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Chapter Text

Chapter 1: Percy I

It just had to be her luck.

All Sally Jackson wanted was a moment of peace. Just a single day to retreat to her parents' old cabin in Montauk, to breathe the salt air and pretend, for a little while, that the world wasn't crumbling around her. A day without memories clawing at her — of the airplane crash that took her parents, of her uncle's losing battle with cancer, of the stack of college assignments she was dangerously close to failing. Just one blessed day where she didn't have to hold her entire life together by a fraying thread.

Was that really too much to ask?

Apparently, yes. Because fate had a cruel sense of humor, and it seemed to be laughing right in her face.

She barely registered the screams at first. By the time they pierced through her fog of exhaustion, the beach had already descended into chaos. People scrambled across the sand, knocking over umbrellas and coolers in their blind panic. Sally turned just in time to see a wall of water erupt from the sea.

And there it was.

A leviathan of nightmares, tearing its way from the depths — its hide slick and glistening, eyes like molten coins, tentacles as thick as tree trunks lashing at the sky. It bellowed, a sound that rattled her teeth and seemed to shake the earth itself.

She should have run. Any sane person would have. Her legs should have carried her as far from the shoreline as possible.

But all she could do was stand there, breath caught in her throat, thinking miserably:

Of course. Of course this would happen today.

And yet… she didn't move. She just stood there, rooted to the spot, as if her feet had grown into the sand.

It was strange to admit — downright insane, really — but she wasn't exactly terrified. If anything… she was intrigued. Not by the monster itself (though it was monstrous enough to haunt her nightmares for years), but by the figure confronting it.

Because apparently it wasn't enough for Montauk to be attacked by a giant sea creature. No, today also featured a lone warrior who seemed determined to face it head-on.

Sally found herself transfixed. With everything else in her life spiraling out of control, this was — absurdly — the perfect distraction. Like watching some grisly spectacle from ancient Rome, where desperate men threw themselves at beasts for the amusement of the crowd.

Only there was no crowd here. Just Sally, heart hammering, breath catching in her throat, and eyes locked on this surreal, living arena.

She should have run. She knew that. But for the first time in weeks, her mind was blessedly clear of overdue bills, dying relatives, and grades that spelled doom.

Instead, all she could think was:

Who in the world is this man?

The man moved with a fluid, deadly grace, each stride purposeful as he advanced on the monster. He carried a long weapon — not quite a trident, Sally realized, because it bristled with five razor-sharp prongs. A penta-spear? Whatever it was, it looked built for war.

He lunged forward and drove the weapon upward, burying its points deep into the creature's snout. The monster let out a shriek so piercing it felt like glass shattering inside her skull. Sally screamed, doubling over and clutching her ears as pain exploded behind her eyes.

Even the warrior staggered. The shriek seemed to vibrate through the air itself, rattling him off balance.

The monster seized its chance. A thick tentacle shot out, coiling around the man's torso like a python. His weapon slipped from limp fingers, thudding uselessly onto the sand. He pounded his fists against the rubbery flesh, but it was like punching wet stone.

Then, with a terrifying whip of its limb, the beast flung him aside — hurling him through the air in a boneless arc that ended with a tremendous crash.

Straight into her cabin.

Sally's displeasure wasn't subtle — it was plastered all over her face in a furious scowl as the man's body tore through her parents' old cabin, leaving a splintered, gaping hole in the roof.

And as if that weren't enough, the giant sea monster let out another earth-shaking roar and began lumbering straight toward the cabin.

Oh no. Absolutely not.

Sally was livid. The sheer audacity of this overgrown kaiju wannabe, stomping up to her family's sanctuary like it owned the place — well, she'd be damned if she let it reduce the cabin to a pile of driftwood.

Without a second thought, she took off across the sand, ignoring the sting of shells and stones under her bare feet. She half-stumbled, half-sprinted toward the bizarre five-pronged spear lying where the warrior had dropped it.

The monster stalked closer, its massive leg rising, ready to crush what remained of her porch — and maybe the man too, wherever he'd landed inside.

Gritting her teeth, Sally seized the weapon, its shaft strangely warm beneath her hands, and wheeled around just in time. Heart in her throat, she charged back toward the monster, determined to protect what little she still had.

The monster actually paused. Slowly, its enormous head turned, and glistening, unblinking eyes fixed on her tiny, barefoot form below.

She didn't give herself time to second-guess. With a strangled sort of war cry, Sally hurled the spear straight at the creature.

The bad news? It was a spectacularly shit throw. Weak, awkward, and far too low — it didn't come close to one of the monster's eyes, which had been her brave (if wildly unrealistic) target.

The good news? Apparently, she wasn't the only one who had a plan.

A blur of motion shot past her. The man — somehow back on his feet despite his earlier crash through her cabin — snatched the spear right out of the air as he leapt. In one smooth, savage movement, he drove the weapon directly into one of the monster's massive eye.

The creature shrieked, a sound so piercing it felt like tiny blades slicing through her brain. Sally doubled over, hands clamped to her ears as hot pain exploded through her skull.

When she dared to look up again, the warrior lay sprawled in the sand. The monster's cry had hit him full force, knocking him out cold.

Blood streamed from the beast's ruined eye. It thrashed and bellowed, but its attention was no longer on Sally.

She exhaled shakily, not sure if she should thank the man for saving her… or start panicking over the fact that he was now entirely defenseless.

The good news? The sea monster seemed to finally take the hint.

Its pride — clearly bruised after losing one of its massive, beady eyes — was wounded enough to make it reconsider this fight. With a low, rumbling growl, the creature turned on its heel and lumbered back toward the ocean.

Slowly, it waded into the cold waves, its remaining eye glaring with a mix of pain and fury.

Then, just like that, it slipped beneath the surface, disappearing into the dark depths.

The only signs it had ever been there were the half-destroyed cabin, the shattered sand, and a thick silence that settled over the beach like a heavy blanket.

Sally made her way over to where the man lay crumpled in the sand. Up close, it was obvious he'd been knocked out cold by that monster's skull-splitting shriek. Blood trickled from his ears — not a reassuring sign — though aside from a scattering of bruises and cuts, he didn't look too badly mangled.

At least, not for someone who'd just gone toe-to-toe with a raging sea monster

Still, it didn't take long for Sally to realize he wasn't exactly… human. His skin was too flawless, too oddly glistening under the sun. Black hair fell across a brow that was a little too sculpted, and his broad chest — partially hidden by what looked like sleek, scaly armor — rose and fell in slow, even breaths.

She tried not to linger on how ridiculously well-defined his pecs were. Heat bloomed in her cheeks, and she mentally smacked herself. Focus, Sally. Alien fish-man or not, he needs help.

When he didn't so much as stir, she let out a resigned sigh, hooked her hands under his armpits, and began the awkward process of dragging him across the sand. Inch by grueling inch, she hauled him back toward her half-demolished cabin, muscles burning, cursing under her breath the entire way.

…

"You owe me reparations, by the way."

That was the first thing the man heard as his eyes finally fluttered open.

He blinked up at the ceiling — or what was left of it, given the gaping hole overhead — and then turned his gaze to the young woman standing nearby.

Sally smiled at him, a mix of genuine kindness and lingering exasperation. She strolled over to where he lay on her sofa, holding a delicate teacup on a small plate.

"Do you drink tea?" she asked lightly, as if they were merely two neighbors having a friendly chat.

The man seemed to take a moment to process where he was. His eyes darted to the ruined roof, then back to her — and Sally found herself momentarily distracted by just how strikingly green they were, the exact color of ocean waves.

"Uh… yes, tea would be… lovely. Thank you," he managed, clearing his throat, his voice rich and oddly melodic.

Sally smirked and handed him the cup, which he took with careful hands and an appreciative nod before testing a cautious sip — as though half-expecting it to be laced with poison.

Relax, sea warrior, Sally thought dryly. If I wanted you dead, I wouldn't have dragged your heavy ass back here in the first place.

"So… about yesterday," she began, folding her arms across her chest.

The man set the plate gently on his lap. "I presume you'd like an explanation. And that this… home is yours?"

"Technically it's my mom and dad's," Sally corrected with a small sigh.

"Oh…" His expression turned sheepish. "Well then… I offer them my sincerest apologies for… damaging it."

"Damaging it?" Sally echoed, eyebrows shooting up. "That's putting it real lightly. You put a giant hole in the roof and wrecked the entire living room."

The man's gaze swept slowly around the room as she spoke, and a dawning look of realization crossed his face — like he was only now registering the absolute war zone he'd left behind.

The living room was in complete shambles. Splintered wooden planks jutted up from the floor where he'd crashed down, broken boards like jagged teeth. The TV lay in a crumpled heap against the far wall, its screen spiderwebbed with cracks, while the coffee table was reduced to little more than firewood, scattered in uneven chunks across the rug.

The wall separating the living room from one of the bedrooms had a massive hole torn through it, offering a raw, splintered view straight into the bed and dresser inside — which were now also askew and partially buried under rubble.

As for the fireplace… its bricks were scattered in chaotic piles, some of them still trailing faint wisps of dust. A few charred logs rolled out from the wreckage, leaving smudges of soot across the already-ruined floor.

Sally let him take it all in, then added coolly, "In any case, my parents are dead. So your apologies go to me… and the reparations."

She pinned him with a look that dared him to disagree.

The man's lips curved into a small, knowing smile. There was a spark in this woman — he liked that. She clearly didn't take nonsense from anyone, even strangers who fell through her ceiling.

"Of course," he said, dipping his head in agreement.

Sally smirked. "So… since you're going to be fixing up my place, how about we get to know each other, hm? How does a man like yourself end up fighting a giant sea monster in front of my parents' old cottage?"

He took another slow sip of tea, then set the cup back down on his lap. His eyes met hers directly, calm and unwavering.

"Well, that all stems from a simple question…"

Sally raised her brows, curiosity hooking her easily. "And what would that question be?"

The man's green eyes seemed to darken, like a deeper current stirring beneath the surface.

"Have you ever heard of the legends… of the underwater city of Atlantis?"

…

The man told it all to her, and Sally — despite thinking this sounded like something out of a comic book — listened.

He spoke of Atlantis.

Long ago, it was a shining jewel upon the earth's surface — a sprawling metropolis of crystal spires and sweeping causeways, divided into seven great realms, each ruled by its own council but united under a single crown. Its technology was centuries ahead of the rest of the world, seamlessly intertwined with powerful currents of magic.

But prosperity bred ambition, and ambition bred conflict. A schism formed: some favored the boundless potential of magic, others the steady, provable power of science. Old alliances soured; fear festered in dark corners of court.

At the center of it all was King Atlan, first great unifier of Atlantis. A visionary who dreamed of breaking the city's self-imposed chains — opening its gates to the world, forging trade and kinship with distant kingdoms.

But not all shared his idealism. Chief among his detractors were his own blood: a jealous brother and a cunning sister-in-law, who plotted in whispered corridors and shadowed halls. They struck in the dead of night, massacring Atlan's loyalists and seizing the throne.

Wounded in both body and soul, Atlan fled into exile. He found sanctuary in a distant province under the rule of a gifted alchemist — a mage-king whose family wielded a unique strain of mystic gold. There, Atlan nursed his wounds and his fury, spending a decade forging what would become the Seven Treasures of Atlantis — relics of immense destructive power, each designed to reclaim what he had lost.

