The treehouse clung precariously to the gnarled branches, its rotten planks swollen and stained, oozing sap and the sour stench of decay. Late afternoon sunlight sliced through the twisted canopy, burning jagged holes of gold into the grimy floorboards. The air was thick with damp moss, crushed pine needles, and the coppery tang of old blood lingering faintly in the rotting wood.
Mark leaned against the warped wall, arms crossed like a barricade across his broad chest, a crooked, savage grin pulling at his cracked lips. His eyes glittered dangerously raw, unfiltered energy barely held in check. Across the room, Zack crouched near the grimy window, his fingers trembling as he arranged battered plastic soldiers in rigid rows. His jaw clenched tight, knuckles white, exhaustion gnawing at the edges of his ragged focus.
Alex perched on the platform's edge, legs dangling into the darkened void below. The sunlight scorched her pale skin, but inside she was hollow and freezing. A dull, aching fire clawed her ribs beneath bruised flesh. Her fingers twined around the frayed, bloodstained rope tied loosely to the splintered railing her only tether to sanity. Her gaze drifted, empty and faraway, tracing the blurred shapes of wildflowers crushed beneath boot prints in the dirt below.
Outside, Connor pressed his back against the tree's bark, as rough and unyielding as the weight settling in his gut. His stance looked casual, but every muscle screamed with tension, trembling beneath a thin veil of forced calm. When Alex caught his eye, something raw flickered between them fractured trust and desperate need words too fragile to voice.
Mark's laugh shattered the silence, a rough bark of sound that ricocheted off the walls like gunfire. He spun wildly, arms spread wide, like a predator claiming its prey, fearless and reckless.
Come on, Zack. I'm gonna rip you apart! His voice cut through the air, sharp as a blade.
Zack looked up slowly, smirking with a cruel edge. You're dreaming, asshole. I'll crush you so bad you won't remember your name.
Alex bit her lip hard, fingers tightening on the rope until her nails dug deep, skin splitting. Maybe later, she whispered, voice brittle as dry glass.
Connor stepped forward, boots thudding quietly on the rotten wood. He crouched beside her, brushing a stray lock of matted hair from her bruised face. His touch was trembling gentle but desperate, as if afraid she'd shatter beneath his fingers.
You okay? His voice was a hoarse whisper, thick with concern and guilt.
She swallowed hard, fighting down the swell of panic rising in her throat. Yeah... yeah, I'm fine. But her voice cracked, barely holding together.
Her eyes shimmered, glistening with tears she refused to shed. She turned away, staring blankly into the gathering shadows of the forest as a heavy, suffocating silence swallowed the room.
Zack pushed himself up with a grunt, cracking stiff joints as he stretched. Hey, found something outside. Wanna see? His voice was rough, forced casual.
Mark's eyes flared with renewed fire. Connor eased, exhaling slow. Alex hesitated, pain flaring sharp beneath her ribs, but she nodded, pushing herself upright, legs shaky and unsteady.
They spilled into the forest like a restless pack laughter bubbling out raw and brittle, a fragile shield against the brutal truths waiting just beyond the trees.
Nightfall slithered in, thick and choking, the sky bleeding stars through the black veil. The flashlight sputtered weakly, casting fractured, trembling shadows along the rotting walls of the treehouse. Mark curled against the railing, arms wrapped tight around knees, eyes hollow and watchful, haunted by ghosts only he could see. Zack lay curled on a ragged blanket, breathing shallow and ragged, exhaustion dragging his body toward collapse.
Alex huddled in a dark corner, knees pressed hard to her chest, breath ragged and uneven. The weight of everything pressed on her, bones aching with a heaviness that wouldn't lift. Her eyelids drooped, the hum of insects a cruel lullaby, pulling her down into the cold abyss of sleep.
Her dream exploded without warning sharp and brutal.
Sunlight poured in too bright, too warm, a sickening contrast to the memories. The air smelled sweet with wildflowers and fresh grass, but laughter surrounded her light, pure, and utterly impossible.
Mark's reckless grin. Zack's fierce focus. Connor's teasing smile and the ghost of his touch.
They were whole. Alive.
Her heart ripped open, aching with impossible sweetness.
Then the colors bled away black smoke curling, choking the light. Laughter twisted into screams, warped and broken. The crackling roar of fire devoured everything.
The treehouse shuddered beneath her like a beast dying in agony. Boards snapped and splintered like breaking bones. Panic surged hot and suffocating, searing through her veins.
She spun wildly, desperate for her friends only to find empty, twisted ruins. Flames licked hungrily at the edges of her vision, scorching the air with unbearable heat.
Connor's voice echoed, distant and frantic. No answer.
The world shattered around her collapsing, burning, swallowing everything she loved whole.
Alex's eyes snapped open, body convulsing as if slammed from great heights. She gasped, ribs burning, sweat slick and cold on her skin. Hands shaking violently as she wiped the wet sheen from her brow, the ache in her side raw and relentless.
