I win."
Kai smirked. "You're at a disadvantage with that."
Some strands had slipped loose from her ponytail, swaying in the fan's breeze. She smiled back.
"Pretty cocky, huh? Then how about this: if I win, you owe me a favor."
Kai narrowed his eyes.
"Fine. Let's go."
They stepped back, breathing through their noses. The buzzing light overhead shrank the world to ropes, footwork, and the scrape of soles on vinyl.
"If we break something, Cassie's going to kill us," Kai muttered, glancing around.
Kiana nodded, eyes smiling.
They closed distance. She opened with a double jab at his face, cross to the body. Kai tucked his chin behind his shoulder, calmly walking through, parrying with forearms. His counters were soft taps: one jab to her forehead, another to her chest—just enough to correct her rhythm.
The ring sang clean: tap, tap of soles, fwip of air cut by straights, tick of the wall clock. Kiana angled, sidestepped, jab-cross-hook. Kai shifted a fraction, blocked, slid outside the line. His left stopped a finger's width from her cheek before pulling back.
"Again," she said, eyes lit with competition.
This time she pressed harder—her footwork sharper, her punches heavier. Each jab cracked like a whip; each hook carried weight that would've folded an ordinary fighter. Kai unraveled her shots with micro-movements, but he had to move faster now, shoulders rolling, blocks tightening. A solid straight thumped into his solar plexus—thunk—so strong he felt the sting in his spine. He only smirked, motioning her on.
Kiana's follow-up was immediate: a feint low, then a twisting kick that snapped the air close to his ribs. He parried it with his forearm, the impact buzzing down to his elbow. She didn't let up—jab-cross, pivot, knee—an onslaught that showed why even in Oakwood she was already a step above the rest.
For the first time, Kai had to draw on more of himself—sharper steps, quicker reads, hands cutting the angles before they closed. He still held back, still careful not to hurt her, but his calm now masked focus rather than ease.
Minutes passed. The air warmed. Her breathing shortened, but she never stopped coming, hair clinging to her cheek, gloves snapping like pistons. She ducked, feinted a clinch, tried to torque his waist. He caught her mid-motion, spun her gently back to center.
He never left an opening, never used his glowing eyes—but he'd had to respect her pace. She wasn't going to knock him down, but she had made him sweat—even if just a little.
"Time," Kiana said, lowering her gloves.
She hopped out and went to the fountain. The hiss of water, white light on damp skin, hair sticking to her temple. Her eyes—blue, almost gray—bright beneath dark brows. Black sports top, leggings hugging her like ink. Anywhere else, she'd look like a magazine cover. Here, she was just Kiana—real, sweaty, stunning.
Kai caught himself watching her too long. His gaze dipped—first to the curve of her neckline, where sweat traced the line of her collarbone, then a beat lower. He shook his head, inhaled sharp, and forced his eyes away.
Focus. I need to say something that makes her give up on me.
But Kiana had noticed. The slight turn of his neck, the way he stared at the floor. She dropped the bottle, rushed, and dove for his legs.
Her arms clamped his knees, pulling to topple him.
Instinct answered. He caught her waist, twisted, controlled the fall—both landing together.
Her ponytail snapped loose, pale hair spilling over his chest like a curtain.
Half her body over his. Eyes locked. A second stretched long.
He shifted an arm to push up.
But before that…
Kiana tilted and pressed her lips to his—a quick kiss—tucking the stray lock behind her ear with her free hand.
Time held. Breath caught. They lingered—close enough to feel each other. Her breath warm on his mouth, the salt of sweat, pale hair against his cheek, those blue-gray eyes right there—the soft press of her chest to his sternum. Not smart.
She started to pull back, eyes steady—offering him the out without a word.
His hand hovered at her waist to push her off… and stalled. She wasn't clinging. She was letting him choose. Something old and stubborn—a flicker of loneliness—kicked in his ribs.
Her gaze didn't flinch.
Instead of rejecting her, for one heartbeat he forgot his reasons—something quieter than resolve— a slip. His fingers found the nape of her neck; he drew her in and kissed her back—firm, unhurried.
Kiana smiled mid-kiss, broke into a laugh, rolled to the side, and rested her head on his arm. It opened instinctively to hold her.
"What?" he asked, lost between sparring and this.
"Nothing," she said, eyes bright. "I just… wanted that for a long time."
They held each other's look a beat. Then Kai sat up and pulled her to her feet. Reason snapped back.
He looked at the gym door and turned away from her, as if seeking shelter in the wall.
"Let's stop here... You don't get it," he said quietly. "There's too much. I'm older, broken for a long time… and then there's my powers, my father… None of this will be good for you."
In her head she was older and even if he was, she wouldn't care. Kiana stepped close, touched his chest, and turned him to face her.
"Bullshit. Whether it's good or not, that's my choice. And I want to be with you... just don't run."
She kissed him again. No testing. No doubt.
When she pulled back, she pressed her forehead to his.
"This is not going to end well," he said, low.
"I don't care."
A breath of quiet.
"I knocked you down," she said, smiling. "So I get my favor."
After a short debate on whether it counted, Claire called saying they were waiting at the school gate.
It just didn't feel right to dismiss her now, so they left. Kai walked her to the gate.
That night, sleep wouldn't come. He lay on his back, eyes tracing the hairline crack in the ceiling, replaying the ring, the fountain, the kiss he shouldn't have returned.
