Queens, New York — Early Summer 1997
It had been a few months since Jaxen Reyes walked out of Ravenstrike Asylum's iron gates, and Aron still caught himself wondering how his old friend was doing.
"Probably better than I am," he muttered, swinging low between apartment roofs, the city's glow sliding over his black-and-silver suit. The police scanner crackled in his ear, but the streets were quiet tonight. He almost wished they weren't—silence left too much room for memory. The hum of wind against his mask filled the gaps between thoughts, carrying with it the faint, bittersweet scent of summer in Queens—pretzel carts, exhaust, and rain-soaked pavement.
He caught his reflection in a high-rise window as he swung past: the mask's white eyes glinting back at him. Sometimes, even after all this time, it still startled him to realize that the face staring back wasn't the boy he used to be. Not the awkward Rion High kid with a camera and a dream—just a man with too many scars and not enough peace.
Down below, the late-night crowd spilled out of Tri-M Coffee & Music, that new spot Adrian Solaris swore by. Aron landed behind the building, changed in the shadows, and joined his two oldest friends. From the outside, life looked normal—Adrian ranting about stock prices, Blake Torrin still loud even in adulthood—but through Aron's eyes, "normal" never quite existed. Every smile felt like a disguise, every laugh a small miracle. He'd fought monsters and gods, seen the city burn and rebuild a dozen times, but somehow sitting across from his friends in a café felt harder than any rooftop battle.
What he didn't realize was that someone else was watching him from across the street.
Jaxen Reyes stood beneath a flickering lamppost, collar up, eyes fixed on the man he'd once called brother. As soon as Aron's gaze drifted his way, Jaxen slinked back into the crowd. He hadn't planned on showing himself tonight. He'd just wanted to see Aron—to make sure he was real, alive, whole. The city looked the same, but Jaxen didn't. He carried Ravenstrike in the way he moved, careful and deliberate, like a man afraid his shadow might lash out if he walked too fast.
Jaxen? Aron blinked, rubbing the back of his neck. No… he wouldn't… not after all these years.
He forced a laugh at one of Adrian's jokes, but his mind wouldn't stop racing. There's no way he's still holding a grudge… right? Every headline, every memory—Jaxen's meltdown, the fights, the moment he nearly exposed Aron's identity—flashed behind his eyes. Aron exhaled sharply. The Rift Entity is gone. Jaxen is cured. Even if he isn't… I'm not that scared kid anymore. But even as he thought it, a tremor of doubt snuck beneath his ribs. You never forget the first time you look into your friend's eyes and see a monster staring back.
"Uh, Aron?" Adrian's voice broke through.
Aron looked up. "What?"
"Nothing. I just thought I saw somebody… familiar."
Aron's heart skipped. "Jaxen Reyes, right?"
Adrian blinked. "Yeah—how'd you—?"
"I thought I saw him too," Aron said quickly, eyes scanning the windows outside.
The conversation dissolved after that. None of them mentioned Jaxen again, but the silence stretched over their lunch and all the way to the door. Even Blake grew quiet for once, tracing circles in the condensation of his glass. Wren Sterling tried to lighten the mood, but her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. For all of them, the name Jaxen Reyes carried too many echoes—headlines, apologies, funerals narrowly avoided.
By dusk the trio split: Wren's dad picked her up, Adrian's driver waited at the curb, and Aron walked home alone through the thinning rain. Every few blocks he glanced over his shoulder, that old sense twitching just enough to unsettle him. He told himself it was nothing—just the usual city noise—but the unease followed him like a shadow. Every raindrop that hit his jacket sounded like a footstep out of sync with his own.
From an alley mouth, Jaxen watched—hood drawn, expression unreadable. The years in Ravenstrike had changed him. He didn't move until Aron passed. When he did, the motion was quiet, careful, like muscle memory he couldn't shake. He remembered every swing of the fists they'd traded, every hateful word. But under it all was something worse—a hollow where friendship used to live. He thought about turning away, about leaving this moment untouched, but the need to speak was stronger.
