The dawn light filtering through Vance's apartment window did nothing to warm the chill that had settled in his bones. It wasn't the physical cold—his body regulated temperature with near-perfect efficiency, a side effect of consuming a thermokinetic's ability two years prior. No, this was something deeper. A cold calculation that had begun the moment Chloe's cheeks had flushed at Lucian Aurelian's name.
He stood before the full-length mirror in his bedroom, shirtless. His reflection showed a young man of nineteen with the sort of physique that spoke of brutal discipline rather than genetic gift. Every muscle was defined, functional, without an ounce of excess. But it was the marks that told the true story.
Across his chest, a latticework of faint, silvery scars formed an almost geometric pattern—the aftermath of his first major consumption, a gravity manipulator who'd fought so hard his power had tried to tear Vance apart from the inside. On his right forearm, the skin shimmered with a faint, opalescent sheen where he'd integrated a light-bender's DNA. His left hand, when he flexed it, occasionally crackled with barely visible static—a permanent echo of the electrokinetic who'd been his third kill.
He was a tapestry of stolen power. A living museum of conquests.
"Vance Thorne," he said to his reflection, the name feeling both like a suit of armor and a prison. "Last of the Progenitor's true children. Heir to nothing. Builder of everything."
*(You're being melodramatic,)* the Whisper commented dryly. *(Save the monologues for when you actually have an audience.)*
"I'm clarifying objectives," Vance replied, turning to examine the profile of his shoulder. A new, almost invisible web of frost-like patterns traced his skin there—White Gale's final, unwilling contribution. "Emotion clouded my judgment last night. I need to recenter."
*(The objective is clear: Remove the Aurelian boy. By any means necessary.)*
"Wrong." Vance picked up a simple black t-shirt from the bed and pulled it on. "The objective is perfection. Lucian Aurelian is an obstacle to that perfection because he represents something I cannot yet have. Something I cannot yet *understand*. His family's divine protection is the one lock my consumption cannot pick. That makes him the most important puzzle I've ever encountered."
He moved to the small kitchenette, the motions of preparing coffee automatic, ritualistic. The beans were imported from the Indonesian archipelago, grown in soil enriched by the remains of a terrakinetic he'd consumed three years ago. The flavor was... complex. Bitter, with notes of iron and ozone.
*(So we study him. We dissect him. Metaphorically first, then literally.)*
"Precisely." Vance took the first sip, closing his eyes as the heat and bitterness washed over his tongue. "And to study a specimen in its natural habitat, one must become part of that habitat."
The knock on his apartment door was expected. Three sharp raps, military-precise. He didn't need his enhanced hearing to know who stood on the other side.
He took his time finishing the coffee, washing the cup, drying it, placing it back in the exact center of the drying rack. Perfection was in the details. In control.
When he finally opened the door, Sergeant Angie Rightwill stood there in her full police uniform, her posture rigid, her expression a mask of professional concern that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Where were you?" she asked, her tone that particular blend of authority and weariness she'd perfected over twenty years on the force.
"Do you mean for the last eight years?" Vance replied, leaning against the doorframe, blocking her entry. "Or just last night?"
Her jaw tightened. "Where were you last night? I came by at eleven. The door was locked. You weren't home."
"I was out," he said, his voice flat. "Consuming a minor teleporter in the warehouse district. His ability was sloppy—short-range only, couldn't take passengers. But it'll integrate nicely with my spatial awareness."
Angie didn't flinch. She was one of the few people who knew the truth of what he was, what he could do. She'd been there the night his father—her first husband—had tried to stop eleven-year-old Vance from consuming the family cat after it demonstrated the ability to phase through walls. She'd been the one to call the authorities when her husband's "disciplinary methods" had crossed from abuse into something darker, more experimental.
She'd also been the one to remarry six months later, choosing her career and new family over the monstrous child her first marriage had produced.
"Vance," she said, her voice dropping. "Please. The entrance exams for Solaris Academy are next week. This is your last year of eligibility. Your last chance to—"
"To what?" he interrupted, his eyes cold. "To redeem myself? To become a 'productive member of society'? To follow in my father's footsteps and become a glorified attack dog for the Association?"
"To have a future!" she snapped, the mask slipping for just a moment. He saw the frustration, the fear, the lingering guilt. "You can't live like this forever! Skulking in the shadows, stealing powers, playing villain with Marcel Silverwood's daughter! Do you think I don't know what you two did last night? White Gale is dead, Vance! That's not a minor crime! That's a declaration of war!"
Vance studied her. The lines around her eyes had deepened since he'd last really looked at her. Her hair, once as black as his, was streaked with silver. She was aging. Mortal. Finite.
"My father is dead," he said softly. "By my hand. Do you remember? He tried to stop me from consuming his ability after he caught me practicing on stray dogs. He said I was a 'perversion of nature.' That I needed to be 'purified.'"