I let myself get carried. I shouldn't have.
I know how this ends. I should've learned by now.
His face hardened. The feeling had the shape of distraction, weakness, error—a predictable bad ending—and it wouldn't leave.
Tomorrow I'll tell her it can't happen.
But tomorrow came, and she didn't push. She waved at him in the hallway like nothing had changed—no expectations, no demands. He opened his mouth to say it, but she was already turning away to talk with someone else, easy and unbothered. The words stayed locked.
The next day, the same. She sat near him at lunch, laughed at something Viktor said. Natural. Like the kiss had been nothing more than another sparring match—acknowledged, then moved past.
By the third day, he stopped rehearsing the speech. Not because he'd changed his mind—because she'd made it impossible to deliver. There was nothing to reject. She hadn't asked him for anything.
A week slipped by. She was just... there. Training with the girls at the club. Sending dumb memes at night. Appearing at his side without making it a thing.
It wasn't a decision so much as erosion—the slow wearing down of walls built out of reflex, not need.
A Week later — Friday, March 7th, 2014 — Oakwood — After School
Near the end of the day, Kiana's phone buzzed. She answered, face shifting from neutral to annoyed in three seconds.
"What? ...Is everyone okay? ...No, I'll just take a cab." She hung up.
Kai, leaning against the wall nearby, raised an eyebrow.
"Claire says the driver got rear-ended," Kiana said, shoving her phone into her bag. "Everyone's fine, but they'll be late picking me up."
"Cab it is, then."
She nodded, already pulling up the app. Kai watched her for a second, then sighed and pushed off the wall.
At least I can do this.
"I can take you."
Kiana paused mid-scroll. "You serious?"
"Faster than a cab. Cheaper, too."
She studied him—trying to figure out if it was an offer or a test. "Alright."
Ten minutes later, they were airborne.
He kept the speed low, steady. The city unfolded beneath them—rooftops, streets, the late afternoon sun painting everything orange. She held his arm, not from fear—just to anchor herself in the wind.
"You're not scared," he said.
"Did you forget that I'm Silver?"
"No. It's just most people are. First time flying."
"Even if I had no powers, I trust you. So no... by the way, this view is incredible."
He didn't answer. Just adjusted course slightly.
When they reached her neighborhood, he didn't descend. Instead, he angled toward a taller building—flat roof, empty, view stretching out to the horizon.
He landed softly. She let go of his arm but didn't step away.
"Detour?" she asked.
"Figured you weren't in a rush anymore."
Kiana smiled, walked to the edge, and sat. Legs dangling over the city. Kai stayed standing for a moment, then sat beside her.
Silence. Not the heavy kind—just the kind that happens when words aren't needed yet.
After a moment, Kai started, "About what happened—" but she didn't let him finish.
"You've been waiting for me to push," she said, eyes on the skyline. "So you can say no."
Kai didn't deny it, he just swallowed his words.
"But I'm not going to," she continued. "I said what I wanted. The rest is up to you."
He looked down at his hands. New friends. Family. Power. A different life. The old one felt far.
"I told you—I've been broken a long time. I don't know how to do this or how I should feel about it," he said quietly.
"I know."
"Either I'll mess it up or you will."
"Probably."
He arched a brow, "and you're okay with that?"
Kiana turned to face him. "I'm okay with trying."
He stared at her for a long moment. The wind pulled at her hair. The city hummed below. And something in him—something buried under reflex and old certainty—shifted.
Not surrender. Not passion.
Just... less resistance.
"Alright," he said after a while. "We try. But slow."
"Slow works."
She leaned her head and kissed him. He didn't pull away.
They stayed like that until the sun dipped low enough to turn the sky purple.
By Monday, people at school started noticing them together—trays side by side, the way she laughed at his flat responses. No announcement. No grand gesture. Just the quiet, undeniable fact that they'd become something neither of them had named but both of them knew.
In the weeks that followed, she was always near. She didn't ask him to be different, so he stopped burning energy pretending he wanted her gone.
The voice was still there—the one that said this was a mistake, that it would end badly, that he should cut it off. But it was quieter now.
He wasn't happy. He still didn't know if he could manage that.
But with her close, he was... less empty. And for now, that was enough.
At lunch, she stole his fries without asking, and he pretended not to notice until she smirked. His face read as discomfort, but only because he was too stubborn about dodging his feelings to admit it wasn't.
Their silences stopped feeling like walls and started feeling like breath—the kind you hold without noticing and only miss when it's gone. He kept the brakes on; the ground just felt less tilted.
When the "us" topic grazed the outside world, something else bugged her: his profile with three total photos, all ancient. "Amazing… girls comment 'you look insane' and you don't even use this thing," she grumbled, half laughing.
He shrugged. "Take it up with them, not me."
Another day, she messaged late: "You asleep?"
"Yes," he typed. "Answering you straight from my dream."
"Idiot." (photo of her, hair down, low light) "Your turn."
"Pass."
"Not fair." — and the video call came through just to say good night. He picked up with a flat face; he hung up with a slight smile he'd never admit happened.
Even people who didn't like them had to swallow it: the match worked too well to nitpick. The rest of the school adjusted faster than anyone expected: after the first double takes, hallway stares became quick nods, and life rolled on. By osmosis, Kai got popular—first for the face that was hard to ignore, features a touch finer than Mark's, the kind of build that turns heads, then for being with Kiana, who already had half the school following her every post.
