The moon hung low, bleeding silver over the city, casting long fingers of light that shivered across wet asphalt. Neon reflections fractured on puddles, turning streets into rivers of fire and blood. The AllNighters club throbbed from within, bass rolling like a heartbeat through the alley walls, shaking glass and teeth alike. Shadows pooled in the corners, twitching and quivering with life. The smell of spilled liquor, smoke, and sweat clawed at the night, sweet and acrid, thickening the air like fog.
From Inside the VIP section gleamed under golden lights, a sanctuary of arrogance. Four men—suits tailored but heavy with decades of entitlement—huddled around a polished table, eyes sharp and calculating. Across from them, eighteen and reckless, sat the young man whose body Grayson would soon inherit. Messy curls fell across his frosty-blue eyes, eyes like shards of ice catching every movement, every flicker of intent.
Papers gleamed under the chandelier. Ink, signatures, fate—laid bare and exposed. The eldest leaned forward, voice low, sharp, commanding. "You want this business, kid? Sign. Take what's left of your father's empire. Or refuse, and we decide if you're worth the risk."
The young man leaned back, spine straight, head tilted ever so slightly, fingers drumming the table. "Risk?" He spat the word like venom. "You think I'm afraid? My father built his empire with men like you. Parasites. Trash. And I don't negotiate with trash."
A laugh cracked through the air, dry as sand. "Trash? You've got fire, boy, but fire doesn't mean strength. Eighteen years… you don't know what it takes to run this city."
Grayson's chest tightened, muscles coiling. The arrogance, the audacity—it was unbearable. He watched the young man's hand flick, swiping the serving girl's arm carelessly, smirking. Rage flared, but contained, restrained by instinct and the thrill of the storm about to erupt.
"Enough," barked the eldest, veins visible at his temples.
"Sign. Or—
The papers slammed down. Eyes flared icy blue. "Or you die."
The second old man laughed...his laughter clear mockery to his threat...but then...
Chaos detonated. Drinks spilled, glasses shattered, screams twisted into the bass-heavy rhythm of destruction. Grayson moved with unnatural speed—limbs a blur, strikes precise, unstoppable. Limbs severed, ribs crushed, bodies crumpled. The veterans tried to resist, but the young man—his entire body—was destruction incarnate, ripping, tearing, dismantling.....and in just seconds....the club fell silence...scented with raw death.
He dashed back to the VIP section....
The two old men were still there..limbs numb and heavy with fear....
He stared at them...face and clothes washed in blood....he grinned,hands reaching out for their necks...and then...
A single shot rang out. Chest erupted. Blood, disbelief, betrayal....
Her been shot,betrayed....by his right hand man...
Laughter followed, cruel and triumphant, as the old men thought themselves victorious. The bodyguard, smug, counted his payment in his mind...his betrayal....
Then the world went still...a few seconds died...then the impossible happened right before their eyes....
Air rushed back into lungs that had been suffocating for eternity. Eyes snapped open. Vision blurred. Pain—alien and intimate—flooded his body. Grayson gasped, choking, feeling the surge of life crash over him. Memories assaulted him—Ben, the betrayals, the rage, the years of fire coiled and hidden. He rose, limbs stiff but unbroken, body trembling under its own weight. Blood and neon, limbs and shattered flesh, painting a cathedral of death. He felt… nothing.
Nothing.
Then clarity. Stone. His true self, resurrected, tethered to this vessel, seeing, observing, calculating. Vermilion eyes scanned the room, cataloging carnage with surgical precision. No remorse, no fear. Only the fire inside, burning hotter than any human memory.
The bodyguard lunged, gun raised. Grayson's hand shot out, fingers crushing the wrist with a sickening snap. The weapon clattered. His other fist slammed into the throat—air gushed, eyes bulged, sound cut before it could form. He stepped back, observing, calculating the suffocation, letting it linger.
The old man tried to flee, fat and trembling, limbs flailing. Shadows curled around Grayson—black and red like smoke set aflame—and he was there. One hand gripped the man's arm, lifting him as if weightless. The other plunged into chest, ribs cracking under pressure, heart compressed like clay. Tossed aside. Nothing remained of the arrogance that had dared to challenge him.
The club was a ruin, walls and floors painted red with neon and blood. Limbs sprawled, faces frozen in terror, the stench of iron and fear thick. Grayson—Stone—felt nothing but the coil of anger deep inside, a storm that whispered vengeance.
Engines roared. Black suits glinted beneath distant streetlights. Figures approached—hunters, swords ready, powers thrumming beneath their armor. Ben and Lara. Too late to intervene. Too late to understand.
Vermilion eyes traced the club's entrance. A smirk curved Stone's lips—calm, deliberate, mocking. The hunt was far from over. Red and black smoke curled around him, alive, consuming, reshaping him.
And then—he vanished.