When the alchemist finally demanded payment — a cost Atlan deemed too steep — the fallen king slew his host, stole the last of his sacred treasury, and forever tainted his standing in the eyes of the sea god, Poseidon.

Atlan returned to Atlantis cloaked in darkness, cutting down his treacherous kin and any who dared bar his path. Blood once again stained palace marble. The murder of the usurpers plunged Atlantis into civil war, tearing apart everything Atlan had once united.

In his anguish and wrath, Atlan seized his greatest weapon — Poseidon's own trident, gifted to him in an age when gods still walked among mortals. He drove it deep into the heart of his beloved city. The earth split, the seas roared, and Atlantis was swallowed by the ocean.

Atlan perished in the cataclysm he unleashed. Poseidon retrieved his trident from the ruins, hiding it in the darkest trenches so no mortal king might ever wield it again.

Then came the age of adaptation.

The magic that had suffused Atlantis at its height did not die with the city. It soaked into its people, altering them across generations. They evolved to survive crushing pressures, to swim with breathtaking speed, to breathe the sea as easily as men breathe air. Atlanteans grew stronger, faster, and far longer-lived than any surface-dweller, shaped by the ocean's cold embrace.

When the man finished the story, he finally spoke of himself.

He told Sally of his lineage — born to Atlantis's royal house, raised in the shadow of ancient legends, groomed for the throne from the moment he could walk. His parents ruled wisely until their deaths, leaving him to inherit both the crown and the countless burdens that came with it.

By the time the man finished his story, Sally's head felt like it was stuffed with seawater and ancient conspiracies. Never in a thousand years — hell, never in a billion years — would she have imagined there was an entire underwater civilization out there. With cities. With magic. With their own political scandals and civil wars and apparently, a habit of accidentally dropping their entire continent into the ocean.

And to top it off, one of their kings was now sitting on her couch, sipping tea.

"So … you're telling me … you're an Atlantean king? From Atlantis? The underwater city?"

The man smiled and nodded. "That would be correct."

Sally blinked, looking somewhat scared. "Sh- … should I bow?"

The man laughed, his voice rich and soothing as he did. "No need to bow, miss …"

"Sally. Jackson," she completed. "And … you …?"

The man pursed his lips. "Speaking my true name aloud carries a certain… power. It could draw the wrong eyes from my realm, and given the current state of your lovely home… I would prefer to avoid any further complications. If that's acceptable to you."

Sally nodded. "Right. So … what should I call you, then?"

"Anything you want, dear," he replied.

Sally smiled back. "Dear … I like that. I guess that'll work for me."

"So, I told you about myself. Maybe you can share the same courtesy with me?" the man asked.

Sally let out a long sigh, her shoulders drooping. "I mean… it's not much of a story. My parents died in a plane crash — they were government agents. I live with my uncle now, who's basically dying of cancer. My classes are a mess, my job barely pays for his chemo. So… yeah. I'm just trying to hold it all together."

She gave a small, hollow laugh. "But don't get me wrong — I don't want handouts or your pity. That's not me. It just… doesn't sit right."

The man inclined his head, those sea-green eyes gentle. "I understand. And… I am sorry, Sally. About everything. Perhaps we could start fixing your home right now? I'd be glad to help. Having an Atlantean king around does come with certain advantages."

She grimaced, glancing toward the battered roof. "Yeah, the hardware store's not far… but it doesn't have to be today."

He cocked his head. "You don't want to fix the hole in your roof?"

"Oh, I do. Just… maybe not yet." She flashed a teasing smile, her fingers lightly brushing his arm, tracing the edge of a scale. "I thought we could… get to know each other a little more first."

The man laughed. "I mean … what else is there to tell? I've told you all about me and the history of Atlantis. And you saw everything in full display yesterday, against the Kraken."

Sally leaned in, eyes locked on his, her voice dropping to a sultry murmur.

"Well… not everything…"

His brows rose, a surprised grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. Sally answered with her own playful smirk. In that moment, something warm and inevitable passed between them — and neither of them felt much like worrying about holes in the roof.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: Percy II

There was no way Sally could have ever anticipated her life turning out like this. If she told a friend that she had nursed a handsome Atlantean king back to health after he fought a brutal battle with a sea monster — the Kraken, of all things — well, they never would have believed her.

That king of Atlantis apparently had an entire life waiting for him back home, though he didn't seem overly concerned about it at the moment. Not that Sally was complaining. The miserable life she'd left behind was fading into a distant memory now. In that, at least, they had something in common.

They did eventually get the roof fixed — after a rather prolonged, passionate encounter that Sally enjoyed far more than she ever expected to. What was supposed to be a short-lived tryst blossomed into something deeper, and in time, Sally found herself pregnant with the king's child. To her relief, he had no intention of leaving her to raise the baby alone. He stayed by her side throughout her pregnancy, even sitting beside her in the doctor's office, suggesting a name when they learned they were having a boy.

Perseus.

Named after the Greek hero who slew Medusa, rescued Andromeda, founded Mycenae — a rare hero whose story did not end in tragedy. Sally adored the name and chose it without hesitation. The king was also there to hold her hand when she gave birth, there to bring her home from the hospital, even there to change little Percy's diapers. The boy could make quite a mess when he wanted to, so having the king's help was more than a little appreciated.

"He is a special one," the king of Atlantis said softly, holding the tiny bundle to his chest. He patted Percy's back in a gentle rhythm, coaxing him toward sleep.

Sally grinned. "Oh, he's special all right. He can definitely drop… special surprises."

The king chuckled at that, a warm sound rumbling in his chest. "Yes, he certainly can. But that's not quite what I meant." His eyes softened as he glanced down at their son. "What I meant is that… this boy is living proof that our people can coexist. I wasn't sure before. Atlanteans are… very reserved. They do not welcome outsiders. I myself was raised to believe that earth-dwellers and Atlanteans could never truly exist side by side, that our worlds would always stand apart."

He paused, as if the weight of old beliefs still lingered. Then he drew Percy away from his shoulder, cradling him so he could look directly into the baby's sleeping face.

"But now I see that is not the case. This boy… he will be the bridge between our worlds. Someday, in a future far from now, I know he will grow to be a great warrior — someone worthy to take up my throne. That is why he is special."

"You think he'll have abilities like yours?" Sally asked quietly.

"Even if he does not," the king said, brushing a fingertip against Percy's tiny cheek, "it will not make him any less extraordinary. I see a bright future ahead for him, dear. He will be… someone very special indeed."

Sally accepted Percy into her arms with a soft, glowing smile. "I know he will be."

...

"I am truly unable to believe he actually enjoys watching that," the king of Atlantis muttered, arms crossed as he eyed four-year-old Percy, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor, utterly absorbed by Nick Jr. cartoons.

Sally smiled as she rinsed her hands at the sink, having just finished scrubbing out the garbage disposal. "It's what he likes, dear."

The king shook his head, bewildered. "When I was his age, my form of entertainment was watching the finest Atlantean warriors face their greatest challenges in the arena. Some of them were outright absurd. Shark-taming, for instance — it was always thrilling when it involved great whites."

"Well, we're not in Atlantis," Sally said with a playful shove to his arm. "Percy doesn't exactly need to know how to… tame great white sharks."

"The least we could do is start teaching him how to fight," the king insisted, though his tone held more concern than severity.

"He's too young for that right now. That time will come, I promise — but for now, let him just be a kid," Sally urged gently.

He sighed, shoulders slumping. "All right, dear. If you insist."

Sally tilted her head, studying him. "Relax, will you? You seem nervous."

"I… I suppose I am," he admitted, glancing out the window as if expecting to see a battalion on the front lawn. "It's been nearly five years since I left my post in Atlantis. My people could come for me at any time. And if they do… I worry for your safety. And for the boy's."

Sally's smile faded. "Dear… who exactly took your place as king of Atlantis?"

The king's lips pressed into a thin line. He looked away for a moment, then back at her with an uneasy gravity. "There is… something you should know."

Suddenly, a loud horn blared outside the cottage, deep and resonant, rattling the windows and making Percy flinch in Sally's arms. A look of dismay washed over the king's face. The horn continued for a full five seconds before a booming voice followed.

"Former King Poteidas… come out of the house with your hands raised!"

Sally stiffened. Her eyes darted to the man beside her, realization dawning. "Poteidas…" she whispered, tasting his true name for the first time. The king — Poteidas — let out a weary sigh. The Atlanteans had found him at last.

"And bring out the two who are with you," the voice added, its tone colder, almost impatient.

"Just… follow my lead," Poteidas told her quietly.

Heart hammering, Sally clutched Percy tightly against her chest and followed Poteidas to the door. As they stepped outside, they were met by an imposing sight: a figure clad in ornate golden armor stood at the center, five foot soldiers flanking him, each gripping a gleaming five-pronged spear. The soldiers' helms were adorned with narrow fins that gave them a shark-like silhouette in the evening light.

"Tholcix…" Poteidas acknowledged, his hands raised in surrender. "I'll come quietly. I won't dispute this. But I beg of you… they are innocent. Let them go."

"I am afraid I cannot do that, Poteidas," Tholcix replied. His voice was calm, almost courteous, but his eyes were hard. "King Tritonius has ordered your return to Atlantis, where you will face trial. Imprisonment… or execution for abandoning your post and renouncing your throne. As for the woman and the boy—" his gaze flickered briefly to Sally and Percy— "the king has commanded they be brought back as well, to be executed. There is nothing I can do. Those are the king's orders."

Poteidas closed his eyes for a moment, exhaling a slow, resigned breath. Then he opened them again, and there was something steely in his expression. "Then… forgive me… for what I am about to do."

Tholcix tilted his head, cold amusement curling at his lips. "And what might that be, old friend?"

Poteidas extended a hand — and in an instant, Tholcix's eyes went wide with realization.

"Kill them now!" Tholcix barked, pointing to Sally and Percy.

But it was a second too late. With a sharp, metallic whistle through the air, the five-pronged spear hurtled toward Poteidas, slamming into his grasp. He leapt high, seizing it mid-flight, then crashed back down with earth-shaking force, driving the spearhead into the ground. A shockwave erupted outward in a swirling blast of water and energy, hurling Tholcix and his soldiers across the yard like ragdolls.

"Run!" Poteidas shouted, spinning to Sally, fear stark on his face.

Sally didn't hesitate. Clutching Percy tight against her chest, tears pricking at her eyes, she sprinted to the car. Behind her, she could hear the crash of weapons — Poteidas and Tholcix locked in vicious combat, spear shafts striking with bone-jarring clangs.

Her hands shook as she fumbled with Percy's booster seat. The boy, wide-eyed and frightened, looked up at her.

"Mommy, what's happening?"

"We have to go, baby. Right now."

She snapped the last buckle into place, then scrambled into the driver's seat and reversed out of the driveway with a squeal of tires. As she sped past, Poteidas was surrounded on all sides, whirling and striking desperately as soldiers closed in.

Tholcix staggered upright, armor scorched and dented. He pointed after the retreating car, voice a razor's edge. "Shoot the car!"

One of the soldiers raised his hydro-pulse rifle, blue energy building at the barrel.

"NOOOO!"

Poteidas lunged, driving his spear clean through the soldier's back. The man convulsed, the rifle discharging harmlessly into the sky before he collapsed, lifeless, at Poteidas's feet.

"Traitor!" Tholcix roared. He smashed his spear across Poteidas's face, splitting skin and sending blood flying. It hissed where it struck the wet grass. Tholcix struck again and again, each blow punctuated by raw fury.