Kai let himself be pulled—not away from who he was, but away from the empty place he'd been living in. Kiana didn't try to fix him; she just stayed. Somehow that spoke louder than any confession. It all felt natural. Maybe too natural. And that, more than anything, was what unsettled him.
One month later — April 11, 2014 — Friday — Oakwood
On Oakwood's rooftop, the wind tugged Kiana's hair and pushed thin clouds across a clean sky. She and Kai sat on the low parapet, legs dangling inward. Below, the courtyard was a mosaic of uniforms.
The metal door banged. Viktor strode out with his hands in his blazer pockets, playing the entrance like a stage.
"Finally found you. Man, how about we go out to train today?"
Kai lifted one corner of his mouth. "could be."
Kiana glanced between them, amused. "You two used to sneak out to train all the time? Seriously?"
"Sometimes," he said.
"So that's why Mr. Viktor started skipping half the team practices…" She tipped her chin at him, teasing. "And you never invited me. I'm in."
Viktor opened his mouth, stopped mid-thought. "It's kind of a bro thi—" he rerouted with a raised brow, "—you know what? Jenny's been begging to come. Let's make it four."
Kai shrugged. "Looks like you're going to get the double date you wanted. Fine by me."
Viktor looked at Kiana, his face teasing. "Wow, you could have jumped on Kai earlier."
She rolled her eyes but let out a smile.
Kai tipped his head Viktor's way. "Same place?"
Viktor was already pulling out his phone. "Yep. She gets out of prep at 2:30. Three o'clock?"
"Deal," Kiana said, eyes bright. "After class, then."
A cluster of students crossed the rooftop—three seconds of loud laughter—then the door thudded shut again. The wind shifted. Kiana tucked back the one strand that always escaped her high ponytail, fingernail brushing the skin behind her ear.
"Thanks for saying yes," she said softer, not quite facing him. "I want to train… and also understand your powers better, you know?"
"You've seen most of it," Kai said evenly. "But I'm a little curious about yours too."
"Good. Then let's go all out today." She met his eyes. "I still haven't used the favor from the last time I knocked you down. Want to bet again?"
He held her gaze with a faint smile. "We'll see."
Viktor slid his phone back into his pocket. "Jenny's in—with like three hundred caveats. Suits on, no filming, don't break things… her being her."
Kiana smothered a smile on the bottle rim. "She always tries to control everything."
"Don't remind me," Viktor groaned.
The bell droned from inside. Viktor shouldered the door. "I'll grab Jenny and meet you there."
He vanished down the stairs. Kiana let her shoulder rest against Kai's for a heartbeat—natural—then eased away the same inch.
"Let's go," she said, twisting the cap closed. "If I'm late, Claire calls me three times in a row. She's already mad that I arrived late yesterday because we went with Cassie to her house."
"Next time I'll fly faster," he joked.
"If that were the problem..." She paused. "She keeps pressing me to tell her if… anything happened between us."
He angled his head a fraction without fully turning, eyes steady on the parapet line.
"If you want to tell her something, I don't mind. Just… let's take it slow. Don't build too many expectations," he said—dry—but not harsh.
"I won't," she said, softer, thumb worrying the edge of the bottle cap before she let it go. "It's just that it's kind of hard to come up with an excuse every time someone asks. My dad has a dozen security guards watching. It would be easier if they knew."
He glanced back to her then—almost gentle—something like empathy flickering behind his eyes, and underneath it a quiet discomfort, as if he wanted to protect her from getting hurt.
"That's not what I'd call slow," he said. "But fine. "
"Really?" She studied him. "If you don't want it, that's fine, you haven't told your family either."
Kai met her look. "Really. I don't see a problem with that either."
She started walking again and caught his arm. A few steps later, she tugged him back. "My dad should be in town this weekend. If not, maybe next week. What do you think?"
"If you want this, whatever you prefer." No hesitation.
She blinked, a playful frown. "I thought you'd make an excuse. You agreed too easily. Am I the only one nervous about this topic?"
A light corner-smile. "Yeah. Just you."
She blinked, then her mouth curved—half playful, half real nerves showing through. "Unbelievable. I thought I was the mature one. You don't even seem to care, as if you've done this before."
They took the long corridor back to the stairs, descended the last step side by side, and were swallowed by the bustle of dismissal—with the afternoon already set. And whether he said it out loud or not, Kai was already stepping into the thing he'd meant to keep at arm's length.
April 11, 2014 — Friday — Outskirts of Chicago — 3:12 PM
The clearing lay forty minutes outside the city—uneven gravel, broad stone slabs, half a dozen transmission towers on the horizon. The wind had the run of the place. Nothing to hear but its back-and-forth and the whisper of fabric.
Reflex adjusted her mask and swept her "team" with a glance. Vortex rolling his shoulders, Silver warming her grip by spinning a gleaming dagger, Grey standing hands-in-pockets in his suit jacket, eyes reading the ground.
"So I finally get to see the famous training you and Vortex do." Reflex squinted at Grey's slate uniform. "I was starting to think he was cheating on me with some girl."
Grey's mouth tilted. "Relax. Vortex is chill. All bark, no bite."