Zack shifted nearby, blinking away the fog of sleep. His face softened, eyes dark with worry as he watched her struggle upright.
Mark sat close, taut muscles coiled, eyes black pools of unspoken terror.
The EMT crouched silently in the corner, calm and steady, hands resting lightly on the cracked medical kit.
Alex swallowed hard, the nightmare's cold weight pressing down like iron chains. Legs trembling, breath ragged as she turned toward the empty space where Connor should have been.
Her voice was a bare whisper, fragile and shaking:
Where's Connor?
Mark and Zack exchanged a glance, shoulders rising and falling with the hollow weight of a truth neither wanted to bear.
He left, Mark said, voice flat and brutal.
Zack nodded, eyes empty and distant.
The silence stretched like a wound heavy, aching, filled with questions bleeding between them.
The room lay suffocating in silence when Connor's eyes finally cracked open.
Slivers of sunlight cut through the half-shut blinds like razor blades, tearing golden ribbons across the peeling paint, his unmade bed, and the cluttered desk littered with forgotten junk half-empty bottles, crumpled papers stained with smudged ink, a cracked phone screen flickering weakly in the gloom. The stale air was thick and unmoving, like time itself was frozen, trapped in the moment he refused to move from.
He lay motionless, chest heaving with the slow, reluctant rhythm of breath like his body was remembering how to survive all over again.
His gut twisted tight, a venomous coil of dread and self-loathing sinking deep.
He hadn't let himself cry last night. Hadn't allowed it. Not after walking away walking the fuck away from them. From Alex. From Mark. From Zack. Not after slamming that filthy treehouse door behind him like it was nothing. Like it meant nothing.
But it did.
And he could still hear it, ringing in his ears the sick thud of Alex's head snapping against raw wood when Zack shoved her hard. The desperate, broken screams tearing through the air. Mark's fist crashing into Zack's jaw with brutal finality. The way her body folded, limp and broken beneath the chaos.
Connor's breath caught painfully.
He forced himself up, the sheets sticking damp and cold to his clammy skin, dragging against bruises he didn't want to acknowledge. His hand rose to rub the back of his neck, fingers trembling as his glazed eyes locked on the cracked mirror across the room.
His reflection was a ghost wild hair sticking up on one side like a storm had torn through his mind, pale skin stretched tight over sunken cheeks, cracked lips chapped raw from too little water and too much silence.
He looked like someone who had watched everything shatter and chosen to walk away.
His bare feet hit the icy floor, toes curling against the cold like a reflex. Each step toward the kitchen was leaden, dragging at the fragile threads holding him upright.
The apartment was too small, too empty without their noise, their fights, their shattered laughs. The distant hum of traffic was a cruel reminder the world kept moving, kept spinning even when he was frozen, lost inside himself.
Above the stove, a flickering fluorescent bulb buzzed with an irritating, uneven rhythm. Connor peeled back the fridge door light spilling out over sparse groceries: half-empty milk carton, a carton of eggs cracked down one side, wilted greens curling black at the edges, and cold, greasy leftover pasta in a stained Tupperware.
His hands moved on autopilot. Eggs.
He cracked them open, watching the bright yolks rupture, spilling yellow poison into the thick slick whites. The sizzle of oil filled the hollow apartment like a harsh reminder of life unnatural, unsettling.
He scrambled them with a mechanical rhythm flipping, tossing, plating without seasoning, without care. Heat and habit alone.
Sitting at the chipped table, he stared at the pale scrambled eggs like they were some kind of puzzle. Maybe if he stared long enough, the pieces would fit.
The first bite was lukewarm, flavorless like swallowing ash.
He chewed slowly, swallowing hard to fight down the lump growing in his throat. But the food only scraped the raw edges of his misery.
His mind twisted back through the night's horrors.
Alex had looked at him like he was betraying everything they were like he was fracturing the fragile bonds of friendship, family, trust. Zack, wild-eyed and desperate, not just furious but terrified. Mark fists flying in a reckless storm, trying to control the chaos no one else could stop.
And Connor?
He just stood there.
And then he walked away.
The guilt roared through his veins like acid. The taste of the eggs curdled in his mouth.
He dropped the fork with a clang against the cracked plate. Arms fell limply to his sides, shoulders slumping like a man carrying the weight of a thousand regrets.
He leaned forward, burying his face in his trembling hands, nails digging into bruised skin.
What the fuck was he even doing here? Alone in a silent apartment, while the people who mattered those who'd bled and screamed and fought were probably still trying to hold the pieces together without him.
He rubbed his burning eyes, breath ragged, and his fingers twitched, almost reaching for his phone.
But what could he say?
Sorry I ran like a coward?
I watched her fall and didn't stay?
I got scared and pretended I wasn't part of the mess?
He pushed back from the table, chair scraping across cracked tile like fingernails on glassharsh, grating, unbearable.
His steps were slow, dragging across the floor like he was dragging himself through quicksand. His hands rubbed together nervously, cracking knuckles out of some desperate, hollow habit. Heart pounding unevenly, erratic like a trapped animal.