"You put these surface-dwellers above your own kind. You killed one of us for them! You disgrace your blood — you disgrace all of Atlantis!"

Blow after blow rained down from Tholcix's spear, smashing across Poteidas's face and shoulders. Pain burst behind his eyes, warm blood flooded his mouth with a sharp, metallic tang — but none of it mattered. He'd done what he had to do. Sally and Percy were gone, tearing down the road and vanishing into the woods. In the blur of pain, the last image he caught was Sally's tear-streaked face, small and terrified in the sideview mirror.

"All you've done is buy them time," Tholcix snarled. Soldiers grabbed Poteidas's arms, forcing him to his knees. "Sooner or later… we will find them. Even if it takes years."

Poteidas lifted his head, blood dripping down his jaw. His eyes burned with fierce resolve.

"That… is enough for me."

Tholcix's face twisted. With a snarl, he drove the butt of his spear into Poteidas's mouth, snapping his head to the side.

"Get him up," Tholcix barked. "Let's take this traitor home — see how cheerful he is when murder's added to his list of crimes."

Rough hands hauled Poteidas to his feet. They marched him to the shoreline, salt spray mingling with the blood on his face. Without a word, the soldiers plunged beneath the waves, dragging him down with them until all that remained was the restless churn of the ocean.\

...

Sally should have figured. She knew he had a family back home. She should have known that at some point, they would come for him. She'd just hoped it wouldn't be so soon.

And that Tholcix guy… he'd called her a mistress, like she was some shameless side piece. Excuse her — she and Poteidas had an actual, real connection. Something raw and emotional, something only the two of them could ever understand.

She was sad she hadn't even gotten to say goodbye to… Poteidas. All these years, he'd warned her that even uttering his name might draw unwanted eyes from Atlantis. It was so… raw, almost primordial. Just saying it now left her with goosebumps. It was a name born of royalty, of oceans and kingdoms. And she hadn't even gotten to whisper it one last time.

No doubt they'd already dragged him back by now. Meanwhile, she was here — flooring it fifteen over the speed limit down Long Island, hoping Poteidas had bought her enough time to disappear. An hour passed in a blur before she finally dared to slow down, pulling into a spot outside an Arby's. She killed the engine and sat there, breathing hard, staring into the rearview mirror.

Poor Percy. Too young, too innocent to grasp any of it — her fear, the nightmare they'd just fled.

She was alone now.

Not by his choice, sure. But alone, all the same. Left to raise Percy by herself — exactly what she'd dreaded, exactly what she'd tried so hard to avoid. But she'd have to toughen up. She'd survived worse before Poteidas ever came into her life. She could raise this boy alone. She just had to believe it.

"Percy, honey… you okay?"

Little Percy nodded with an enthusiastic grin. "And… you, Mommy?"

Her heart squeezed. Even at four, he was more worried about her than himself. Such a sweet boy. Sally smiled through the ache.

"I'll be okay, sweetheart," she promised. "You know me."

She turned the key. The engine rumbled back to life.

"I always find a way."

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: Percy III

12 Years Later ...

High school was supposed to be the normal part of Percy Jackson's life. No strange mysteries, no nagging feeling that he didn't quite fit. Just classes, homework, hanging out with friends—and trying not to completely blow it with Rachel Dare.

Unfortunately, normal was hard to come by when your best friend was building a shrine to anime characters in his locker.

Percy leaned against the door, watching Grover arrange a new figurine on the top shelf. "You know, one day Rachel's going to walk by and see all this, and then I'll have to die from embarrassment. You get that, right?"

Grover didn't even look up. "Pretty sure if she's still hanging out with us after you tried to skateboard off the cafeteria roof, she's not going to be scared off by a few figurines."

"That was a dare. And it looked way less high from the ground." Percy ran a hand through his hair. "Still. I'd kind of like to have a shot with her before she realizes how completely doomed we are."

Grover finally turned, smirking. "So you are trying to date her."

Percy shrugged, trying for casual. "I don't know. Maybe. There's been some flirting...or at least I think there has. I just don't want to screw it up."

"Then stop worrying about my locker and start worrying about not tripping over your own feet when she talks to you."

Percy sighed. Grover had a point—annoyingly enough.

Grover nodded. "Yeah, okay. If it makes you feel better, I'll try to keep… all this out of sight when she's around." He waved vaguely at his locker shrine.

"It's literally the least you can do," Percy shot back — but he nudged Grover's shoulder with a grin. "Thanks, man."

Grover closed the locker with a soft clack, and they started down the hall toward the cafeteria. The smell of pizza and something vaguely burnt drifted through the corridor.

"So… how's your mom doing?" Grover asked after a beat.

Percy let out a little huff of laughter. "Why don't you ask Mr. Blofis? He'll give you the full report."

Grover snickered. "Right. Forgot your English teacher's also your mom's boyfriend now."

"Yeah, super weird. At least he does me the courtesy of not bringing it up during class discussions on Romeo and Juliet." Percy rolled his eyes. "It's the least he can do."

"You think he's a potential stepdad?"

Percy shrugged. "Maybe. They've been together, what, four years now? It is getting pretty serious. He's probably gonna propose soon."

"And you'd be okay with that?"

"Honestly? Yeah." Percy shoved his hands into his pockets. "She deserves to be happy. After… everything with my dad."

Grover's brow creased. "What exactly did happen with him?"

"I don't… actually know the full story." Percy's voice dropped, his sneakers scuffing against the floor. "Mom doesn't like talking about it. I got like, flashes of memories of him. Just little pieces. From what I've managed to figure out… maybe he was an illegal immigrant who got deported. Or something worse. I don't know."

Grover pursed his lips and scowled. "Seriously?"

Percy shrugged. "Look, all I know is my mom loved him. When I was little, she'd talk about him a lot—how handsome he was, how I got my green eyes and black hair from him. Then she said he had to go back to where he came from… or something like that. So, given everything, the best guess I have is that he was illegal and got deported."

Grover nodded slowly. "Yeah, that makes sense, I guess."

"Enough about my mom." Percy pushed open the doors to the massive cafeteria, where the hum of hundreds of students filled the air. "Let's grab some lunch."

They picked up their trays and joined Rachel Dare and Will Solace at their usual spot. Rachel was talking about her college plans, her eyes sparkling with excitement, and Percy listened, half-distracted. As she talked, his mind drifted back to his own life—everything he was, everything he wasn't quite sure about yet.

Percy didn't remember much from before he was five — just scattered bits and pieces. He had a clear image of his dad's face, though, and a memory of hopping into a car one day and moving into a cramped apartment on the Upper East Side. His mom often told him stories about his father: who he was, what he was like, the kind of man he hoped Percy would grow up to be. When Percy was younger, those stories fascinated him. They made his dad feel real, like a hero in some epic tale. But as he got older, the stories came less often. School, friends, and everything else demanded more of his attention. And his mom seemed to move on too—meeting Mr. Blofis, his English teacher at Goode High, the same school Percy now attended.

So whenever his dad's name came up, Percy felt a tangle of things: curiosity, sadness, and a little confusion about what his place was in all of it.

Throughout his life, Percy had always been a little… different. Maybe even strange. There was that one time in third grade during a school trip to the aquarium when he got caught talking to the fish. And not just making silly noises—he was actually translating what they were saying. The other kids thought it was weird. After that, they stopped talking to him altogether.

But Percy never stopped loving the water. Swimming was his thing—always had been. He wasn't on the school swim team; they didn't have enough members. Instead, he joined the regional team, where he usually ended up schooling the competition at every meet.

In short, Percy was a bit of an oddball. But he was trying to fit in. Trying to be more… normal, whatever that meant.

Meeting Rachel was easily the best day of his life. Well, the second best. The first time they'd met was on a field trip to Hoover Dam, but it wasn't until orientation at Goode High that he realized she'd be at his school too.

They were friends now, but Percy could feel something shifting—something more. Rachel had started throwing these subtle flirts his way, little smiles and glances that made his heart race. And when he flirted back, she didn't seem to mind.

Here's hoping.

"I heard Mrs. Duvall is passing out permission slips for the field trip today," Rachel said, nodding toward their history teacher.

"Oh, right—the one to see the Statue of Liberty?" Will chimed in.

Rachel grinned. "Yeah. My folks probably won't even notice I'm gone, so I could probably just forge their signatures."

Will shrugged. "I don't think my parents will have a problem with it."

Percy smiled. "I've been there already, so it shouldn't be an issue for me."

Will rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, New York native. Got it. What about you, Grover?"

Grover rubbed the back of his neck and shuffled his feet. "Um… yeah, I think I can make it."

Rachel elbowed Will lightly in the ribs, making him blush. "Oh, right… no parents."

Percy smirked. "Don't worry, Grover. I'm sure your foster parents will sign it. You just gotta trick them—tell them it's for something else and hope they don't read the fine print. Or, you know, you can go the Rachel route and just forge it."

Rachel laughed. "We'll all be there, right, Grover?"

Grover chuckled nervously. "Right…"

...

"You know it was a gift from the French, right? Do you think they just plopped it on a boat and brought it here?" Rachel asked, eyes on the towering statue.

Percy rubbed his chin, staring up at the massive green lady. "I think they brought it in pieces. We built the model here, then kind of… attached the pieces together or something. I don't really remember the details."

"I wasn't exactly paying attention during that lecture, either," Will admitted with a grin. "My mind was on other things."

Rachel smirked. "Yeah, probably on Raul."

"Hey, don't judge me," Will said, crossing his arms. "Raul's one good-looking guy."

Grover shook his head. "He's also as straight as an arrow."

Will sighed wistfully. "Yeah… So, how about we head up to the top with the rest of the class?"

Rachel glanced at Percy and Grover. "Um… you guys go on ahead. Percy and I need to talk."

"We do?" Percy asked, raising an eyebrow.

Rachel nodded.

Percy smiled and waved at Grover and Will. "You two go on ahead. We'll catch up."

"Alright," Will said, already starting to walk away with Grover.

Percy turned to Rachel, trying to steady his voice. "So… what did you want to talk about?"

Rachel glanced toward the picnic area near the garden. "Let's head over there."

They walked side by side through the quiet garden. Ahead lay the picnic tables and beyond that, Evelyn Hill. To their left was the gift shop, but Rachel kept walking, her eyes fixed on the calm bay stretching out before them. The skyline of New Jersey shimmered faintly in the distance. A peaceful silence settled between them.

Rachel finally broke the quiet, her voice soft but sure. "I'm not crazy, right? There's… something between us. You feel it too, don't you?"

Percy tried to keep a steady expression, but inside his chest was pounding like crazy. This was the moment he'd been waiting for. "…Maybe."

Rachel let out a breath she'd been holding. "I thought I was imagining things last week, when we were at my place. I made that joke about my dating life—how my last two boyfriends were total jerks—and said, 'At this point, I might as well ask you out.' And you said, 'Maybe you should.' That totally threw me off. I figured it was just playful teasing, but now…" She hesitated, then smiled shyly. "Now, I'm not so sure."

Percy rubbed the back of his neck, words catching in his throat before he finally said, "I was joking… but also not. Rachel, honestly, I've liked you for a while. I just… never had the guts to say anything."

Rachel's eyes widened in surprise. "Are you serious? You were nervous? I thought you were way out of my league."

Percy grinned, warmth spreading through him. "Looks like we've both been wrong about each other." His smile faded, and he sighed, eyes drifting back out over the bay. "I've always been… kind of self-conscious. Kids at school thought I was weird—avoided me like I had the plague."