Vortex arched a brow. "Not sure whether to say 'thanks' or 'screw you.'"
They laughed, the air easing.
Reflex set her hands on her hips. "Vortex says you two are together," she said, pointing from Grey to Silver, curious. "How'd that happen?"
Grey turned to Silver, ceding the floor.
Silver drew a breath. "I liked a boy at my school… and it turns out he was Grey." Her eyes slid to him, not hiding a thing.
"Right, that's a stunning coinciden—" Reflex's eyes widened as the dots snapped into place. "No way he's the 'locker-room boy' you wouldn't stop thinking about?"
Silver flushed under the fabric, stepped in, tried to clap a hand over Reflex's mouth. Reflex ducked, laughing, and looked straight at Grey—confirmation all over her face.
"Yeah. It was him," Silver murmured.
Grey couldn't help himself; he poked the warm cheek through the mask. "A friend set us up. It was a while ago. We're fine." A teasing shrug. "But good to know I stuck in her head."
Silver went redder and gave him two light punches to the shoulder—toc, toc—no heat, just embarrassment. Vortex and Reflex cracked up for real.
A few minutes later they spread across the ground. After Grey's recent appearances, both girls' curiosity about what he could actually do was loud.
"Start with you two," Reflex decided, pointing between Vortex and Grey. "I want to see 'full tilt.'"
Vortex rubbed his hands. "Let's go."
Grey just nodded.
They took twenty yards between them, squared up.
Vortex grinned like this time would be different, opened his palms, turned his hips, and sent a straight blast.
WHOOOOSH.
Air tunneled forward, kicking grit and pebbles. Grey tilted half a centimeter, blue eyes lighting. He stepped into the current and let it skim his flank, like walking through a curtain.
"Again," Vortex warned, already shaping another. Wind came in slicing bands, sweeping horizontal. Grey sank his foot, rotated through the line, slipped the gap—fiuumm—the strips scoring the rock behind him.
Vortex ramped it up: two tight spheres of compressed air, humming, one to the face, one to the leg. Grey read the angle before release, broke the line with a low dart and crisp micro-moves—tiny back turn, side slip, loose shoulder. The first sphere popped against the ground with a PUMF; the second scraped where his shin had been.
"Gonna keep dodging?" Vortex threw wide, a chest-thump of pressure—THUMP.
Grey finally advanced. No theatrics—he closed as if the air helped him. Vortex braced a wind wall—thicker than he used to make.
VOOOOM.
Grey veered in a smooth arc, broke the flank, already inside range. A touch to the wrist bumped balance; a second touch at the shoulder slid the axis. No impact—just control and ridiculous leverage.
"These two are serious," Reflex said from behind.
Vortex planted, cupped his hands, condensed a bigger, denser sphere that spun like a trapped cyclone—and compressed it harder. "Copied your barrier. Now I'll copy your Blue—and do it better."
Fist-sized now—and launched with a palm-driven air ram, harder than any thrown punch.
It screamed in—too fast to track. Grey smiled anyway; easy to slip… until the orb bloomed mid-flight.
WHOOOOSH.
"Dodge this!" Vortex whooped.
Grey's eyes flashed, he leaned hard back, arms opening, flight snapping to full—still not enough. He kicked Blue, sank a knee, rolled his waist, and let it shave his ribs—VVVVRRRRRR—the vacuum tugging at his suit.
GRRRRRAAAANK!
The sphere bored a hole through a boulder the size of a truck.
"Yeah, they're serious," Silver said, eyes lighting up.
Vortex stared, irritation leaking through. "How the hell did you slip that? Come on!"
Grey's grin hid under the mask. "Forget who you're fighting?"
Jaw tight, Vortex rained close-range wind blades, choking exits and throwing grit. When the dust settled, Grey stood on the other side—one step that felt like two.
The pace climbed. Vortex sheathed his fists in compressed air. "Wind Blast!" He surged, changing levels—high jab, chest straight, body hook—each punch detonating wind on impact. Grey braced two on his forearms; the third thumped and shoved him half a step back.
No space given: Vortex upped power, short jetting from his soles, hammered down a loaded straight that knocked Grey a meter… and Grey simply stopped in the air, hovered, returned.
Vortex rose too, on pulsing thrusts. Air crackled around them. He laced his hands, wound a near-full-power shot, siphoning breath. Grey waited, still; the sphere fattened. At the last instant he shot straight up—fuuu—the payload tearing through the ghost he left. When Vortex searched, the trail was gone.
"Ah, hell…" he muttered, fine control burning out his arms.
Grey appeared at the blind angle, clinched clean, trapped Vortex's arm, rolled his hips, and sent him to the deck. A heartbeat of control.
"Enough, enough! I'm done!" Vortex tapped the rock.
Grey let go. Vortex flopped on his back, laughing and cursing in the same breath as Silver and Reflex jogged over.
"No chance. He's a freak like Atlas… Every time I think I'm close, he's stronger."
Reflex and Silver laughed. Grey offered a hand and hauled him up. "Your wind control covering the strength gap is way better. And you almost had me with that sphere."
"Almost? Three months ago I'd have tagged you." Vortex snorted, still grinning. "What are you eating? You level up every month."
Grey's half-smile didn't move. The Viltrumite blood—stronger, faster, steadier—kept whispering in the back of his mind. "I think it was Kiana's extra spicy food," he deadpanned.