The silence stretched around him like a noose, tightening with every breath.
Then a knock at the door.
Connor froze, heart lurching to his throat. For one brief, stupid second, hope flickered. Maybe it was them. Maybe Mark. Maybe Zack. Maybe even Alex awake, alive.
But no.
The knock came again, softer this time. Familiar, but empty.
He shuffled to the door and cracked it open.
Two adults stood there. The woman's blue cardigan was faded and worn, her purse gripped so tight it whitened her knuckles. Her eyes were kind but rimmed with red, tired from tears she hadn't fully shed. Beside her, a man stood tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a polo shirt tucked too neatly into khakis. His jaw was clenched tight someone trying desperately to hold onto patience that was running out.
His aunt and uncle.
For a long, frozen moment, no one spoke.
Then the woman offered a small, hopeful smile.
Hey, sweetheart.
Connor didn't answer. He stepped back silently and let them inside.
The man grunted quietly as he glanced around, eyes sharp and wary, before closing the door with a dull thud.
We're just here to check on you, his aunt said softly, trailing him into the kitchen. Social Services gave us permission to stay a few days. Just to keep you company.
Connor gave a barely perceptible nod, eyes fixed on the cracked tile floor.
His uncle's gaze dropped to the half-eaten eggs still sitting on the plate. You eat?
Yeah, Connor replied, flat and hollow.
The woman reached out, laying her hand gently on his shoulder. He didn't flinch, didn't react. Her touch lingered for a tense heartbeat, then slipped away.
We'll give you space, she said softly. We brought some groceries. Just... let us know if you need anything.
They moved into the living room, voices lowering to quiet murmurs behind his back. Connor remained rooted in the kitchen, eyes locked on the fork now lying abandoned across the plate.
They didn't know.
Not really.
They didn't know that even after the blood, the screams, the shattered pieces, he still wasn't sure if returning would heal anything or just rip open wounds no one could ever close.
But he wanted to.
God, he wanted to fix it more than anything.
He turned toward the window and stared out at the cold street below. The sun climbed higher, but its light was pale and distant like hope he wasn't sure he deserved.
Branches snapped like brittle bones beneath Lydia's boots as she staggered deeper into the unforgiving forest. Every muscle screamed with agony, her breath ragged and raggeder with each desperate step. Her arms were locked tight around Ryan's lifeless frame, his dead weight dragging her down like a stone sinking through mud. Blood soaked her torn shirt, slick and sticky against her skin, darkening the fabric in spreading stains. A gruesome trail marked her passage smeared crimson handprints on rough bark, dark splatters on cracked leaves, streaks of gore painting rocks and roots in sickening patterns.
She didn't care.
Every step was a descent into hell itself. Her lungs burned, rasping with ragged coughs, her legs trembling violently as if her knees were about to give out. Ryan's body slapped weakly against her back arms limp, head lolling like a broken ragdoll, neck at an unnatural angle that twisted Lydia's gut tighter with terror. She could hear the rasp the shallow, broken breaths rasping from his cracked throat wet, gurgling, unsteady a feeble death song.
Her fingers clenched beneath his knees, knuckles white, trembling from exhaustion and dread. She dared not glance behind her.
A thin stream of blood trickled down from the gash on her forehead, stinging her left eye with a burning acid that blurred half her vision into a red mist. Her heart pounded erratically in her ears a pounding so fierce it threatened to burst her skull.
Her shoulder screamed with fire dislocated and useless, bone grinding painfully against flesh but she pressed on, swallowing the screaming agony with every step.
They had no phones. No help. No time.
Then, through the choking haze of pain and panic, she saw it a cabin, like a rotten tooth sinking into the forest's mouth.
Nestled between gnarled trees and choked by wild foliage, the cabin looked like it had been abandoned for decades its shutters hanging crooked, peeling paint flaking like dead skin, the porch carpeted in thick moss and thick, tangled spiderwebs. One window gaped open, glass shattered jaggedly like broken teeth ready to tear.
But it was shelter.
And maybe just maybe salvation.
She stumbled forward, knees buckling, nearly collapsing against the warped wooden door. With trembling fingers, she shoved it open the hinges screamed a horrible, high-pitched shriek that echoed through the empty woods. The door swung wide like a gaping wound.
She dropped to her knees, barely able to breathe, then rolled Ryan off her back onto the filthy, dust-choked floorboards. His body thudded heavily, his head lolled grotesquely to the side the broken weight of a man slipping away.
His face.
God.
It was a map of violence and agony purple bruises blooming from cheek to jaw like spreading ink, dried blood crusted around his ears and congealed in the corners of his mouth. His chest barely rose, a pitiful flutter that barely kept death at bay.
Ryan, she rasped, crawling closer, hands trembling as they cupped his cheeks. Her thumbs smeared wet blood across the bruised skin thick, sticky, coppery. Ryan, come on. Stay with me. Look at me. Please.