Rachel squeezed his hand gently. "Who cares what they think? People always thought I was strange. Even my own parents. But I never let it bother me. We're all a little strange in our own way."

Percy smirked. "Yeah, but I'm not talking about normal weird—I mean talking-to-fish type of weird."

Rachel raised an eyebrow. "Wait, what?"

"I apparently did it when I was eight—on a field trip to the aquarium. Was translating what the fish were saying," Percy explained, a little embarrassed.

Rachel made a face and laughed. "You were eight. Everyone does weird stuff at that age."

"Then there's the swimming," Percy added. "They think I'm weird because I'm ridiculously good at it—like I leave everyone else in the dust type of good."

Rachel shrugged playfully. "Maybe you just have good genes."

Percy grinned. "Thanks for not judging me."

"No judgment here," Rachel said with a smile. "Like I said, we're all a little strange. So… are you gonna kiss me already, or what?"

Percy chuckled, feeling his nerves melt away. "Guess I do owe you that."

They shared a smile before Percy leaned in, pressing his lips gently to hers. Rachel melted into the kiss, her arms curling around his neck while his hand slid to her waist. His touch was warm, sending sparks through her skin, making every nerve tingle.

Just as the moment was deepening, a sharp voice cut through the silence—startling them both.

"About goddamn time," Will called out sharply as he approached, Grover trailing beside him.

"Privacy much?" Percy shot back, clearly annoyed by the interruption. "Ever heard of it?"

Will grinned. "Nope, not familiar. Anyway, the trip's almost over. We've already gone up and down while you two lovebirds were doing… whatever it is you were doing." He glanced around. "Mrs. Duvall's rounding up the students so we can catch the ferry back."

Rachel smiled. "So, how was it up there?"

Will shrugged. "Nothing special. Just a staircase all the way to the top and a decent view of the skyline."

Grover groaned. "That climb sucked."

"Because you're lazy," Will teased.

"Am not."

"Whatever you say, G-man. But seriously, Mrs. Duvall's looking for everyone. Time to head back."

"Alright, let's go," Percy said.

Rachel slipped her small hand into Percy's again, their fingers intertwining as they followed their teacher back.

...

The ferry ride back was peaceful, the low hum of the engines blending with the gentle slap of waves against the hull. Percy sat with Rachel nestled against his shoulder, her auburn hair tickling his cheek, their hands comfortably linked. Her warmth was steadying, and he found himself wishing the ride would last just a little longer.

Behind them, Grover and Will were locked in an animated debate about Dungeons and Dragons—something about whether a beholder could take down a dragon. Their voices rose and fell with playful intensity, drawing a few looks from nearby tourists.

Then a laugh cracked through the calm, sharp and mocking.

"Hey, buddy! Where'd you get the costume? You come straight from Comic-Con or what?"

Rachel lifted her head from Percy's shoulder, frowning. "Comic-Con?"

"It's like a big convention for nerd stuff—Marvel, DC, Star Wars, Star Trek," Percy explained, half distracted as he twisted to see who was shouting. "People dress up as their favorite characters."

Rachel let out a small laugh. "Who'd be crazy enough to show up here in costume?"

Footsteps thudded heavily down the ferry aisle, wet boots squelching against the metal deck. Percy turned—and felt his blood run cold.

Three figures approached, each leaving a trail of water behind them as if they'd just walked straight out of the ocean. The one in front was unmistakably armored, clad in a white, scale-like suit with thin, fin-like blades protruding from the arms and shoulders. A strange blue glow pulsed from within the helmet, which was filled with swirling water—like he was breathing it. In his hands rested a sleek, alien-looking rifle.

When he stopped directly in front of Percy, his voice came out filtered, echoing oddly inside the helmet.

"Perseus Jackson."

Percy's heart skipped. His stomach dropped as adrenaline surged through his veins. Grover and Will went silent behind him, the entire ferry seemingly holding its breath.

"I guess this is who they were referring to," Percy whispered to Rachel.

"Come with us if you want to live," the stranger leading them said.

Percy was about to stand, when Rachel held his hand. "Hey, you don't know who they are and what they want."

"Don't worry. I got this," Percy reassured with a squeeze of her hand and stood up to face them. He tried to look as intimidating as possible. Having grown to a whopping six-foot-three in twelve years helped in that matter.

He stared down the stranger. "Who the hell are you?"

"Atlanteans. You are under order from the king of Atlantis to be brought back … and tried in the court of law," the lead soldier replied.

Percy started to laugh. It burst out of him almost involuntarily — loud and incredulous. To his surprise, a few of his classmates actually joined in, snickering at the absurd spectacle.

A nearby chaperone, drawn by the commotion, pushed her way over. "Is everything alright over here—?"

She froze as the lead Atlantean swung his strange rifle toward her.

"Stand back! This does not concern you," he barked, his voice crackling through the helmet's filter.

The teacher stopped dead, eyes wide. But Percy didn't flinch. He folded his arms, a smirk tugging at his mouth. "Listen, buddy. You better turn around and crawl back to whatever freak show you just swam out of."

The soldier pivoted, aiming his weapon directly at Percy. The laughter around them died instantly. Students stiffened, horrified, some backing away.

"This is your last warning, Perseus. Come with us quietly — if you want to live."

Percy cocked an eyebrow. "Or what? You gonna zap me with your toy blaster?"

A low, mechanical hum answered him. The rifle began to glow, bright lines of energy pulsing along its sides.

"You asked for it," the stranger growled.

Percy's eyes flew wide. He ducked just as a searing bolt of light ripped past him. It slammed into the ferry's side with a deafening boom, blowing open a massive hole. Metal shrieked. Water exploded up in a frothy geyser.

Students screamed and bolted in every direction, tripping over each other to flee.

Percy didn't have time to process it — he tackled the soldier, driving his shoulder into the armored chest. But the Atlantean braced himself, twisted, and launched Percy up with terrifying strength. Percy smashed into the ceiling with a crunch before crashing back down onto the deck.

Dazed, he pushed himself up, shaking off the stars dancing at the edges of his vision. He whipped around — spotting Rachel frozen in place, eyes huge and terrified.

"Run!" Percy roared.

Rachel took the hint. She bolted from her seat, eyes wide, as Percy launched himself into a three-on-one brawl.

He might've only half-remembered the martial arts drills from when he was younger, but right now adrenaline was taking over — pure instinct driving every strike. The soldier on his left moved first, but Percy swung a fist straight into his chest. The force sent the armored man flying, blasting through the wooden railing and tearing a hole clean through the ferry's side. Seawater rushed in with a violent hiss. The second soldier tried to aim, but Percy stepped in and drove a knee into his groin. Even through the armor, it crumpled him. He wheezed and nearly dropped his weapon. Then the leader raised his rifle. A blue glow pulsed. Percy reacted on raw reflex — he flipped back just as the blast seared by, the beam slicing into the deck and exploding in a burst of splinters.

Percy landed behind the doubled-over soldier and didn't hesitate. He planted a boot on the man's back and kicked him forward like a battering ram. The soldier smashed into the leader, sending them both sprawling.

Suddenly, a loud crash erupted to Percy's right. Soldier number one was back, soaked head to toe, eyes burning behind his water-lit helmet. He slammed into Percy, wrapping him up, driving him through the deck in a shower of shattered benches.

They plummeted into the dark bay below.

Cold enveloped them, but instead of draining him, Percy felt stronger. The water felt alive around him — like it was feeding him. The soldier tightened his grip, trying to crush him. Percy gritted his teeth, drew back his fist, and then slammed it directly into the center of the man's helmet with every ounce of his strength.

CRACK.

Fractures raced across the visor. The soldier's arms went limp, bubbles exploding from the damaged helmet. Percy seized him by the neck, kicked off the ocean floor, and launched upward like a missile.

They burst out of the water, sunlight and sea spray exploding around them. Percy let go, flinging the soldier across the deck. The armored body smashed into the ferry with a bone-shaking crash, carving a new crater into the splintered floorboards.

For a brief, surreal second, Percy felt weightless, as if he were flying. Suspended high above the ferry, he looked down at the two remaining soldiers: one steadying a rifle, fingers twitching on the trigger; the other conjuring a spear from the water, the liquid twisting and hardening into cold, gleaming metal.

Then the impossible hit him—he wasn't floating or flying. He was standing on a wave.

Not just any wave, but a towering, thunderous swell nearly twenty feet tall, shifting beneath his feet like solid ground. The water rippled and pulsed, supporting him with an unyielding strength, as if obeying some command only he could give.

Holy… shit.

His mind raced, questions flooding in, but there was no time for answers now. The fight wasn't over.

With a surge of adrenaline, Percy pushed off the crest of the wave, launching himself back toward the ferry. His feet hit the deck hard, the impact echoing beneath him—but where there should have been sharp, brutal pain in his knees, there was none. He stood steady, unbroken, as if the water's power still coursed through him.

Across the deck, the three soldiers regrouped, their stances shifting from shock to determination. The standoff had resumed.

"Is this really what you want?" Percy's voice cut through the charged air, calm but razor-sharp.

The lead Atlantean's reply was cold and unyielding. "You are ordered to come to Atlantis. Our mission will be completed—by capture or by death."

A slow, confident crack of Percy's neck ensued. "You asked for it."

With a roar, Percy summoned a violent wave of water that smashed into the first soldier like a battering ram, sending him flying backward into the churning bay. The rifle slipped from his grasp, clattering onto the ferry's deck. In the blink of an eye, Percy lunged at the second Atlantean—helmet cracked, water leaking like blood—slamming him hard against the floor. Glass shattered, spraying crystal shards as seawater gushed from the helmet's breach. The soldier gasped, blue-faced, struggling for breath in the alien air. The third soldier hurled a spear of shimmering, solidified water, cutting through the air with deadly intent. Percy flipped backward, spinning under the lethal arc, fingers closing around the fallen rifle just in time.

A sharp squeeze of the trigger unleashed a brilliant pulse of ionized water—hydro-plasma searing through the air and slicing into the Atlantean's abdomen. Flesh and armor burned in a burst of steam and smoke.

The soldier's body crumpled and collapsed, lifeless, onto the ferry's deck.

Percy shakily rose to his feet, the weight of what he'd just done crashing down on him. Two people — or whatever they were — were lying motionless because of him. He didn't know if they counted as people, but it didn't make the reality any easier to swallow.

The last Atlantean, the one Percy had sent flying into the bay, now crawled onto the ferry's deck, water dripping from his armor. He struggled upright, taking in the wreckage around him and the grim truth of the situation.

Percy turned, rifle casually slung over his shoulder, his voice low and steady despite the storm raging inside him.

"You want to die, too?"

The Atlantean's eyes flickered with reluctant understanding. He exhaled, a breath heavy with defeat. "We shall return. With more people. This isn't over, Perseus Jackson. You will answer for your father's crimes."

Percy's brow furrowed. His father's crimes? What did this stranger know? Before he could ask, the Atlantean plunged back into the dark water, vanishing beneath the waves.

Percy stepped to the ferry's edge, peering down into the restless bay, his mind racing.

Behind him, the scene was one of chaos — classmates long gone in lifeboats, the ferry battered and broken, with gaping holes torn into its sides and debris scattered like fallen leaves. Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed — the police were coming.

He needed to get out of here. Fast.

But there was one person who needed to hear everything first. His mom. She had some explaining to do.

...

"I beg your pardon?"