Angie paled. "He was trying to help you—"
"He was trying to cut the infection out," Vance corrected, his voice devoid of emotion. "And when that didn't work, he tried to burn it out. Literally. You saw the scars on my back. You treated them yourself before you decided I was too much trouble and handed me over to the state."
"That's not—"
"It is." Vance straightened up. "But it doesn't matter. The Krovos name is already redeemed in my own way. I'm not seeking your approval or society's acceptance. I'm building something new. Something perfect."
He started to close the door. Angie's foot shot out, blocking it.
"At least take the exam," she pleaded, her eyes desperate. "If not for me, then for your half-brother. He's eligible this year too. He looks up to you, even though you've never met him. He wants to be a hero. If you're there... maybe you can keep him safe. The Academy isn't the paradise they sell on the brochures. It's dangerous."
Vance paused, his hand on the door. The mention of a half-brother—a child born of Angie's new, respectable life—should have meant nothing. It *did* mean nothing.
But the opportunity...
A built-in connection. A reason for "Silas Graves" to be at the Academy beyond mere ambition. A cover story that would hold up under even moderate scrutiny.
*(Oh,)* the Whisper murmured, intrigued. *(How interesting. A ready-made pawn.)*
"Fine," Vance said, the decision made in an instant. "I'll take the exam. But not for you. And not for some brother I've never met."
He closed the door on her stunned expression, the lock clicking with finality.
For a long moment, he stood in the silence of his apartment. Then he allowed himself a small, cold smile.
The pieces were falling into place.
***
Chloe arrived two hours later, bearing coffee and the uneasy energy of someone who knew they'd made a mistake.
Vance's apartment was on the third floor of a nondescript building in a neighborhood that specialized in anonymity. The kind of place where neighbors nodded but never spoke, where curtains were always drawn, where unusual comings and goings were politely ignored. It was the perfect hideout for a villain who needed to occasionally play civilian.
"Your mother was leaving as I was coming up," Chloe said, placing the takeout cup on the small table. She'd changed again—now in leggings and an oversized sweatshirt, her silver hair pulled into a messy bun. The civilian disguise was almost convincing. "She looked... upset."
"She's always upset," Vance said, not touching the coffee. He'd already had his dose for the day. "It's her default state when dealing with me."
"You're going to take the exam?" Chloe asked, her eyes searching his face. She'd clearly been listening at the door. Or Angie had said something. Either way, she knew.
"I am."
"Why?"
"Because it's the logical next step." Vance moved to the window, looking down at the street below. A couple walked a dog. A delivery drone buzzed past. Normalcy. "We've hit a ceiling, Chloe. We can take down A-ranks. We can even manage S-ranks with enough planning and luck. But the true power in this world—the Aurelians, the other legacy families, the upper echelons of the Association—they're locked away behind walls we can't breach from the outside."
He turned to face her. "Solaris Academy isn't just a school. It's the heart of the system. It's where they train their next generation of guardians. Where they keep their most valuable research. Where the Aurelian heirs will be for the next four years. If we want to understand how to break their protection, we need to be there."
Chloe shook her head, her arms crossed tightly. "It's insane. They have psychics, truth-seekers, empaths. They'll see through our covers in a day."
"Your father has resources," Vance countered. "The best forgers in the underworld. False identities that have held up against Association scrutiny before. We become different people. Students with tragic pasts and clean records. We keep our heads down, we learn, we observe."
"And what about our... extracurricular activities?" Chloe's voice dropped. "You can't exactly go around consuming people in the middle of a hero academy."
"I'll be discreet." Vance's smile was thin, sharp. "And I'll be selective. The Academy will be full of unique, powerful abilities. Abilities that could be... useful. I don't need to consume entire people. Just samples. A strand of hair. A drop of blood. A piece of skin. Things that can be acquired quietly, in the chaos of training accidents or medical checkups."
Chloe stared at him, her expression a mixture of horror and fascination. This was the Vance she knew—ruthlessly pragmatic, endlessly ambitious, seeing people not as individuals but as collections of useful traits.
"You've already decided," she said, not a question.
"I have."
"And if I say no? If I won't go with you?"
"Then you stay here," Vance said, his voice devoid of malice. It was a simple statement of fact. "You continue being Verdant Queen. You take jobs from your father. You flirt with Lucian Aurelian from across battlefields until one day he either arrests you or kills you."
The flush returned to her cheeks, but this time it was anger, not infatuation. "I am not—"
"Save it." Vance cut her off. "Your personal... interests... are your own business. But they're also a liability. One that could get us both killed. At the Academy, you'll have a chance to see the object of your affection up close. To see the man behind the legend. Maybe you'll like what you see. Maybe you won't. But either way, you'll have clarity."
He picked up the coffee she'd brought, finally taking a sip. It was sweeter than he preferred. Sentimental.