His eyelids fluttered, trembling like fragile wings, but didn't open.
She pressed her forehead against his, whispering his name over and over a prayer, a command, a plea swallowed by a choked sob.
She ripped her gaze away and scanned the room rotten shelves sagging under years of neglect, a cabinet hanging open with broken, rusted utensils spilling like bones, an ancient cot slumped in the corner under yellowed, mold-stained blankets.
She scrambled up, dragging the cot's filthy blanket across the floor to Ryan. She wrapped it around his body with shaking hands, then tore open drawers, desperate for anything bandages, medicine, a miracle but found only rusted scissors, cracked jars, and worthless scraps.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Fucking nothing.
Back to Ryan.
His ribs.
She remembered the sickening crack when Winthrop's blow landed a sharp, wet sound like a twig snapping underfoot.
She pulled up his shirt, stomach twisting with fresh horror. His skin was mottled with bruises black, blue, green swollen and glistening with dried sweat and blood. One rib jutted sharply beneath the skin, angling upward like a cruel spike, threatening to pierce him from the inside out.
Okay, she whispered, voice cracking like dry twigs. Okay, Ryan, we've done worse. Right? We've done worse.
Two trembling fingers pressed against his neck. His pulse fluttered weak, stuttering there, then gone, then faintly there again.
Tears welled and spilled down her cheeks, burning hot and bitter. Her voice broke as she begged, You can't die. You don't get to fucking die. Not after all this. Not after saving me.
She started CPR violent, desperate pressing hard, pushing air into lungs that barely wanted it.
Thirty crushing compressions. Two ragged breaths.
His chest didn't rise.
She wiped the blood from her lips and tried again.
Thirty crushing compressions. Two desperate breaths.
Come on, she sobbed, blood bubbling from the corner of his mouth, thick and wet.
His body jerked once a cruel, broken spasm then went still.
Her breath hitched in her throat. She slammed a fist into the floor beside him wood splintering under the force.
Come on! she screamed a raw, animal cry that shattered the silence, rattled the broken window, and seemed to make the ancient trees recoil in horror.
She gripped his shoulders, shaking him hard his head lolled, loose and lifeless.
Don't go. Her voice was barely more than a broken whisper. You promised. You said you'd help me. I can't...I can't do this alone.
Still nothing.
She collapsed back onto her heels, trembling uncontrollably. Her hair was plastered to her bloodied, sweat-slicked face. Her mouth hung open, gasping for breath, but no words came.
She stared down at him at the man who was slipping away for what felt like endless hours.
The sun shifted behind the trees, long shadows creeping across the cracked floorboards. A cold breeze stirred the tattered curtains, carrying with it the sharp, bitter scent of pine, decay, and death.
She leaned forward once more, trembling hand brushing the dried blood from his face with the back of her fingers. She tucked a damp, dirty strand of hair behind his ear something he hated, always said it made him look like a girl. But she did it anyway.
Thank you, she whispered a broken, shattered prayer.
Then she curled up beside him, wrapped in the filthy, mildew-stinking blanket, and let the tears come a slow, shuddering release of everything she'd held in.
There was no more screaming. No more fighting.
Only suffocating, endless silence.
The room pulsed with a cold, merciless fluorescent glare harsh and unforgiving slicing through the stale air like a surgical blade. Concrete walls drank the light, swallowing it into deep shadows that clung to every cracked corner like silent witnesses to a nightmare. The buzzing static from dozens of monitors was a relentless drone, crawling under skin and into bone each screen looping the carnage again and again, a gruesome symphony of pain and rage.
Inferno stood statuesque a monolith of barely contained fury rigid hands clenched so tight his knuckles bled white, nails digging crescent scars into palms. His chest rose and fell with a terrifyingly slow rhythm, each breath a measured effort to restrain the volcanic tempest that churned beneath his skin.
His eyes faintly glowing ember-red never left the monstrous spectacle flashing before him.
There he was the monster the world had come to fear.
Flames danced across his skin like living demons, searing flesh and bone with a cruel appetite. A man's scream tore through the room raw, primal as Inferno's hands crushed ribs and split the body in half like it was nothing but brittle wood. Blood arced through the air, thick and glistening, a macabre fireworks display of fury.
A woman begged on her knees eyes wide and drowning in terror begging for mercy that would never come.
A uniformed cop crumpled beneath Inferno's heel, face drained of all life in a long, tortured exhale.
Not once did he blink.
His jaw twitched molars grinding to dust like stones caught in a raging river.
A faint wisp of smoke curled from his skin, not flame, but the raw, smoldering heat of fury a storm locked inside a man barely holding himself together.
Behind him, Clavin shifted, the suit that had once been sharp now wrinkled and stained with sweat. His fingers trembled, wiping palms on trousers that were no defense against the cold dread pressing down on his spine like an executioner's blade. His neck craned forward, bones groaning under invisible weight.
He swallowed, voice a cautious rasp in the oppressive silence.