King Tritonius rose from his throne with a commanding presence, his voice sharp as he addressed the commander bowed before him. Seated beside him, the queen wore a quiet expression of concern, her gaze fixed on the unfolding report.

"My liege," the commander began, "the boy proved far more resolute than I had foreseen. We underestimated his resolve. He slew my two strongest warriors."

Tritonius's eyes narrowed with scorn. "You are utterly disgraceful, Zolir. How could you so recklessly underestimate him? He is but a boy!"

The commander flinched under the king's thunderous rebuke but held his ground. "Forgive my candor, my liege, but he is no longer a boy. He has grown into a young man—one who has awakened certain… abilities."

The king's harsh countenance softened ever so slightly, though the frown lingered. "Abilities?"

"Yes, Your Majesty. He wields the power to command the ocean's will. His strength and agility surpass even the most seasoned among us."

Tritonius sighed heavily, a mixture of frustration and foreboding. "So, the Atlantean blood within him has finally stirred. This is precisely why I demanded his capture before such an awakening could occur." He fixed a piercing gaze on Zolir. "Yet it has taken your men twelve long years to locate him. Twelve years of failure."

"Please forgive me, my liege," Zolir pleaded.

Tritonius's gaze was cold and unyielding. "You are not forgiven, Zolir. For your grievous incompetence, you are hereby stripped of your command. You shall serve now as a mere soldier."

"My liege—"

"Is that an argument I detect, Zolir?" the king interrupted sharply.

Zolir fell silent, swallowing his protest.

"Good. Now, leave my presence at once."

The commander bowed deeply, his voice heavy with defeat. "Yes, my liege."

King Tritonius let out a weary sigh as he descended the throne steps, his queen trailing behind him. "It seems I must take matters into my own hands."

"Darling, if I may inquire… what is this obsession you harbor for the boy?"

King Tritonius's expression grew grave. "This boy is my half-brother."

"You have mentioned that before, yet I fail to understand—why not simply leave him be? What danger does he pose if left alone?"

Tritonius halted and turned to face his queen. "You know the tale of Atlan, do you not?"

She nodded solemnly. "Yes—the one who sank Atlantis beneath the waves, wielding the very trident of Poseidon, our sea god and patron."

Tritonius inclined his head. "Indeed. And as legend has it, Poseidon concealed his trident so that no mortal might wield it again. But… that is not the full truth."

A shadow of concern crossed the queen's face. "Pray, do elaborate."

Tritonius pressed his lips together before continuing. "My studies have delved deeper into the lore of Poseidon's trident. The ancient texts do not say that no mortal may wield it again, but rather… that no unworthy mortal may."

The queen's hand covered her mouth in surprise. "Are you certain this is what the texts declare?"

Tritonius nodded gravely. "I am. And the legend continues: the one deemed worthy to wield Poseidon's trident will be granted powers beyond measure—gifts from the god himself. Moreover, that chosen mortal may claim the throne of Atlantis, should he challenge for it."

"Darling… the trident's whereabouts remain unknown, even to the scriptures. Why, then, should this boy pose a threat to your throne?"

"Because it is Poseidon himself who will determine the worthiness of any claimant," Tritonius replied firmly. "The legend states that the god will guide the worthy one to the trident's hidden resting place. There, a trial awaits—one that must be passed to claim the trident. I cannot allow such a fate to befall my half-brother." His hands gripped the queen's shoulders tightly. "If I do that, I do not just merely risk losing my throne—I risk losing my power, my authority, my very dominion. That is a risk I cannot afford. Hence, he must be brought to Atlantis. My commander has proven incapable of accomplishing this task, so I must undertake it myself. I will be damned if Perseus Jackson lays a single finger on that trident."

The queen nodded solemnly, and Tritonius released his grip with a sigh of relief.

"Prepare my cavalry," he commanded. "It is time I end this myself."

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: Percy IV

"I know, honey. It's a lot to take in."

"A lot to take in?" Percy's voice cracked with disbelief. "Mom, you're telling me my dad… he's the king of Atlantis? Like, the underwater city Atlantis that's supposed to be a myth? You're goddamn right it's a lot to take in."

Sally's eyes flashed, and she shot back sharply, "Perseus Xander Jackson, you watch your mouth!"

"Sorry, Mom. It's just…" Percy ran a hand through his hair and paced toward the couch, collapsing onto it. "I mean, I had no clue. I've been so casual about everything today—I could've died."

Sally hesitated, then sat down beside him, her hand brushing his shoulder gently. "I know, Percy. I should've told you sooner. I wanted to protect you, keep our lives quiet and normal. But clearly, the Atlanteans don't want that."

Percy looked up, eyes narrowing. "Do they hold a grudge?"

Sally took a deep breath, her voice trembling. "Your father was the king of Atlantis. He had a family there… a wife and kids. When he fought that monster and came to the surface, we met. We fell in love. He left them behind to be with me."

Percy's jaw tightened.

"That lasted until you were about to turn five. Then the Atlanteans came for him. It wasn't… peaceful. I had to escape—with you. I had no choice but to leave him behind."

"So… they're mad because I'm an illegitimate child or something?" Percy muttered, bitterness curling around his words.

"There's more to it than that." Sally's eyes softened with a sadness that seemed to stretch back years. "Your father once told me that you would be a bridge between the surface world and Atlantis. That you'd grow up to do great things, to become a great man. I think the Atlanteans believe that too—and that's exactly why they may want you… out of the way. They're a very reserved people, Percy. Suspicious of outsiders. You, being both Atlantean and human, they might see as a threat."

Percy fell silent, staring down at the floor as if hoping the swirling patterns in the carpet might spell out a simpler answer.

Finally, he breathed, voice raw, "I just want a normal life. Why can't they understand that?"

Sally placed a gentle hand on his arm. "Only you can forge your path, Percy. But sometimes all the roads lead to the same place. It's up to you to decide how you'll walk it."

Before Percy could respond, a firm knock echoed through the apartment. He stiffened, glancing at his mother.

"You expecting Paul today?"

Sally's brow furrowed. "No."

Percy exhaled sharply, then stood, every muscle coiled tight. "I'll go answer."

He moved toward the door, each step feeling heavier than the last.

He opened the door to find two NYPD officers standing on the other side. The one on the left was a tall Hispanic man with stubble and watchful brown eyes. Next to him stood a burly brunette woman whose stern expression looked carved from stone.

"Hello," said the man. "Sorry to bother you, but we're looking for a Perseus Jackson. Would this happen to be his residence?"

Percy raised an eyebrow. "Who's asking?"

"I'm Officer Rodriguez, and this is my partner, Officer LaRue," he said, gesturing to his partner. "We'd like to ask Perseus Jackson a few questions. There was… an event today that he might have been involved in."

Percy let out a slow breath, then pulled the door closer to his side, blocking their view of the apartment behind him. "Well… you're looking at him." He crossed his arms. "So what exactly do you want to know, Officer?"

LaRue stepped forward, her voice clipped and hard. "Were you on a school field trip today to the Statue of Liberty?"

Percy gave a curt nod. "Yeah. I was."

"And were you aboard the ferry that was attacked on the way back to Manhattan?" she pressed.

Another nod. "I was."

Rodriguez took out a small notepad, pen tapping lightly against the paper. "And what did you do when it was attacked?"

Percy shrugged with deliberate casualness. "Got on the lifeboats with everybody else."

He tried to keep his tone light, but he could feel his pulse racing. The lie slid off his tongue easily—almost too easily. Rodriguez and LaRue exchanged a brief, telling glance.

"Oh, really?" LaRue said, her tone heavy with skepticism.

Percy didn't flinch. "Yes."

LaRue's eyes narrowed. "Are you sure you didn't stay behind? Because some of your classmates claim otherwise. They say you were still on the ferry."

"Maybe you questioned the ones who weren't on the lifeboat I was on," Percy shot back evenly.

"Or maybe," LaRue snapped, leaning in slightly, "you didn't get on a lifeboat at all."

Percy lifted his eyebrows, unfazed. "Do you have any evidence that I didn't? Other than what a bunch of scared kids said?"

Silence. Rodriguez shifted uncomfortably. LaRue's jaw tightened, but neither of them answered.

"Thought so," Percy said coolly.

Rodriguez exhaled through his nose, trying to keep it professional. "Well … thank you for your time, Perseus. I think we'll get going."

"Hold on, Chris," LaRue snapped, eyes still locked on Percy. "This doesn't sit right with me. I know for a fact he stayed behind on that ferry."

Percy raised an eyebrow. "Based on what? A gut feeling? Superstition?"

"You watch your mouth, Jackson," LaRue barked.

"You should probably put this one on a leash," Percy shot back, shifting his attention to Rodriguez.

"Excuse me?!" LaRue's face went red. "Are you asking to be arrested?"

"For what? Talking back? You gonna abuse your power now?" Percy retorted, crossing his arms.

"Clarisse, calm down, please," Rodriguez muttered, trying to defuse it.

"NO! I will not calm down! This punk stayed behind on that ferry and fought those attackers—he just won't admit it!" LaRue's voice cracked with fury.

Percy laughed outright, shaking his head. "Now you're just making baseless accusations without a shred of evidence. Do yourself a favor, save yourselves the humiliation, and get the fuck out of here."

"THAT'S ENOUGH!"

LaRue whipped out her taser, aimed high, and fired. The prongs struck Percy right in the cheek. The electricity snapped and hissed across his skin—his head jerked slightly from the force, but otherwise … nothing.

"Sir, you want to explain how you just took a police taser of fifty thousand volts directly to the face without so much as flinching?" Rodriguez demanded, eyes wide.

Percy shifted awkwardly. "Uh … I built up a resistance?"

Rodriguez pinched the bridge of his nose. "Alright. Sir, if you don't come with us to the station right now, we're calling backup—and it's gonna get ugly."

Percy let out a long sigh. The last thing he needed was to escalate this into some manhunt situation. Reluctantly, he held his wrists out. "Fine. I'll come with you."

"Hands behind your back," LaRue barked.

"No," Percy said flatly.

"Excuse me?" Her hand twitched near her belt.

"It's uncomfortable. And I'll just break them anyway. So…" He extended his wrists out front again.

Clarisse muttered something under her breath but finally slapped the cuffs on his wrists.

Just then, the apartment door opened. "Percy?" Sally called out, voice tight with worry.

Percy turned back, giving her the smallest reassuring smile. "Don't worry, Mom. I'll be fine."

And with that, the officers led him down the hall and out of sight.

...

The least the precinct could do was make the chairs comfortable. Percy shifted again in the hard metal seat, the cold edges digging into his thighs. Oddly enough, they hadn't bothered to chain his handcuffs to the table — maybe they didn't see him as much of a threat. Still, the wait was agonizing. He fought off sleep more than once, blinking hard to stay alert.

Finally, the door creaked open. A man stepped in—detective's uniform, full beard, glasses perched low on his nose. The name tag read Chase. He pulled out a chair, the legs scraping loudly on the floor, then settled in across from Percy.

"Usually, this is where I slam a folder down and give you the rundown on your rap sheet," Chase said with a dry chuckle. "But… your record's spotless. So no need."

Percy blinked, confused. What was he getting at? Trying to make small talk?

"I've got a daughter, about your age — maybe a year younger. Takes after her mother, heavy into architecture. She's aiming for Columbia, of all places. Ivy League and all that. Always had big dreams," Chase continued, voice softening. "So, needless to say, it'd break my heart to see her sitting across this desk… in that chair you're in now. You can imagine I'm not thrilled to see you here either."