"My father won't allow it," Chloe said, but the defiance was fading from her voice, replaced by calculation. She was Marcel Silverwood's daughter, after all. She understood opportunity.
"He already has," Vance said. "I spoke with him this morning. He thinks having operatives inside Solaris Academy could be invaluable. He's arranged our new identities. Chloe becomes 'Kira Vane,' orphan of the Skyfall disaster, plant manipulation specialist. I become 'Silas Graves,' son of a fallen hero, lightning affinity seeking redemption."
Chloe blinked. "You went to my father before you came to me?"
"I needed to know if the resources were available. They are." Vance set the coffee down. "The question is whether you're willing to use them."
For a long minute, the only sound in the apartment was the distant hum of the city outside. Chloe paced the small living area, her movements tight, controlled. Vance watched her, reading the tension in her shoulders, the way her eyes darted as she weighed options, risks, rewards.
Finally, she stopped, turning to face him. "What's the real goal here, Vance? Not just studying the Aurelians. You have something else in mind. You always do."
Vance considered lying. Considered giving her a partial truth. But she knew him too well. And in this, at least, they were still partners.
"There's a vault beneath Solaris Academy," he said, his voice dropping to just above a whisper. "The Progenitor Vault. It's where they keep artifacts from the First Light era. Including research on the original Progenitors—the beings who supposedly gave us our abilities. My father believed the key to understanding consumption—to perfecting it—is in that vault."
Chloe's eyes widened. "You want to break into the most secure facility on the planet."
"I want to understand what I am," Vance corrected. "And to do that, I need to understand where we all came from. The Aurelians and their divine protection are part of that puzzle. The vault is another."
"And where do I fit into this grand plan?" Chloe asked, her voice tight. "Am I just your cover? Your distraction?"
"You're my partner," Vance said, and for the first time that morning, there was no calculation in his voice, only stark, simple truth. "Whatever else happens, whatever... feelings... develop, that doesn't change. We've been in this together since we were kids scrapping in the gutter. That means something."
He saw the conflict in her eyes—the loyalty warring with resentment, the partnership warring with whatever strange new attraction had taken root in her heart.
"Fine," she said at last, the word exhaled like a surrender. "We do it. We become students. We play hero. But Vance..." She stepped closer, her amethyst eyes locked on his. "If this goes sideways—if you get caught consuming someone on campus—I won't go down with you. I'll disavow you. I'll say you manipulated me. My father will back the story."
Vance nodded. It was the smart play. The practical one. It still felt like a knife twisting in his gut.
"Understood."
Chloe turned to leave, pausing at the door. "When do we leave?"
"Tomorrow," Vance said. "Pack light. We won't be coming back."
She left without another word.
The apartment felt emptier after she was gone. Larger. Colder.
*(Sentiment,)* the Whisper chided. *(It will be your undoing.)*
"Perhaps," Vance murmured. He moved to the bedroom closet, pressing a hidden sequence on the back panel. It slid open with a soft hiss, revealing not clothes, but his true sanctuary.
The room beyond was small, lined with temperature-controlled storage units. Each held a specimen vial, meticulously labeled. A strand of copper-colored hair from a pyrokinetic. A flake of skin from a diamond-hardening specialist. A dried drop of blood from a telepath. His collection. His library of potential.
He selected a vial containing a few grains of what looked like black sand—the remains of a shadow-manipulator he'd consumed six months ago. He held it up to the light.
"Tomorrow, we walk into the lion's den," he whispered, to himself, to the Whisper, to the ghosts of all the powers he'd stolen. "Tomorrow, we begin the real work."
*(Are you afraid?)* the Whisper asked, curiosity in its tone.
"Fear is an imperfection," Vance said, replacing the vial. "I feel... anticipation. The kind a sculptor feels before striking the first blow on a fresh block of marble. Or a composer before setting the first note to paper."
He closed the hidden panel, the closet returning to its mundane appearance. He had packing to do. His civilian clothes. A few sentimental items to sell the cover story. The forged documents Marcel's people had provided.
But first, he returned to the main room, to the window overlooking the city. Somewhere out there, Lucian Aurelian was probably giving another press conference, comforting mourners, vowing justice. Playing the hero.
*(Do you think he suspects?)* the Whisper wondered. *(The Aurelians have senses beyond the normal. That girl, Serena... she looked at you like she saw something.)*
"She saw a question," Vance said. "An anomaly. That's all. To them, we're just another pair of villains. Not worth special attention."
*(And yet you're going to walk right up to them.)*
"That's the beauty of it," Vance said, a slow, cold smile spreading across his face. "They'll be looking for monsters in the shadows. They won't think to look for monsters in the light, standing right beside them."
He watched as the sun climbed higher, burning away the last traces of night. A new day. A new beginning.
And somewhere deep in the vaults of Solaris Academy, something ancient stirred in its sleep, as if sensing a familiar, hungry presence drawing near.