Public sentiment is down seventy-eight percent, he said, voice cracking like dry wood. That's the worst drop since the Dallas School Incident. They're calling this terrorism. The footage is viral on every channel, every feed. Even the Russian networks haven't stopped looping it.
Inferno's head tilted slowly deliberate and mechanical like rusted gears grinding in place. His red eyes flared faintly, hot embers pulsing beneath skin like a wound that refused to heal.
And? His voice was a low gro dark and dangerous.
Clavin's throat bobbed, eyes darting away from the screens to the tablet clutched in his hand, trembling as he hunted for anything to ease the tightening noose around them both.
The President's calling an emergency session with Congress tomorrow, Clavin whispered, voice breaking with panic. They've introduced the Supes Accountability Act. If it passes, it's federal law no more immunity, no more excuses for collateral damage. Kill again without authorization real prison. Real charges. No more special treatment.
Inferno's eyes burned hotter, the fire beneath his skin rolling like molten lava, but his body remained frozen, a living volcano on the verge of eruption.
Clavin stepped forward, voice quickening, desperate.
I'm trying to help you. I've been in your corner since day one. But this… this is a disaster. You're losing them. Hell, you've already lost them. Mothers screaming your name in hate on TV. Hashtags calling for your execution your execution, man. PR isn't magic.
He searched Inferno's face for a crack a shard of humanity buried beneath the rage.
The silence between them thickened oppressive and choking.
Slowly, Inferno's arms dropped from behind his back. His fingers flexed claws fighting the urge to shred, tear, burn everything around him into ash.
Clavin pressed on, voice dropping to a desperate whisper.
But I have a plan. One that keeps you out of chains.
Inferno's head turned slow, cold the movement like steel grinding on steel. His glowing eyes pierced the gloom like twin torches in a tomb.
You lay low, Clavin said, breath ragged, words tumbling like a prayer. No more killing unless it's a verified threat. No more panic executions caught live. No torching EMTs. No cops tossed like toys. I get to work leak altered footage. Paint you like the victim. Say the cops had illegal weapons. Say the hospital was hiding sleeper agents. We've spun lies like this before. We can do it again.
Inferno's eyes held steady, but his fingers twitched flexing claws in silent fury.
You need this, Clavin said, voice urgent, low. You know what's next if you don't pivot. They'll storm your tower. They'll take your kid. They'll bury your kind under laws made to trap ghosts. But if you let me spin it I can fix this. I swear.
A suffocating silence fell thick as smoke, choking the room.
Then Inferno spoke, voice low and volcanic rumbling like the earth beneath their feet.
You think I care what they call
His words rolled like thunder heavy, inevitable.
Monster. Killer. Demon. Let them scream. Let them fear me.
Clavin's skin paled to ghost-white, breath hitching as the room seemed to freeze in place.
But… Inferno's voice cracked softer now, but with unbearable weight.
I do have a kid."
Electric silence long and sharp as a blade.
So… fix it.
Without another word, Inferno turned, his boots thudding hollowly against concrete as he stalked to the elevator. The doors hissed shut behind him like a tomb sealing shut.
Outside, the world was a storm rain hammering the pavement like a thousand fists, cold and unforgiving. Thunder rumbled low, shaking the streetlights, sending the crowd into a frenzy below the HEROES Tower.
Hundreds had gathered a sea of rage and grief, voices rising in a deafening tide.
MURDERER. KILLER. BURN IN HELL. HEROES = LIES.
A bottle shattered against the steps, shards flying like deadly hail.
The massive doors groaned open.
Inferno stepped out no armor, no suit just a black thermal shirt soaked instantly by the deluge.
Steam hissed from his heated skin, curling into the mist like a specter of wrath.
His eyes glowed through the rain coals burning with terrible light.
For a moment, time froze. The mob forgot to breathe.
Then a scream shredded the night.
YOU KILLED MY SISTER!
A rock hurtled missing by inches, thudding into the wet pavement.
Inferno didn't flinch.
The crowd roared grief and fury intertwined like a living beast.
A woman collapsed sobbing nearby. Another threw a half-brick, splattering dull impact against Inferno's shoulder.
He stood like a mountain unmoving, unyielding.
Watching.
Rain plastered his hair to his scalp, tracing rivulets down his temples.
His fists clenched, veins bulging like cords beneath skin.
For a terrifying heartbeat, the world seemed to ignite.
His body glowed a furnace of raw destruction ready to unleash hell.
Then
He exhaled.
Stepped back.
Into the storm.
Into the rain.
Alone.
Steam rose behind him curling like smoke from a ghost's funeral pyre.
The late-summer evening hung heavy in the air, golden sunlight dying behind the trees, filtered through leaves and dust, streaking the corners of the treehouse with a sickly, warm glow. Alex sat huddled in the far corner, knees pulled tight to her chest, the IV dripping slowly into her arm, each tiny drip like a distant metronome marking the trauma she carried. Her lips were split and chapped, pale skin clammy, her hands trembling as she fiddled with the tube. Every slight tremor of her legs made her feel like the weight of the world pressed down on her, though outwardly she looked fine. She had eaten; she had drunk. The EMS had cleared her, but Zack and Mark were still on edge, told to keep a closer eye on her.