Percy smirked silently. That daughter sounded like a real pain.

"Perseus—"

"I prefer Percy," he interrupted, voice cool but edged with impatience.

Chase's eyes flickered briefly, weighing the boy's confidence. "Alright, Percy. Tell me what really happened on the ferry."

Percy hesitated a moment, then shrugged, forcing calm. "We were heading back to Manhattan when… it got attacked."

Chase leaned in slightly, voice lowering but firm. "Who attacked it?"

Percy's gaze drifted away for a beat, like he was trying to piece it together himself. "I don't know. They wore some kind of armor — looked like something from a video game."

Chase nodded slowly, studying him. "And then?"

Percy's jaw tightened. "They just attacked. Maybe they were pirates. Everyone ran for the lifeboats — me included."

Chase's fingers intertwined, his eyes narrowing just a little. "That's your story."

Percy's eyes locked on Chase's. "It's the truth."

Chase stood abruptly, pacing now, hands clasped behind his back. His voice was calm but carried a hint of warning. "Your classmates say otherwise. They say you stayed behind."

Percy's posture stiffened, his voice low but steady. "Well, I didn't."

"Your classmates said so. Why would they lie?" Chase's voice cracked, rising with frustration.

Percy's gaze sharpened, voice steady but laced with quiet bitterness. "I'm unpopular. It wouldn't surprise me if they did."

Chase leaned forward, voice colder now, like pressing a sore spot. "When several of your classmates say that you stayed behind, the idea of them all lying falls apart."

Percy's eyes flicked to the detective, a sharp edge in his tone. "Did you even ask Rachel Dare?"

The room went still. Chase's face tightened. "Rachel… Dare? Daughter of Wesley Dare?"

"Yeah. She was with me on the lifeboat. She can vouch for me," Percy said, his words hanging like a challenge.

Chase let out a heavy sigh, his composure slipping.

"How many of my classmates did you even ask? Six? Seven? There were over fifty of us on that ferry," Percy continued, voice rising slightly. "You talk to a handful and then come to a conclusion? No offense, officer, but that's some really shitty police work."

Chase's face flushed—was it anger? Embarrassment? Maybe both. His hands slammed onto the table, the sound sharp in the quiet room. He opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again, defeated.

"You… may have a point," he admitted through clenched teeth. "We may have jumped to conclusions." He breathed out sharply, then gestured sharply toward the door. "Just get out of here."

Percy rose, a slow, confident smirk curling at his lips. At the door, he paused and looked back over his shoulder. "Next time you hear from me, it'll be through a lawyer."

With that, he shut the door firmly behind him, leaving an echo of defiance in the room.

"You're just gonna let him go, Frederick?" Clarisse stormed into the room, eyes blazing. "What about him shrugging off my taser?"

Frederick raised a calm eyebrow, leaning back slightly. "You fired a taser over an argument, Clarisse. That's not going to hold up in court—or here. Honestly, you're lucky he's not pressing charges." He tapped the table lightly, eyes steady. "And besides, he has a point. We jumped the gun. We need to slow down and get the facts straight." Frederick's voice hardened. "Start with Rachel Dare—the girl he mentioned. I want every single statement, faculty included. No more half measures."

He fixed his gaze on the door, fists clenched on the table. "We're gonna get to the bottom of this. One way or another."

...

The elevator doors slid open to reveal Rachel, waiting just beyond with a mix of relief and urgency in her eyes.

"Thank God, you made it out," she breathed, pulling Percy into a quick, tight hug.

Percy patted her back, trying to steady his racing thoughts. "Yeah, I'm okay."

She held him a moment longer before pulling back, her hands gripping his shoulders, searching his face. "What happened?"

Percy exhaled slowly, the weight of everything pressing down. "Honestly… I'm not entirely sure. And what I do know is so crazy, you probably wouldn't believe me."

Rachel's eyes sparkled with a mix of curiosity and disbelief. "Hit me."

For the next five minutes, Percy unraveled everything—the attack, the mysterious armored figures, the struggle, the police interrogation. Rachel's wide eyes never left his face.

"Told you," Percy said with a half-smile.

Rachel shook her head, still processing. "Wow. That is… something."

He ran a hand through his hair. "And the precinct? They didn't even ask everyone. They just grilled a handful of classmates who claimed I stayed behind."

Rachel's lips tightened. "I bet that bitch Mandy was one of them."

Percy's expression darkened slightly. "By the way, the police might come by to ask you some questions later."

Rachel's gaze hardened with determination. "Don't worry, Percy. I've got your back. To everyone, you were right there with me on that lifeboat." She smiled, a fierce glint in her eyes. "And Grover and Will? They'll stick to the story, too."

Percy let out a breath of relief. "Thanks."

Rachel smiled softly and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him close. She closed the distance and pressed a small, reassuring kiss to his lips.

When she pulled away, she headed toward the kitchen, Percy following behind.

"So," Rachel began, leaning against the counter, "your dad being Atlantean… does that mean you're Atlantean, too?"

Percy shrugged, running a hand through his hair. "I guess. I mean… I think my powers kicked in while I was fighting those guys. Suddenly, I just got stronger, faster, more agile. I even controlled the ocean at one point."

Rachel nodded thoughtfully. "I believe the term for that is hydrokinesis."

Percy absorbed the word like a puzzle piece fitting into place.

"Do you think they'll come for you again?" Rachel asked, concern flickering in her eyes.

Percy sighed, lowering himself onto a barstool. "Hard to say. But… maybe. The guy that escaped said this wasn't over. I'm getting dragged into something I don't want any part of. Like, okay—the former king had an affair with my mom. But he's a former king. Doesn't rule anymore. So what reason do the Atlanteans have for coming after me?"

Rachel tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Yeah… but maybe there's more to it than that. Or maybe they just want to send a message."

Percy grumbled, resting his head on the cool kitchen island. "This is bullshit."

Rachel moved to his side and gently rubbed his back, her voice steady and warm. "You'll pull through. I believe in you."

Percy tilted his head up to her chest as she ran her fingers through his hair. "Thanks."

...

That night, Percy's sleep was unsettled. Unlike before, this time he was visited—not by a person at his door, but by a presence in his dreams.

He found himself standing on the edge of a jagged cliff, the ground beneath him rough and uneven. Below stretched the vast Atlantic Ocean, a restless expanse of dark, churning water that met the horizon in a cold, gray line. The sky above was heavy with low-hanging clouds, their edges blurred by a fine, salty mist that hung thick in the air. The wind was sharp and biting, carrying the scent of brine and pine from the rugged coastal forests that clung to the cliffs nearby. With each gust, droplets of sea spray mingled with the cool air, coating Percy's face like a soft, cold kiss. The rocks beneath his boots were slick with moisture, and distant gulls cried mournfully, their calls swallowed by the endless roar of crashing waves far below.

This was no place in New York. This was the wild Atlantic coast—remote, raw, untouched. Somewhere like Maine, Percy thought, though it felt ancient, like a place out of time.

Why was he here? The question echoed in his mind, unanswered—until the sound of footsteps reached him over the wind.

A figure approached—tall, broad-shouldered, his presence commanding yet calm. His beard was long and flowing, salt and sea foam white, framing a face weathered by centuries but sharp with an ageless wisdom. His eyes were deep pools of sea green, reflecting storms and calm alike, and in their depths, Percy felt the weight of the ocean itself.

"It's peaceful, isn't it?" the stranger said, his voice low and steady, like the deep tides.

Percy swallowed, his heart pounding. The power radiating from this man was undeniable—something ancient, divine. An instinct told him to kneel, but he stood rooted, caught between awe and disbelief.

Sea green eyes. Like his own.

"Dad?" Percy whispered, hope and uncertainty mixing in his voice.

The man chuckled, a sound like distant thunder rolling over waves. "No, not quite. Though your father was a descendant of mine."

Percy's eyes widened. The truth settled over him like the sea mist—this was no ordinary man.

"Poseidon."

"That's correct," the god of the sea confirmed, his gaze steady and unyielding.

"Um… wow. I wasn't exactly expecting this," Percy admitted, still trying to process the surreal moment.

Poseidon's expression held a faint, knowing smile. "Not quite the reaction I had hoped for. But then again, I suppose it's understandable. You are only just beginning to grasp your Atlantean heritage."

Percy grimaced and turned his gaze back toward the restless ocean. "Yeah… the Atlanteans."

Poseidon's lips curled into a subtle smirk. "I take it your encounters with them have not been entirely… amicable?"

"Let's just say they tried to kill me," Percy replied sarcastically. "They suck."

The god's gaze softened, though his tone remained measured. "Forgive them. Not all share such hostility. I am their patron deity, you see. Atlantis's first great ruler, Atlan, was a descendant of mine, as were every king who followed through the ages—including your father, and now, you."

He paused, eyes flickering with ancient pride and sorrow. "I know the Atlanteans well—their pride, their territorial nature, their reserve. It is, perhaps, their greatest flaw. Since the cataclysm that submerged Atlantis beneath the waves, they have grown deeply wary of outsiders. The surface world is a source of suspicion and fear."

Poseidon's gaze hardened slightly. "Your father defied that tradition. Not only did he place his trust in a surface-dweller… he also loved one."

"My mom," Percy said quietly, a shadow crossing his features.

Poseidon nodded solemnly. "Your father was gravely wounded in battle. It was your mother who found him and tended to his wounds, nursing him back to health. They spent many years together in that fragile peace. During that time, Poteidas's other son, Tritonius, seized the throne."

Percy blinked in realization. "Wait… so Tritonius is my—"

"Half-brother," Poseidon confirmed, voice steady as the tide.

Percy turned to Poseidon, his brow furrowed. "So my half-brother… he's the one who sent those guys after me?"

Poseidon's gaze was steady. "Yes."

"But… if he holds the throne, why come after me? Why not leave me alone?"

"Because Tritonius is consumed by paranoia," Poseidon explained, his voice low and resolute. "Since claiming the throne, he has become obsessed with securing it for life. He will tolerate no threats, and none shall live to challenge him. His ruthlessness began when he hunted down your father and forcibly took him back to Atlantis. And then…"

Percy's frown deepened. "And then what?"

"He had your father executed," Poseidon said solemnly. "Poteidas betrayed his own people to help your mother escape with you. That act only solidified Tritonius's hatred—and his justification for such cruelty."

Percy's mind reeled as the weight of the revelation settled. His father—dead, because he dared to love a surface-dweller, and because he tried to save his son. A lump rose in Percy's throat. He barely knew the man, yet the injustice carved a hollow ache inside him. All he'd ever wanted was a normal life, away from gods and kings and deadly politics.

"Just tell him I don't want the throne," Percy said quietly, almost pleading.

Poseidon's lips curved into a sad smile. "If only it were that simple. I cannot intervene directly. My presence here, in your dreams, is limited—and it is not merely to speak of your father or Tritonius. There is a far greater reason Tritonius wants you dead. A truth more urgent. That is the real reason you must beware."

"What's the other reason?" Percy asked, his voice tense with curiosity.

Poseidon's eyes darkened. "I presume you do not know much about Atlantis's deeper history?"

Percy shook his head. "I'm just now learning I'm Atlantean at all. So… no."

A faint, wry smirk crossed Poseidon's lips before it faded into seriousness. "Atlan was the Atlantean who sank Atlantis beneath the waves long ago. He wielded my trident — a weapon I only bestow upon those who prove themselves worthy. Atlan earned that right, for he was a champion of great valor and goodwill. But my trident is a double-edged gift. Should it fall into unworthy hands, it can corrupt even the noblest of souls."