A squint from Vortex was the only reply.
"What? You said the sandwich was good!"
They laughed for a moment.
"Enough of teasing me. My turn to see." Silver said, stepped to a car-sized rock. "That 'Blue'—like with the giant thing… Show me?"
Grey raised a hand, fingers splayed toward the stone. A faint glow traced his palm; a blue sphere formed flush to the skin, the air snapping with cold sparks. "My energy. The void," he said, eyes on the target. "If I concentrate it, it makes… a lack. Like something's missing there."
Forearm tightened—energy swelled—and he pressed forward.
The rock shuddered. A deep seam. Half a second of silence—then it seemed to implode into itself, shattering toward the sphere's heart. When Blue unraveled, the ruin collapsed.
CRRRRRRRR.
A low sheet of dust rippled out.
"When something's missing, the world tries to fix it," he went on, calm. "More energy, stronger effect."
Silver's eyes widened. "I don't fully get it, but… that's amazing. And dangerous. That's how you hurt the monster."
"Not that dangerous. I control this one fine," Grey said. "It just burns stamina."
Vortex lifted a hand. "If they liked that, show the other. Your annoying field."
Grey nodded.
He drew a breath and the air around him changed—nothing to see, a thin film displacing dust. Vortex fired a straight shot at his chest.
WHOOOOSH.
The wind broke before contact, sliding off as if over a blade.
Vortex changed angle—under, then over. Same result: the strike lost its vector at the edge and slid off.
Reflex's brow ticked. "Force field? Or it hits and you don't feel it?"
"Not a field," Grey said as dust curled without touching him. "It's denying contact. Think: there's always a bit of distance left. When something's about to touch, there's always just short of touching. And it never reaches. Like a converging distance that stretches with how much energy I spend."
"Okay, that's busted. Nothing hits you," Silver laughed.
Grey shook his head. "Not quite. Big things drain me in one go. The stronger it is, the more energy I burn to slow it, and if it's on, it counts for everything around me—so I don't use it against Vortex's Wind Blast."
"Yeah, risky. You could gas out at the start of a mess even fresh," Reflex agreed.
Vortex folded his arms, looking between the girls. "Worst part is the jerk does more than he's showing. Anyway… aren't you two up next?"
Neck roll from Reflex; firmer grip from Silver.
They walked out a few paces, ready.
Vortex bumped Grey's arm. "You're welcome. Now we enjoy the show."
A faint smile; Grey's eyes went fully blue, ready to drink every detail.
Silver moved first. No ice, no water, no fire—just stone. She scraped the ground with her foot, lifted chips and gravel, and fed them into the dagger; the metal grew heavy, her forearm orbited by pebble satellites, held by intent.
Reflex split into two a pace back—solid doubles, same stance, same mask. The three Jennys moved as one, pinching from both sides. Silver slashed on the diagonal; the left Reflex "absorbed" the path in a perfect mirror and the center Reflex appeared where she'd been—a swap on the edge of breath.
The rock burst skimmed a finger from the real one's face—already gone. Two shards still grazed Silver's shoulder; she slipped them by a hair—Reflex had reflected the attack.
"Nice," Vortex murmured.
Silver changed tempo: dagger spin, more gravel pulled up, a wider stony wave, then a short-burst step to close.
Reflex spread two more doubles—four total, the limit of a breath—and scrambled the sightlines, each threatening from an edge.
Silver targeted the "wrong" center mass, nearly bit the bait… but the strike cut air. The real one had swapped again—and it cost her. Reflex's breath hitched.
With Six Eyes, Grey saw the subtle thread linking clones to core—the firmer pulse on the right flank, the faint hesitation before a swap. There.
Silver felt it too in practice: the swap timing started to open windows.
Reflex's plan was tight—reflect the right strike and she'd win. Silver feinted left—exactly where Reflex had prepped the reflect—then braked and went straight through, forearm sheathed in rock, shoulder-check phasing two clones and sticking to the real one, who popped a palm late.
THUD.
Reflex lost base and rolled. She scrambled up into another swap, but the clones staggered with her lungs. Silver set the dagger to stone beside her neck—no touch, just the point.
"Okay, okay," Reflex panted. The clones blinked out clean. "I'm beat."
Two claps from Vortex. "Good round."
Silver helped her up, dusted her sleeves.
They headed back. Reflex looked at Grey. "You gave us a seminar, so I'll return the favor. Obvious, but my copies are reflections of me," she said, adjusting the mask. "I can reflect a strike through one, swap with another… but it eats gas. More distance, more cost. Same for reflecting hits—big ones put me in the red. Sounds like your barrier."
"Great power—tons you can do. It's basically teleporting," Grey nodded, then glanced to Silver with a small smile. "And your turn."
Silver flipped the dagger, let it arc and drop back into her palm. "I… channel. At first I thought only one object at a time, so I picked a dagger—light, easy. But I could feel energy in things—hard to explain. Later I realized I can pull energy that touches what I'm channeling. Like the rocks. Still one at a time. I only ran two at once that day against those powered creeps—adrenaline."
Grey's curiosity was plain. "Interesting. Doesn't match anything I've heard."
They cooled down a few minutes. Water. Hands on knees. Wind reclaimed the soundscape.