Mark leaned against the treehouse wall, one boot pressed against the timber like a brace, the other foot tapping softly against the floor. His jaw was tight, his knuckles white as he clenched his fist in silent fury at Zack. Every few seconds, his eyes flicked toward him, measuring, calculating. The tension in his shoulders made the air between them taut, almost vibrating. He wanted to lash out, to end this silent war without warning.
Across the room, Zack was worse. His arms crossed over his chest, shoulders forward, head lowered, lips pressed into a thin line. He ran the memory of Mark's brother sexually assaulting his sister like a broken record through his mind, each replay fueling a dark, uncontrollable rage. His jaw flexed, a thin vein throbbing on his temple. Every breath he took was measured, careful, but his fists itched to fly, to crush, to tear something apart just to quiet the storm building inside him. The treehouse suddenly felt smaller, suffocating, the air thick with tension, sweat, and the faint coppery smell of blood leftover from earlier chaos.
The room was silent for a long beat, everyone locked in their own tension, until the door flung open with a sharp crack against the frame.
Dylan stepped in. His presence hit the room like a sudden burst of sunlight after a storm. Curly black hair bouncing slightly, black shades shading eyes that scanned the room like radar, gray shirt clinging to defined shoulders, black shorts showing muscular legs, and shoes scraping softly against the wood floor. He moved with deliberate confidence, each step precise, deliberate, head held high. Hey, you guys look like you had a fucking divorce, he said, voice smooth and casual, a little smirk on his lips. He gestured at Mark and Zack, and his tone carried a subtle edge, a test of the room.
Alex's lips quirked upward, a small snicker escaping her throat. Her shoulders relaxed a fraction as she shifted slightly, adjusting her position on the beanbag, letting a tiny spark of normalcy pierce the thick tension.
Mark's and Zack's eyes widened simultaneously, almost theatrical in their intensity. In perfect unison, they uncrossed their arms, straightened their spines, and stepped forward. Every muscle in Mark's body tensed, fist curling slowly, consciously, a silent warning. Zack mirrored him, his own stance radiating lethal intent.
Mark sighed low, almost a growl, the sound vibrating in his chest as he fixed Dylan with a piercing stare. So… you the new kid, huh? His voice was heavy, deliberate, like he weighed each word against his rising fury.
Dylan nodded, a small, shaky affirmation. He tried to meet Mark's gaze, but his posture betrayed him...a subtle hunch, hands flexing and unclenching, trying to find some anchor against the storm of scrutiny.
Zack stepped closer, smirking slightly, a predatory tilt to his body. Fine. Take a seat over there, he said, nodding toward the beanbag where Alex sat.
Dylan exhaled softly and moved toward the cushion, sinking down slowly, hands gripping the edges for control. He offered Alex a weak smile and a small wave, which she returned with a faint shake of her head and another soft snicker.
Mark tore open a Roadrunner energy drink, the hiss of the can echoing loudly in the tense space. Condensation rolled down his fingers as he chugged the high-octane caffeine, a jittery shiver running through him. He flopped into a metal chair, facing Dylan, body coiled like a spring, every muscle trembling with barely contained aggression and anticipation.
We're on the hunt for a new friend, Mark began, voice low and heavy, eyes never leaving Dylan. Can you be the one friend the other couldn't? Each word was a challenge, a gauntlet thrown.
Dylan shrugged slightly, nervous energy radiating off him. I… I can try, he muttered, voice soft, almost swallowed by the tension.
Zack leaned forward, grin spreading, voice sharp. Have you seen The Boys? His tone carried a mix of testing and teasing, a challenge wrapped in casual conversation.
Mark's jaw dropped. What the fuck? That's my line!
Alex groaned softly, voice weak and hoarse. Oh, here we go again…
Zack ignored her, voice rising slightly, eyebrows arching. So… have you seen it?
Dylan scratched the back of his neck, trying to steady the tremor in his hands. Yeah. I… I've seen it. Read the comics. His eyes darted between Mark and Zack, trying to measure their reaction.
Mark's jaw nearly hit the floor. You fucking sick bastard.
Zack's eyes widened, almost gleeful. Hot damn… Dylan, you just signed a death warrant. Mark's gonna chew your ear off about Homelander, Meave, and Stormfront…
Mark's face flushed, a shy smile tugging at the corners of his lips. I mean… Meave… she's… god… she's sexy, okay? He trailed off, voice cracking slightly.
Alex rolled her eyes, getting up to grab a water bottle. "You'll hear a lot of this. He literally never stops simping."
Dylan shook his head, disappointment clear in the small furrow of his brow, but he still smiled faintly, chuckling under his breath. Come on, Mark… Meave? Seriously? They're like double your age. Maybe triple.
Mark shrugged, leaning back, the chair creaking under him. So…?