Poseidon's gaze drifted toward the endless ocean beyond the dreamscape. "Atlan's heart was hardened by betrayal—his own family turned against him, and he was cast out from the throne for seeking to expand Atlantis's reach beyond its borders. What should have been a beacon of hope became a source of ruin."

Percy listened, rapt.

"Atlan sought refuge with an alchemist he trusted, one who nursed him back from grave wounds and forged seven mythical golden weapons to aid his mission to reclaim his throne. But greed and darkness twisted that trust. Atlan killed the alchemist in cold blood to avoid paying the price for those weapons. That was when I knew — the corruption had taken root."

Percy's face tightened with a grimace. "That's… terrible."

Poseidon gave a slow, deliberate nod.

"Indeed. When Atlan used my trident to sink Atlantis, I recovered both his body and my trident, separating them and hiding the weapon in a place beneath the ocean so discreet that no mortal has found it since. Since that day, I have been exceedingly selective about who is worthy to wield it. And none have met that standard."

He turned his penetrating sea-green eyes directly to Percy. "Until now."

Percy's eyes widened, a mix of disbelief and awe flickering across his face. "Um… you mean… me?"

Poseidon's smile was calm, yet carried the weight of centuries. "Yes."

Words caught in Percy's throat. "Uh—I—no—sorry, that can't be right, Poseidon. I'm just some... regular guy. Not even full Atlantean."

The god's gaze softened, filled with a rare warmth. "I foresee a great future for you, Perseus. Your being half-Atlantean is part of why I deem you worthy—the other part is your humanity. You carry all the best qualities of humankind within you: compassion, loyalty, and even mercy toward your enemies."

Percy pursed his lips, uncertain. "It's more like I gave him a choice."

Poseidon's smile deepened with quiet approval. "Many Atlanteans, in your position, would have slain their foes without hesitation. But you— you showed empathy, kindness, and a good heart. Those are the traits I seek in a champion."

Percy shifted uncomfortably. "Look… it's an honor, but I can't accept it. I'm just a kid. Honestly, I don't want to get involved in all this. I just want a normal life. Isn't that possible?"

Poseidon's lips curved with a hint of amusement. "Well... if that is truly how you feel, then I cannot force you." He paused briefly. "But… I should say, my trident would've been quite useful when your half-brother—the king of Atlantis—comes after you himself," Poseidon said, amusement flickering in his voice, as if casually dropping a bombshell.

Percy's face fell. "What?"

Poseidon started to turn away. "I'll see you soon, Perseus."

"Wait—what do you mean by that?!" Percy shouted.

He tried to run, but the dream shifted—his feet suddenly rooted to the ground, tendrils of grass curling tightly around his ankles. Helpless, he watched as Poseidon strode to the cliff's edge and dissolved into mist.

"Wait! I change my mind!"

...

Percy sat upright in bed, eyes wide and chest heaving as he panted. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead as he took in his surroundings. He was back in his bedroom—the small two-bedroom apartment he shared with his mom. Posters of Derek Jeter and the New York Knicks plastered the walls, a reminder of simpler passions. Across the room, his study doubled as a gaming setup, complete with a monitor and desktop. Saving all that birthday money through the years had finally paid off.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, walking to the window. Outside, the streets of the Upper East Side buzzed with life—cars threading through traffic, people flooding the sidewalks. In the distance, Central Park stretched green and calm, dotted with trees, benches, and park-goers savoring the cool April morning.

No sign of any Atlantean attack. Yet.

Percy sank back onto the bed with a heavy sigh. Had he just made a mistake by turning down the trident? Would Poseidon really just hand it over to him? It all seemed too easy. Or maybe the god had known he'd refuse, and that was why he'd dropped the bomb about the king of Atlantis coming for him, like it was no big deal. Maybe Poseidon wanted him on edge, paranoid enough to stay alert.

So many questions buzzed in his mind—questions that would remain unanswered. But one thing was clear.

His half-brother was coming. Sooner or later.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5: Percy V

Just as promised, Rachel backed him up when the police came to question her. For the time being, that meant the NYPD were off his back, tied up with investigating the strange attack on the ferry.

But Percy couldn't shake the weight in his chest. In class, he was a wreck — barely registering the teachers droning on at the front. His eyes kept darting to the door, waiting for it to burst open, for armored strangers to come storming in. Part of him almost wished it would happen, just to end the waiting.

Eventually, he couldn't take it anymore.

"Rachel, do you think we could borrow your dad's boat?" he blurted out one afternoon, catching her by her locker.

Rachel paused mid-swing, a stack of books in her hands. "You want to borrow my dad's boat? For what?"

"It's … kind of hard to explain."

Rachel arched an eyebrow. "I'm all ears."

So he told her — about the dream, the cliff in Maine, the conversation with Poseidon, the looming threat from Atlantis. About how every day since, he felt a tug inside him, like a compass needle trembling, insisting he needed to go east.

"All I need is for you to take me out far enough. A drop-off point. After that, I go under and handle the rest."

Rachel looked at him like he'd grown a second head. "And how exactly do you know where you're supposed to go? Are you carrying a magical GPS now?"

"It's more like … a feeling. A radar, I guess. It's pulling me. I just know it's somewhere out there in the Atlantic. I can't really explain it better than that."

Rachel let out a long sigh. "That's a big ask, Percy. Getting my dad's boat keys isn't exactly easy."

"I know. And I'll owe you — big time," Percy said.

She studied him for a second, then finally nodded. "Alright. I'll see what I can do. Once I get the keys, I'll text you the marina address."

Percy grinned and pulled her into a hug. "Thanks."

Rachel smirked against his shoulder. "You'd better come back with that thing. Otherwise this'll all be for nothing — and I'll have to kick your ass."

"Oh, I believe it," Percy said, pulling back with a half-laugh.

...

"Keep the change," Percy told his cab driver as he handed over the bills. The driver gave a curt nod and pulled away from the curb, tires humming over the dark street.

It was nearly 11 PM. Percy was supposed to be asleep in bed, but he'd done what every teenager was practically born to do — sneak out. At least in New York, he didn't have to rely on anyone for a ride; the subway or a cab could get him anywhere he needed.

Down at the marina, standing on one of the piers, was Rachel. Under the glow of the dock lights, her fiery red hair seemed almost luminous. She gave him a grin as he walked up to the modest-looking deck boat.

"I thought it'd be bigger," Percy teased.

Rachel snorted. "My dad's rich, but he's not Elon Musk rich. Get in."

The boat cut through the water, heading out into the Atlantic. Percy stood at the bow, closing his eyes as the salt breeze whipped across his face. He focused on that strange pull inside him — like a compass needle lodged in his chest — guiding him east.

For about forty-five minutes, Rachel steered them steadily in that direction. Eventually, Percy felt the sensation start to settle, like something inside him easing into place.

He walked back to the helm. "Slow down. We're getting close."

Rachel nodded and eased the boat down to a slow crawl. Percy stood near the rail, feeling for the moment the pull would vanish completely.

Then he raised his hand. "Right here."

The internal tug stopped. This was the spot. From here on out, it was all up to him — and whatever waited beneath the waves.

He faced her. "So … this is where I continue my search underwater." He paused. "If for whatever reason, I don't come back … tell my mom?"

Rachel raised her eyebrows amusedly. "You better come back. I'm not explaining that shit to your mom."

Percy chuckled. "Alright. I'll see you soon, then."

After a brief parting kiss, Percy hopped off the boat and went underwater. It was the first time underwater since his brief moment during the ferry attack. What he hadn't noticed was how perfectly fine he was breathing underwater. He inhaled and found it to be just like he was breathing normal air.

Above, Rachel's boat executed a tight U-turn and sped off, her wake rippling out in silvery lines.

He was alone now.

Percy closed his eyes, centering himself on that internal tug. It flared to life immediately, guiding him down. He kicked his legs and began his descent.

As he swam deeper, schools of bright fish darted aside, giving him a clear path like he was royalty passing through their court. Even sharks veered off rather than come close. Once, a massive humpback whale coasted by, close enough that Percy could have reached out and touched its barnacled skin.

Still deeper he went, drawn toward the yawning dark below. His internal compass urged him toward a network of shadowy trenches. It was pitch black — the kind of darkness so complete he couldn't see his own hand in front of his face. Every instinct told him to be afraid, but he kept going, trusting that same pull.

If the sharks had cleared a path, maybe everything else would too.

…Hopefully.

He did wish he'd thought to bring a waterproof flashlight. But even blind, he pushed onward, sinking deeper into the abyss, hoping the next step on this path would reveal itself before too long.

Percy was starting to regret doing this at night. Sure, it made sneaking out easier — no awkward explanations to his mom. But he hadn't considered just how terrifyingly dark the ocean could be once the sun was gone.

Down here, the blackness seemed endless. It wrapped around him like a living thing, pressing closer the deeper he went. After about fifteen minutes of swimming through that oppressive void, Percy found his breath starting to hitch. His chest rose and fell faster, each inhale sounding too loud in the eerie silence. Panic nipped at the edges of his mind.

Maybe I should turn back, he thought, already glancing over his shoulder. But before he could act on that impulse, a faint glow appeared ahead.

Percy squinted. A small light floated in the distance, bobbing gently. For a split second, hope sparked in him — until it drew close enough to reveal a gaping jaw lined with needle teeth. The glow was an esca, dangling from the forehead of a deep-sea anglerfish.

The creature should've been horrifying, but instead it hovered before Percy almost placidly, its body giving a slight ripple, as if beckoning him onward.

Percy stared. "Uh … okay then." He shrugged, pushing off after it. Stranger things had already happened this week.

They descended even further. By now he had to be thousands of feet below the surface, well into depths that would crush any ordinary human. But aside from a dull throb behind his eyes, Percy felt surprisingly fine. Maybe a little tightness in his skull — like the ocean was squeezing him just to remind him who was in charge — but nothing more.

Guess there's at least one perk to being half-Atlantean, he thought, following the soft glow deeper into the abyss.

By now, Percy had reached sea levels that would crush a normal human being. But Percy didn't feel much pain. Maybe a small headache, but otherwise, the pressure wasn't affecting him much.

Eventually, the anglerfish led him to a cave that was hidden deep under. The water around Percy was nearly black, the only light a faint, wavering glow from the anglerfish ahead. His heartbeat echoed in his ears, mingling with the steady pulse of his internal radar—a faint thrum that drew him onward, deeper into the abyss.

The anglerfish led him to the cavern's mouth, a gaping maw in the ocean floor that seemed to swallow all light. Percy's radar blipped urgently, like a beacon calling him home.

Then— thud! He collided with something vast and unyielding. He scrambled backwards, heart pounding, but before he could react further … something snapped open.

An eye.

A monstrous eye opened, an eye the size of a ship's wheel. Its iris swirled with strange, glowing patterns, dark and fathomless. Percy stared up, frozen, the raw terror flooding his senses.

Percy barely had time to react before the massive sea monster shifted beneath him, water swirling as its enormous limbs unfurled.

Glowing patterns pulsed along its thick, sinuous arms and mantle, the bioluminescence illuminating the cavern in eerie blues and greens. The creature looked like a colossal cephalopod — a giant octopus or squid of some kind, its skin shimmering with shifting colors like a living storm.

