The Red Gate pulsed behind them, its dying light flickering like a heartbeat on life support. Static filled the air. The ground was torn open by blasts, claw marks, and psychic burns that still glowed faintly.
Fenn's boots crunched over broken earth as he approached the motionless body. "He's done."
The masked psychic lay half-buried in rubble. His black hoodie was shredded, soaked with blood. The steel mask on his face had split down the side, revealing part of his cheek — pale, bruised, lifeless.
Kaelis stepped beside Fenn. Her tactical suit clung tight over her body armor, parts of it singed. Sweat traced her dark skin, and one of her glowing bronze dreadlocks had snapped mid-battle. She looked down at the body, then exhaled.
Riven was a few feet back, adjusting his cracked glasses. His long grey coat flapped as a breeze passed through the ruined battlefield. "Seed destabilized. Psychic center collapsed. He's dead."
Dara knelt in silence, her fingers brushing over the burnt earth. Her pale skin and silver hair were stained with ash, her cybernetic throat still flickering from the last whisper strike.
"He didn't even resist," she muttered.
Riven didn't respond.
They all stared at the corpse for a few seconds longer. The mask. The hoodie. The stillness.
None of them spoke his name.
They turned and walked away.
Behind them, the Red Gate sealed shut with a dull thud.
...
The skies over New Argos burned with celebration.
Neon lights flashed between towers. Giant holograms lit up the night — four proud figures standing together above the ruins of a Gate. Children waved flags on the sidewalks. Fireworks burst from the rooftops of skyscrapers. Drones zipped between buildings, broadcasting the event live to every screen across Mythara.
A reporter's voice echoed from speakers on every corner.
"Thirteen years ago, the rogue psychic known only as Subject 05 was neutralized inside the Red Gate. Once hailed as the future of psychic warfare, he betrayed his team and threatened the continent itself."
Footage played — the same distorted clip shown every year. A black figure running through a storm of fire. Masked. Silent. Inhuman.
"Four Tier 9 guardians stepped in and put an end to the threat. Their decisive action saved Mythara from annihilation."
The holograms shifted, showing Kaelis smiling, one arm raised to the crowd. Fenn stood behind her, arms crossed. Dara stared into the distance. Riven bowed his head respectfully.
Applause broke out in every district.
Vendors sold collector chips and souvenir masks with a red "X" through them. Children reenacted the fight with cheap psychic toy-gloves, pretending to defeat the traitor.
A man stood quietly amidst the crowd, his tall frame half-shadowed by the glow of the giant screen above. Long black hair fell over his broad shoulders, swaying slightly in the breeze. His eyes — deep, sharp, and colorless as night — locked onto the holographic projection of the four so-called heroes.
Fireworks lit up the sky. Applause echoed through the streets.
On the screen, the image of the Red Gate played once again. The celebration of a victory built on a lie.
He sighed.
All around him, people cheered, oblivious. Children waved flags. Vendors sold masks marked with red slashes. Their smiles sickened him. These people had been fed a story — the same one for thirteen years. That the masked psychic had turned rogue. That he had betrayed his team.
But he hadn't.
It was never him.
It was them.
The man turned away from the crowd, slipping into the flow of people like a shadow fading into dusk. Their cheers echoed behind him, but all he felt was disgust. These were the same people he had once protected — the ones who now hailed his murderers as heroes.
He walked in silence, hands tucked into his coat pockets, his black hair brushing against his jaw with every step. Neon signs flickered above the cracked pavement. Somewhere nearby, a street performer played a tune far too cheerful for this kind of night.
"Yo, Eason, my buddy!"
A voice broke through the haze.
The man turned.
A broad-shouldered figure approached with a grin that didn't belong in a city like this. Short black hair, pale skin, arms like steel cables beneath a sleeveless hoodie — he looked like the kind of guy who could bench a motorcycle and still ask for dessert.
"You're still looking like tragic as ever, man," the guy said, clapping Eason on the back. "What's with that long face? Go get yourself a girl, dawg."
Eason blinked once, the irritation in his eyes masked by indifference. He didn't respond right away. His gaze drifted briefly back to the hologram in the sky — still frozen on the grinning faces of his betrayers.
"Tch. Still stuck in your head, huh?" the guy added, walking beside him now. "You know, pretending to be dead doesn't mean you gotta live like a ghost."
"I'm not pretending," Eason muttered.
His voice was quiet, but there was steel behind it.
The man beside him — Drew — rolled his eyes and let out a loud, exaggerated sigh.
"Stop with the nonsense already," he said, bumping Eason's shoulder with his own. "You don't have a girl because you don't have any charisma, man. Or should I say—" he grinned, "—zero experience."
Eason didn't even flinch. He kept walking, eyes forward, as if Drew's words passed through him like smoke. But a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth hinted at something between annoyance and amusement.
Drew just laughed. "Come on, man. You've got that whole brooding loner thing down, sure. But at some point, you gotta, y'know, talk to people. Preferably ones who aren't trying to stab you."
Drew kept talking, completely unfazed by Eason's silence.
"But dude," he said, walking backward in front of him now, his grin growing wider, "I gotta tell you something."
Eason raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
"Yesterday, I awakened my psychic ability. Fire, bro." He raised his hand dramatically as if flames might appear on cue. "I'm serious. I can use fire now! That means I can apply to the Psychic Association. Finally, some real money, dawg."
Eason's gaze remained flat, but Drew barreled on.
"C'mon, man. You're twenty-three. Same age as me. When are you gonna awaken, huh? We could both join the Association. Hunt some beasts. Make real cash. No more living off street curry and instant noodles."
Eason said nothing, his expression unreadable under the streetlights.
The truth was, both of them were broke — painfully so. Drew's place had a roof that didn't leak. That alone put him a tier above Eason, who lived in a crumbling apartment on borrowed rent and silence.