"So your training was like this?" Silver grinned. "Break stuff and burn powers till you drop?"
"More or less," Vortex said. "I'm helping him nail a new timing, he's helping me fight up a weight class… also I steal and improve his moves."
"And I still win," Grey shot back, grin teasing.
"Yeah, yeah—universe plays favorites," Vortex muttered.
Reflex and Silver laughed.
An idea lifted Grey's brow. He looked at the three of them. "If solo's not enough, why not all three against me?"
They traded looks. Vortex grinned. Reflex raised a fist, breath returning. Silver spun the dagger.
"You'll pay for the cockiness. You still owe me a favor," Silver warned, biting her smile.
Grey returned it.
One moment later, they spread into a triangle around him. Light dust stirred. The field held its breath.
"Go," Grey said, eyes deepening blue.
Time froze a heartbeat—then everything moved.
Vortex swept a broad pressure fan, dust veeing—WHOOOOSH. Reflex split into three, two clones cutting wide. Silver pulled grit up, sleeved forearm and dagger in stone, and drove center.
Grey rose half a meter to punch through the carpet of air, but Vortex slammed a descending column—VUUUUM—shoving him back into range. Silver hit first. Diagonal cut. Grey caught the rocky wrist, rolled his hips, sent the strike to empty space, and released. Steel sliced air, not flesh.
Right side, a Reflex lunged; left, another came low. The middle hung a palm away, ready to swap. Grey saw the threads—stronger pulse left. The real one would trade with center on the strike.
Vortex laced the front with horizontal blades. Grey ducked the first, corkscrewed the second—fiuu-fiuu—and tapped Reflex's left forearm. She swapped on instinct, landing in center—one millisecond late; the touch counted. "One," he said, not unkind.
Reflex growled behind the mask, popped another clone in a short burst of breath, and reflected the next entry—when Grey moved to take Silver's base, the clone mirrored the shove. The rebound hit Grey in the chest—THUMP—sliding him a step.
"Nice," he allowed, dust clinging to his suit.
Vortex had two spinning spheres ready. He threw high/low staggered and stitched in short blasts to cut the exit lanes. Grey read the bridge between threats, slipped inside the first, let the second die on stone, and on the third… pulsed Blue to his heel, just enough to buy half a body. It scraped his suit and blew in the gravel—PUMF.
Silver didn't wait, whirled the dagger, pulled stones into a short chained flail and cracked it. Grey lifted his forearm—not to block, to "lack"—the chain bled power inches from his skin and slid wide. Mugen, for a breath. The cost nipped his lungs; he killed it at once.
"Now!" Vortex shouted.
Reflex swapped with a clone already behind Grey and shot for a rear clinch. Silver planted and swung again. Vortex loaded his fists—Wind Blast—and threw a crossing pair.
Grey popped his hips forward and rolled Reflex off without hurting her, Silver's chain sweeping overhead. The first Wind Blast hit Mugen flicked on in a blink—TUNK—shearing around him. The second nearly lifted his chin; he carved air up and floated a handspan; the punch carved empty space.
"Harder," he said, no smile.
Vortex obliged: hands together, a heavy, auger-spin Wind Blast. Silver opened right, Reflex closed left with two clones—four Jennys ringed in, the real one poised to swap the instant Grey committed.
He didn't pick a side. He stepped forward into Vortex's line.
The wind hit like a beam. He didn't try to deny contact—too costly. He went inside it, shaved the angle, pinned Vortex's wrist to his forearm, and bled the spin off with his body. A light tap to Vortex's chest. "Two."
Teeth grit, Vortex rolled back, creating space.
Reflex swapped again, materialized behind Grey with a clean flying kick. He turned; the shin passed a finger from his face—FUU—and he touched two fingers to her shoulder on landing. "Three." Every clone winked out. She raised a hand, laughing, breathless. "Okay, okay."
Silver remained.
She inhaled, drew stone back to her forearm—thinner now, like a jagged blade. No water, metal, or fire—just rock and precision. She feinted high, shot low for a sweep. Grey hopped back, light landing. The ragged blade cut a crescent; he raised a palm and re-lit Mugen for half a sigh—enough to make the strike "miss"—and paid with that internal battery whistling louder.
Silver caught it. "Got tired a bit, huh?"
"A bit."
She pressed: tossed the dagger up, broke the rocky sheath into five orbs, and slung three in curves guided by intent.
Grey slapped two from the air with minimal taps, hip-turned past the third, and when the dagger dropped, Silver channeled back and closed fast.
Short hook—he took her wrist. Short elbow—he caught the forearm. She slid under and tried the old knee turn from practice. This time he flowed around it, almost lazy, rolled midair, caught her, and marked her scapula with his fingertips. "Four."
She held his hand that half beat, breathing quick, eyes locked behind the mask. "You won this one, but good thing we didn't bet—so you still owe me," she teased, smiling through the fatigue.
Vortex clapped back in, dripping sweat. "Alright, prom king and queen, curtain down. Result: freak wins again."
Reflex yanked her mask up to gulp water. "I made him slip," she announced, proud.
Grey drew a longer breath, Blue fading from his gaze. "You three work well together. Patch a few holes and you're flirting with Guardians tier."
"Wow, amazing note, coach—let me jot that down," Vortex said, pulling out his phone, more irony than bite.