Aron's instincts flared. He spun toward the alley.
Empty.
He sighed, almost laughing at himself—until a voice rasped from behind him.
"How's it going, bro?"
Aron turned slowly. Jaxen Reyes stood there—taller, older, but unmistakable. Hair longer, eyes dimmer, but still Jaxen. His hands were raised.
"Relax," Jaxen said, stepping forward. "I'm not here to fight. The Rift Entity's gone, remember?"
"Yeah," Aron replied, tension still in his shoulders. "I remember you nearly blowing my secret and almost getting Wren and Elena killed."
Jaxen's face tightened. "I know. I was… sick, Aron. That thing—it used me. I've had a long time to think. I just wanted to say I'm sorry."
His voice trembled slightly at the end, as though the words had been rehearsed a hundred times and still came out raw. He reached for something in his jacket, then stopped, realizing how that might look. He took a step back instead, palms open. "You don't owe me anything. I just needed to tell you."
Aron stared, jaw clenched. "You almost killed everyone I love. Sorry doesn't erase that. We both lost our parents, and somehow that still wasn't enough to make you stop."
Jaxen swallowed hard. "I get it. You don't trust me."
"I can't." Aron turned away. "You crossed too many lines."
Jaxen's voice fell to a whisper. "Sorry to bother you, bro."
He waited a second longer, hoping for something—anything—that might sound like forgiveness. But Aron said nothing. Only the rain answered, tapping quietly against the streetlights.
They walked in opposite directions, two ghosts splitting at a crossroads. High above, from a rooftop edge, Jaxen watched Aron vanish down the block, guilt etched across his face. He remembered their first photo assignment together at the HelixDyne internship program, the way Aron used to laugh when Jaxen's camera jammed. Back then, life was simpler—black and white, hero and villain just words on paper. Now everything was gray, and the city didn't care which shade you fell under.
He's got a family now, Jaxen thought. A life. He deserves that.
Then another thought, quieter, darker: And maybe I could, too… if I fix this.
The idea clung to him like wet tar. Maybe redemption wasn't impossible. Maybe if he found the right thing to make up for it—the right person to save—he could silence the voice that still whispered we are Rift when the nights got too long.
He pulled the hood tighter and disappeared into the night.
⸻
Hours later, Aron sat on the fire escape outside his apartment, mask off, one leg dangling as the skyline breathed silver around him. Through the window behind him, warm light spilled from the living room: Elena Castello folding laundry, Aron Kincaid Jr. already asleep on the couch clutching a Nightweaver plushie. The sight always humbled him. After everything—the blood, the loss, the chaos—this was what he fought for. Not headlines or statues, not gratitude. Just this small, fragile peace.
Aron smiled faintly and looked down at the mask in his hands.
The fabric was still damp from the rain, the faint scent of smoke and city dust woven into it. Funny how something so simple could hold so much history—every fight, every failure, every second chance.
Should I trust Jaxen again? he wondered. He saved me more than once back in the day. But he also tried to kill me. I want to believe he's changed…
He rubbed his thumb over the eye-lens, the glass catching a streak of lightning in the distance. "Maybe people do change," he murmured under his breath. "I did."
A low tremor rolled through the air. The next second, a sharp boom thundered across the city—deep, metallic, too heavy for fireworks. The window behind him rattled, the laundry basket tipping over. From inside, Elena's startled voice called his name. Aron was already moving.
He yanked the mask on, webbed off the ledge, and vanished into the night—unaware that somewhere far below, in the ruins of a HelixDyne loading dock, something black and alive was beginning to move.
It slithered from the cracks between steel beams, drawn to the echo of a name, a memory, a bond once shared. The rain hissed as it touched the substance, the droplets sizzling against its surface like acid. Then, with a faint whisper that sounded almost like laughter, the black mass began to crawl toward the city lights—hungry, patient, remembering.