Alex turned her attention back to Dylan, trying to salvage some normal conversation from the chaos. So… Dylan. What do you do? Job? Hobby?
Dylan nodded slightly, sitting straighter, though a faint tension still ran through him. I work at Papa John's. Chill environment. The people are funny, goofy, but serious when it counts. He shifted slightly, flexing his hands against the beanbag cushion.
Zack jumped in immediately, grin wide. Okay… so… how funny?
Dylan laughed, head tilting back slightly. Once we had a dough-ball fight, and someone wore a 'show your tits' shirt. He shook his head, smiling, warmth easing the tension slightly.
Mark's eyebrows rose. Wow… that's… interesting.
Zack leaned in again, eyes glinting. Out of the Nine… favorite?
Dylan paused, jaw tightening, fingers drumming lightly against the beanbag as if it were a piano. Inferno's too obvious… I want someone who doesn't get a lot of attention. Winthrop, Roadrunner.
Zack glanced at Mark, a subtle nod passing between them.
Mark leaned back, then forward, body loose but predatory, eyes locked. Last question. Get it right… you're in. Get it wrong… you don't want to know.
Dylan's eyes widened, hands tightening in his lap. Okay…
Mark's grin sharpened. Black Noir versus Winthrop. No prep. No info. Who wins?
Alex groaned, voice breaking. Seriously? Friendship based on this?
Mark ignored her, smirking. Perfect test. Who else would talk to Zack and me about fights?
Zack leaned closer, cheeks red, voice sharp. Mark's right. So…?
Dylan exhaled, scanning the room, analyzing, calculating. Then he said, voice quiet but steady, Winthrop… skills, tech… can throw Noir off.
Mark's eyes gleamed, body straightening like a sentinel. Nice meeting you, Dylan. The door's that way.
Dylan blinked, heart hammering, then nodded, standing, shoulders tense but head high, exhaling as he left the treehouse.
The room sank into silence.
Zack's jaw flexed. So… what do you think?
Mark exhaled slowly, smirk tugging at his lips. Good guy… but one thing that bothers me? Black Noir would win.
The main room of Heroes Tower simmered with an uneasy energy, the usual buzz of casual chatter replaced by a fragile tension. The polished table reflected harsh overhead lights, flickering against every face, illuminating expressions sharpened with boredom, irritation, or a quiet menace. The air was thick with anticipation, like the pause before a storm breaks.
Winthrop stood motionless to the right of Inferno's chair, a dark, silent sentinel. His head bowed, arms locked behind his back, body taut as a coiled spring. Eyes flicked up occasionally, cold and calculating, scanning the room with the precision of a predator. No one dared meet his gaze for more than a second. Winthrop didn't just watch they felt the weight of his attention pressing into their bones, a constant reminder that he saw everything, even what they wanted to hide.
Electric Strike, in contrast, was a live wire, vibrating with barely contained energy. His knees bounced so hard they thumped against the floorboards, sending small tremors through the table. Fingers drummed against the wood in a rapid staccato, nails scratching the surface like static. He was jittering, unsteady, a storm contained behind his blue mask. The mask hid his expression, but his energy screamed through the room. He yanked a Big Mac from the bulging McDonald's bag beside him and bit down with almost manic hunger, sauce smearing across his fingers as crumbs fell onto the table. He chewed and swallowed as if the act of eating itself could keep him from exploding.
Warrior Girl leaned back in her chair, legs crossed, cigarette smoke curling lazily around her head. Her posture was a protective shield, shoulders hunched, neck slightly forward. She had perfected the look of indifference: eyes half-lidded, lips pressed in a line of detached annoyance. She barely acknowledged the room, letting conversations drift by like wind against a wall. Every so often, she flicked ash into the air with a practiced flick of her wrist, eyes following it as if it were the only thing holding her focus.
Road Runner sat forward on his chair, body coiled, grinning widely at Strike. You should've seen it, he said, voice loud and brimming with excitement, hands slicing through the air. I ran across the entire world and ran into Carret Top! That guy worth thirty points!
Strike's eyes widened behind his mask, every nerve sparking. "Thirty points? That motherfucking leprechaun actually cost you thirty points?! His hands clenched tight, sparks licking the tips of his fingers.
Warrior Girl exhaled a thin stream of smoke, eyes rolling. Typical celebrity bastards, she muttered, voice low and loaded with contempt. I wouldn't expect anything more. Her boots scraped against the floor as she shifted, each movement deliberate, a subtle show of restrained aggression.
Road Runner's grin faltered, shoulders slumping. I… I deserved double those fucking points, he muttered, voice low, jaw tight. His hands rested on the table, fingers splayed as if the weight of his frustration pressed through them into the wood.
Vortex, leaning next to Mad, swiped across his phone, showing increasingly explicit photos. Check this out, he crowed, eyes sparkling with excitement and mischief. This is me with this gorgeous dude. God… he was amazing! His smile stretched wide, lips parted in awe. Oh, and this other guy big chin but holy shit… he's so fucking hot! He swiped again, showing more, a laugh bubbling up as he nudged Mad with his elbow.