Silver rested the dagger on her shoulder. "Anyone else starving?"
"Very," Reflex answered without thinking.
Vortex looked them over. "We could grab food."
Grey angled a glance his way. "Four people in hero suits walking into a diner might be a problem."
The wind brushed the ground clean again. For a stretch it was just the four of them breathing, the towers humming far off.
Vortex tugged his mask down to hang on his neck. "You three already know who I am." His eyes moved to Kai, Kiana and Reflex. "The only ones in the dark are you. But we're among friends, right?"
They traded looks. Silver went first. Mask off. "Kiana." Grey followed, sliding his down. "Kai."
Reflex hesitated a beat, then pulled hers and looped it on her wrist. "Jenny." She met each of their eyes in turn—surprise, relief, and a smile too big for a mask anyway.
"Settled," Viktor said, stowing his mask in a backpack. "Suits on just for the flight—no walking back—and let's eat."
A Little Later — Arcade, Chicago — 6:15 PM
Half an hour later they were crammed into a booth at the arcade. A basket of burgers and fries in the middle, sweating cups, neon washing the cabinets.
Jenny laughed at a Viktor complaint; Kiana and her habit of stealing Kai's food; Kai let his shoulder relax against the wood, and it felt… good to be there. In the back, a screen blinked INSERT COIN, and the talk rolled on like the world outside could wait.
But it wouldn't wait.
Meanwhile — April 11, 2014 — Friday — Payton Penitentiary
The Payton Penitentiary loomed over the block like a slab of reinforced concrete. For decades it had caged the world's most dangerous criminals—high walls, crowns of barbed wire, spotlights sweeping in precise cycles, watchtowers with narrow slits.
Outside, the evening wind carried the smell of rain and iron. In a service alley, tucked in the shadow between two loading bays, six figures waited.
Four masked men wore dark uniforms with no insignia. Beside them, barefaced, stood Russell—and another familiar figure: black pants, boots, a sleeveless shirt.
The rest of the semicircle—Bruce, Chris, Robert, and Scott—adjusted their gear with the casual ease of men growing used to this life.
Chris broke the silence, his eyes tracking the spotlights crawling the wall.
"Russell, you sure this is gonna work? You can handle the Guardians if they show?"
"Of course." Russell's tone never lost its poise. "I showed you what I can do… and we've got Bruce, who can almost do the same."
Bruce stepped forward, tugging off gloves and tucking them in his vest. "Better without these. What's the plan again, Russell?"
Chris snorted, half-smiling.
"He really has to spell it out again? Good thing Charlize isn't here—at least you won't lose focus this time."
Bruce rolled his eyes behind the visor, but didn't bite.
Russell tilted his chin toward the wall, practical as ever.
"No sneaking past that. The five of us make noise out here while you, Bruce, use x-ray eyes to locate Dr. Mikhail. Get him out, then we're gone. You copied Atlas's power, right?"
Tom lifted his head, curious. "Wait—when did that happen?"
"I copied it," Bruce answered flat, not bothering to meet his eyes. He still scanned the prison as he spoke. "Told you—Atlas is for hire, if you pay the right price."
Chris nodded like signing an old receipt.
"Yeah. Easy deal for him. Five minutes with you, five grand cash. Anyone would've said yes."
Scott cracked his neck, the corner of his mouth twitching with restless hunger.
"Finally. Been dying to burn something."
Tom stretched, readying for the shift; Robert checked the clasp of his suit, the spines beneath his skin already itching to tear through. He looked at Russell.
"Tom's not wearing a mask because he's transforming. But you? No disguise?"
"Won't need one."
The answer came with the change. Russell's skin darkened, plates of violet-black rising from the bone, sheathing his body, sealing his head in a faceless helm.
He lifted off the ground—slowly—gravel scattering under his boots. Stopped just short of two meters high. Arms opened wide like he was calling the spotlights to him, his signature pose.
A beam swept the wall and froze on him. From inside, the motors of the sirens rumbled awake—a growl before the scream.
Russell smiled behind the helm. His voice carried, heavy and resonant against the concrete.
"Showtime."
The spotlights quickened. A tower barked over radio.
In the alley, Bruce's eyes were already dark, searching through the walls. Chris raised a hand and counted down with his fingers. Tom inhaled deep—bones creaking, flesh shifting. Robert flexed until the first spines surfaced. Scott snapped his fingers, a tongue of flame sparking like a match.
The siren's throat opened.
And Chicago's night began to answer.
Interlude — Part 1: Earth's Mightiest
April 11, 2014 — Friday — GDA Headquarters — 6:29 PM
Heat maps and perimeter cams from Payton Penitentiary blossomed across the videowall. Interior sirens climbed; red lines crawled over the prison outline.
Donald leaned over the console.
"Outer breach confirmed. Coordinated movement, variable energy signatures. Possible new metas on-site."
Cecil didn't take the toothpick from his mouth.
"Metas again… Put the Guardians in the air—whoever's available."
He thumbed the encrypted channel.
"Rules: containment and prevent escape. No collateral."
The room cooled a few degrees. Operators synced coordinates, status boards shifted from standby to active, and the floor settled into the familiar cadence of a live op.
Downtown Rooftop — 6:30 PM
Perched on a gargoyle, cape glued to the wind, Darkwing listened to the police band's soft hiss when the discreet wrist emblem buzzed once.
PAYTON PENITENTIARY.
He was already moving—line, hook, controlled drop, a landing on the neighboring roof. A blue circle opened ahead, visor catching the light.
No words. Darkwing stepped through.
An Isolated Cabin, Somewhere — 6:30 PM
The Immortal split kindling one-handed, log after log, when a dry ping touched his earpiece. His posture lifted by a centimeter.
"Payton," he murmured. "Again."
The wood was still falling when he tore into the sky.
Moscow — (03/14 UTC+3)
Red Rush sat on a park bench, cheap bouquet in his lap, voice low with his girlfriend. The watch buzzed. The world slowed to a crawl for him.
"Work," he whispered, the sentence fitting inside a fraction of a second. A quick kiss to her forehead. He was standing in costume before the exhale finished.
"Back in minutes." And he vanished.
Commercial Tower — 6:31 PM
War Woman stepped out of a meeting—blazer draped over discreet armor, portfolio under her arm—when the comm flashed between her bracers.
PAYTON / CONTAINMENT.
"Postpone the vote," she told her aide, already passing off the folder. A flick of the wrist freed the flail from its hidden mount; the shoulder strap clicked home.
Elevator doors slid open… she changed right there.
Chicago Suburbs — The Grayson House — 6:31 PM
Nolan sat with Mark while Debbie mulled dinner, steam curling from his mug. The phone chimed that short, GDA-only tone. He answered.
"Cecil."
"Breach at Payton. Guardians en route. If you're free…"
"I am." He glanced toward the kitchen. "Debbie, stepping out."
"Mission?" Mark brightened. "I'll watch the feed."
"Bring milk back," Debbie shot back, already smiling as he grabbed his suit and headed for the door.
Omni-Man let a small smile show, slipped out the back, and climbed into the sky.
GDA Headquarters — 6:32 PM
"Confirmed: Darkwing, Immortal, Red Rush, War Woman. Omni-Man," Donald reported.
Cecil didn't blink, eyes pinned to the pulsing red prison feed.
Night took a deeper breath.
Interlude — Part 2: Universe Irony
Meanwhile — Upscale Chicago Neighborhood — 6:32 PM
High-end storefronts still lit, stone sidewalks polished, trees clipped like sculptures. A hooded teen walked head down. The clothes were designer; the gait wasn't—contempt colored the way he looked at the world, like nothing measured up.
As if the universe was rehearsing another joke—reminding everyone how thin a plot thread can be.
He turned the corner and stopped. Across the street, a man in an expensive suit stood ringed by three figures in baggy hoodies and makeshift masks.
"Hand it over."
"No, you punks."
The suit moved first. A clean straight right blasted the left thug, ripped off his mask, and pasted him to a light pole. The face under it wasn't even eighteen.
The lead thug scowled.
"You didn't get it."
He shoved the exec hard; the man landed on his tail, jacket powdered in grit. Then the thug stepped to the curb, grabbed the parked sports sedan—teeth bared—and, straining, hoisted it over his head.
"My car—what are you doing?!" the exec yelped, crab-scrambling back.
"Wallet. Now. Or this gets ugly."
The man flicked his wallet; hundreds spilled, skittering on concrete. On this side of the street, the hooded kid watched.
Not my problem… But I want to try it.
He raised his hands—almost instinct—and aimed at the mess. Nothing. He fixed his gaze. Tried again.
A needle of pain lanced his skull. Strength drained, like a faucet opened inside him. Behind him, a guy with a phone to his ear and a heavy backpack suddenly sagged—arm giving out, the pack dropping as if it doubled in weight. Across the street, the car-lifter's knees softened, a flash of weakness buckling his stance.
Barely more than a second.
Enough.
The car crashed down.
THUMP.
A flat, sick sound. The lifter vanished beneath the chassis. One accomplice stumbled.
"Oh my God!"
"Sh— he's dead?"
They bolted without looking back. The exec stood, a shaky laugh bursting out.
"Serves you right!"
Back here, the backpack guy—who'd seen the kid lift his hands—hitched the strap up, pocketed his phone, and met the hooded gaze.
"A hero? Thanks."
The young man froze half a heartbeat, realized he'd been clocked, and bolted into the nearest alley. He ran to a blind wedge between buildings, pressed his back to cold brick, shoved the hood down.
Brandon Thorton.
Breath short. He stared at his own hands like they owed him an answer.
"Hero? Hmph…"
Fingers trembled. His head still rang. He breathed deep, resting his skull on raw brick.
"A few seconds aren't enough… I need more. Enough for a fight at Oakwood. I want my revenge in front of everyone. That wretch—famous at school, and now with Kiana." His features hardened, jaw clenched.
The city kept moving—distant horns, sirens swelling.
Where Bruce could skim ten percent of raw strength from many, Brandon could tear half from one. And where Bruce could copy powers—running them off his own energy, sometimes even amplifying them—Brandon didn't copy anything: he blunted everything. His field bled strength and power from everyone inside, himself included; then, on top of that, he could rip half of whatever remained from a single target. Maybe some cosmic counterweight. Maybe a power born just to make his blue-eyed nightmare falter—the one who made his spine go cold.
He hadn't acted, not yet—because for Brandon, it had to be perfect. But every day, the backstage shifted pieces.
And when pieces lock wrong, they crumble.