Mad leaned in, expression tense, pupils dilated. Damn… that's… intense, he muttered, voice barely audible. Every muscle in his jaw twitched, fingers clenching lightly as if he were both aroused and frustrated.
Mr. American chuckled quietly under his breath, the hiss of condensation rolling down his beer can. His gaze flicked between the explicit photos and the screen of his phone where the Serbian film played. Tsk tsk… poor kid got raped, he muttered, shaking his head. His lips curled into a faint smirk.
Road Runner leaned toward Strike, voice low and venomous. Of course he likes watching kids get raped. That fucking cunt he hissed, eyes narrowing, nostrils flaring with disgust.
Strike's lips pressed tight as he shoved another Big Mac into his mouth, chewing aggressively. Yeah… and I think he actually enjoys it, he muttered darkly, swallowing with a snap. Sparks flared from his knuckles. His energy shimmered against the table, sending faint ripples across the polished surface.
The TV snapped to life with the shrill tone of Breaking News. Emergency red banners flared across the bottom: INFERNO KILLS POLICE OFFICERS! The anchor's voice trembled, thick with fear, hands trembling against the podium. The footage flashed scenes of chaos, sirens wailing, bodies strewn across the hospital floors.
…Around four days ago, the anchor stammered, …an incident occurred where two kids were found running in the hospital carrying an important file. Police were called but that was nothing. Winthrop and Inferno brutally slaughtered the officers and EMTs, and possibly the children. Congress had to step in, and approximately two-thirds agreed: The Heroes must be hunted down. Citizens, lock your doors… hide your children… this may be the end.
The room froze. Every single head turned toward Winthrop. His jaw clenched, muscles rigid, shoulders locked in a posture of disciplined rage. His eyes flickered up once, then back down, unreadable, simmering with cold intensity.
Strike exploded first. He shot to his feet, electricity leaping from his fingertips, sparking in the air. What the fucking fuck!? Why the hell would you do that?! The roar of his voice was a physical force, shaking windows, rattling the table, making Warrior Girl flinch imperceptibly. A massive storm cloud of electrical discharge formed above the tower, blotting out the sun and casting the city below into unnatural twilight.
Lights flickered violently. Strike hovered, fists shaking, hair lifted from static. Do… you know how much fucking trouble we're in?! he shouted, voice cracking, sparking arcs of blue lightning snapping from his hands.
Warrior Girl stepped forward slightly, smoke curling around her like a protective veil. Stop, Strike. Not now, she said, calm but firm. Every muscle in her body tensed, coiled, a predator ready to strike if needed.
Strike didn't even glance at her. He growled, a low, guttural sound vibrating the floor. Fuck you! Who the fuck would stop me?!
BOOM! The tower's heavy door slammed open with the sound of an explosion, shards of wood flinging across the room. Hinges tore from the frame, ricocheting off walls. Every head snapped toward the doorway, hearts jumping, muscles locking in instinctive alarm.
Inferno stood in the shattered frame, immense and immovable. Hands clenched into fists, face flushed with controlled fury. His lips pressed tight, jaw rigid, veins in his neck prominent. Power radiated from him like a physical wave. I will fucking stop you, Strike, he said, voice low, icy, heavy with authority.
The room was a tableau of shock. Strike hovered, sparks snapping from his fingers, eyes wide behind his mask. Road Runner froze mid-lean, fingers curling around the table's edge, jaw slack. Mad's pupils dilated, chest heaving. Vortex's hand froze in mid-swipe, phone hovering over Mad's lap.
Winthrop remained rigid, eyes locked on the confrontation, head bowed, every muscle in his body taut with control. Even Warrior Girl, cigarette dangling, felt the hairs on her neck prickle. The air itself seemed to quiver with tension, each heartbeat amplified in the heavy silence.
Strike's fists tightened, lightning crackling louder, sending a low hum through the metal chair legs and table. You… don't understand…, he shouted, but Inferno's presence swallowed the words, a black tide of inevitability pressing down.
The Heroes waited, breaths shallow, muscles taut. Sparks sizzled, shadows stretched unnaturally long across the polished table, and the storm outside pressed against the tower like an invisible fist.
Inferno's voice cut through the tension again, deliberate and cold: I. Will. Stop. You. Each word was a promise of force, a threat none could ignore.
Strike's energy surged uncontrollably, small arcs of lightning scattering across the room. Warrior Girl flinched only slightly, arms crossed, but her body was tense, ready for the inevitable collision. Road Runner, Mad, and Vortex all instinctively inched backward, eyes wide, breaths shallow. Even Mr. American set his beer down, smirk gone, eyes narrowing.
Winthrop's gaze swept the room once more, silent, judging. Every twitch, every tremor, every micro-expression cataloged and stored in his mind. Strike's growl deepened, hair lifted, sparks snapping, energy radiating in violent pulses.