Then came the roar — a terrifying, ear-piercing bellow that seemed to shake the very ocean around him. The sound was raw power, a force that he didn't know it, but it had sent his father spiraling when he fought it. Percy's scream tore from his throat, his hands flying to his ears as a burning agony exploded within them.

Pain stabbed behind his eyes, making the world spin. He struggled to keep himself afloat, but the roar echoed in his skull, threatening to tear him apart.

Percy's pulse was thunder in his ears as the monstrous eye fixed on him, the swirling bioluminescence casting grotesque shadows across the cavern walls. The creature shifted, and a titanic tentacle uncoiled, cutting through the water toward him with terrifying speed.

He darted sideways, muscles burning, the tentacle just grazing past his shoulder with enough force to make the water around him shudder. He twisted, kicking hard, trying to keep moving, heart hammering in his throat. Another massive limb lunged at him — he spun under it, the dark shape blurring overhead.

For a heartbeat, he thought he was keeping ahead of it. He ducked one swipe, then another, zigzagging in the water. But it was playing with him. Learning. Adjusting.

The next strike clipped him full across the back. Percy was hurled through the water like a ragdoll, tumbling end over end until he smashed into a jagged rock outcropping. Bubbles exploded around him as he choked on the cold rush of seawater. His vision swam, but instinct took over — he pushed off, adrenaline flooding his veins, swimming for the cavern's exit.

He almost made it.

A sudden iron grip closed around his ankle. The world blurred as he was yanked backwards, the force nearly tearing his leg from its socket. He slammed into the cavern floor, silt billowing around him in choking clouds. Before he could react, another tentacle wrapped around his torso, squeezing the air from his lungs.

No. No!

Percy clawed at it, pried desperately at the slick, unyielding flesh. When that failed, he threw his hand forward and blasted a concentrated stream of water right into its good eye. The creature flinched, spasming, and the limb loosened just enough for him to slip free.

He shot upward, flipping through the water, heart racing. The beast lunged after him — and this time he met it head-on. With a desperate flick of his hands, he summoned another spiraling jet of water that slammed into its enormous eye. The creature recoiled, thrashing wildly, the cavern shaking with its fury.

Percy didn't stop to marvel. He twisted around another searching tentacle, pulling himself along the rocky walls, weaving through stone pillars that cracked under the monster's frustrated strikes. Each close pass sent shockwaves through the water, rattling his bones. He was fighting on pure reflex, ducking under a crushing limb here, shoving off another there, water blasting from his hands to buy precious feet of distance.

It wasn't enough.

Percy spotted a narrow gap between two boulders and surged towards it. Just a little farther—he could almost taste the colder current beyond, the promise of open sea. He poured everything into his kick, streamlined his arms—

—and screamed as a tentacle lashed around his leg again, jerking him back with monstrous force.

Before he could even gasp, the Kraken whipped him around like a toy and slammed him into the cavern wall. Pain exploded through his ribs. Another tentacle caught him mid-spin and smashed him into the floor. Rocks shattered beneath him. His vision fractured into starbursts of black and red.

He tried to move — just lift a hand — but his body refused. The last thing he saw was the creature's vast shape looming above, its glowing patterns swirling like malevolent eyes in the darkness. Then everything went mercifully dark.

…

When Percy's eyes fluttered open, he was no longer surrounded by crushing water or the oppressive dark of the trench. Instead, he was back at the cliff in Maine. The wind howled around him, salty and sharp, tugging at his hair. Before him lay the endless Atlantic, crashing against jagged rocks below. And there, standing at the cliff's edge with his back turned, was Poseidon.

The god spoke without looking. "You've returned." His voice was as deep and old as the ocean floor.

Percy approached him, his heart pounding with anger and fear. "You knew what was waiting for me down there," he rasped. "You knew, and you didn't warn me!"

Poseidon didn't flinch. He simply regarded the horizon. "I did."

Percy's fists clenched so tight they shook. "Why? You just sent me down there to die?"

Slowly, Poseidon turned to face him. His sea-green eyes held a weight Percy couldn't begin to fathom. "Those worthy of the trident must prove they have the heart and the might of a warrior. I chose you because your heart was already proven. Now … you must prove your strength in combat."

Percy's shoulders sagged. The fight went out of him all at once. His breath hitched, his vision blurred. He sank to his knees, the stone biting into him, a few tears rolling down his eyes. "I can't beat it. I've tried everything — dodging, fighting, running. It's too strong. I'm not enough."

Poseidon's expression softened, the barest crack in the divine. He crouched in front of Percy, close enough that Percy could feel the warmth radiating from him — like sunlight on salt water. A large hand settled on Percy's shoulder. "I did not choose you because I expected ease. I chose you because even beaten and afraid, you would still find a way."

Percy let out a broken laugh, wiping furiously at his eyes. "I don't see a way. I just… I don't want to die. Not here. Not like this."

Poseidon squeezed his shoulder gently. "Then listen well, Perseus. That beast, it does have a weakness. Its hide is too thick to shatter from outside. You can knock it around, dazing it, sure. But you will not defeat it that way. You need to look closer. Strategize. If you cannot break it from the outside…"

Percy drew a shuddering breath. His pulse roared in his ears. And then slowly, his eyes widened, the realization striking like lightning.

He had to break it from inside.

Poseidon's mouth curved into the faintest smile. "That's it. You realize it, don't you? You know what you have to do?"

Percy swiped at his face again, chest heaving, then pushed himself to stand. His knees still shook, but there was a fierceness in his eyes that hadn't been there before. "I'd like to go back now."

Poseidon nodded, pride and something almost like tenderness in his ancient gaze. "Then go. And remember — fear is natural. But courage… that is what you choose in spite of it."

And with that, the vision faded away, the cliffs disappearing into mist.

…

Percy's eyes shot open. Cold, crushing water surrounded him — but the fear that had once paralyzed him was gone. He sucked in a lungful of water and felt it transform into oxygen, his Atlantean blood roaring through his veins. Every muscle trembled as he forced himself upright in the gloom.

The sea monster — that enormous, bioluminescent horror — had been drifting lazily through the cavern, but its huge eye caught the sudden movement. It snapped around with alarming speed, the glow along its tentacles flaring in pulses of hungry blue.

Percy clenched his fists. No more running.

With a cry that was half-roar, half-bubble, he propelled himself forward in a streak of white water, aiming straight for the monster's eye. It swiped at him with a tentacle the width of a tree trunk, but Percy twisted just beneath it, feeling the brush of its rough suckers scrape his back. He drove a solid punch directly into the eye.

The Kraken let out an ear-splitting roar that tore through the water and rattled Percy's skull. A second tentacle came from above, smashing him down into the rocky cavern floor so hard he saw a burst of white stars.

But Percy gritted his teeth, pushed off the ground, and spun with the current, whipping around to blast a concentrated stream of pressurized water directly into the creature's gills. The monster convulsed, tentacles curling inward. Percy darted forward, slamming both fists into the same tender spot.

He tried to dodge the counterstrike, but a thick tentacle caught him across the chest, sending him pinwheeling backward through the water. He hit the cavern wall so hard the stone cracked. Agony lanced up his ribs.

Keep moving.

Percy shot low, weaving through the writhing mass of limbs, striking wherever he saw bioluminescence flicker — hoping that meant softer tissue. His blows were wild, desperate, but he began to notice the monster reacting slower, a little more sluggish.

I'm dazing it. Just a little more.

Another tentacle lashed out and wrapped around his waist. Percy blasted a jet of water straight at it, forcing it to release him. He surged upward, slammed his palms together, and sent a concussive blast of water crashing into the creature's bulbous head. The Kraken reeled, its lights sputtering wildly.

He was tiring. Each movement felt heavier, his lungs burning despite his ability to breathe underwater. His head swam with exhaustion. But he had managed to stagger the Kraken through sheer will and determination.

Percy floated there, chest heaving, staring up at the dazed monster. It wavered in the water, its giant eye blinking erratically, bioluminescence flickering in dull, confused pulses.

Then the Kraken opened its maw, stretching impossibly wide. A deep rumble built up in its throat — that terrible, ear-piercing roar that had nearly ruptured him before.

Percy didn't give it the chance.

With a savage cry, he shot forward like a torpedo, water exploding behind him. He drove himself straight into the Kraken's gaping mouth, through the slick, muscular tunnel of its throat, deeper and deeper until the fleshy walls constricted around him. Then, with every ounce of strength left in him, he thrust himself further, determined to kill this beast.

He burst right through the top of the Kraken's skull in an eruption of dark blood and glowing tissue, rocketing out into the cavern. Below him, the sea monster gave a convulsive shudder. Its eye rolled back, mouth hanging open in a grotesque, silent gasp.

Slowly, almost gracefully, it collapsed, slamming into the cavern floor with a thunderous impact that sent cracks spiderwebbing through the rock. A cloud of silt and gore mushroomed up around it.

Percy hovered there, panting, his arms hanging limply at his sides. He stared down at the unmoving leviathan, eyes wide with shock.

He couldn't believe it.

He'd actually killed it.

After a moment of stunned silence, Percy tore his eyes from the fallen Kraken. His heart still thundered in his chest, every muscle trembling with spent adrenaline. He exhaled a shaky breath, then forced himself to move.

He swam past the massive corpse, careful not to look too long at the torn wound in its skull or the faint, dying glow still pulsing beneath its skin. The cavern floor sloped downward, guiding him to what felt like the true purpose of this underwater graveyard.

At the far edge of the cavern, a strange rock formation jutted from the seafloor like a pedestal. Above it, embedded into the cavern wall, was a massive stone door—ancient, worn smooth by currents over untold centuries, yet still clearly crafted. Strange, swirling symbols ran along its edges, glowing faintly with an otherworldly blue light.

Percy's gaze dropped to the top of the pedestal. There, a flat rocky pad waited, slightly concave as if shaped to fit a hand. Some instinct inside him—maybe the same sense that had guided him here—told him exactly what to do.

He floated closer, extended a trembling hand, and pressed his palm against the stone.

At once, warmth surged through his body, the stone lighting up beneath his fingers. The symbols along the door flared to life, cascading outward like veins of liquid light. With a deep, grinding rumble that sent vibrations through Percy's chest, the ancient door began to roll aside, disappearing into the rock with surprising smoothness.

Beyond it, a long, dark passage beckoned—vast and silent, like the throat of some sleeping titan. Strange crystal lanterns flickered to life one by one, stretching off into the distance and illuminating the intricate carvings along the walls. It felt almost like a temple. Or a tomb.

Percy passed through the threshold and found himself emerging from water into open air—though impossibly, no liquid spilled through. It was as if an invisible barrier held the sea at bay. The air inside was cool, dry, and carried a faint briny tang.

He stood on smooth stone, looking around in awe. It was a temple, that much was clear—vast columns rose up on either side, carved with swirling motifs of waves and sea creatures. Statues lined the pathway ahead, each one depicting a regal figure wielding a trident. Their marble eyes seemed to follow him as he moved, solemn guardians of this ancient hall.

Percy walked slowly down the path, heart still racing from the battle outside but now overtaken by a sense of wonder. The carvings on the walls showed great undersea battles, monstrous leviathans, and at the center of it all, a towering figure crowned with coral and holding a mighty trident. Poseidon.

He wondered—was this temple once part of Atlantis, before it sank beneath the waves? Had it been built by Atlantean hands to honor the sea god, their patron?

Each step echoed through the silent chamber as he continued forward, drawn deeper into its mysteries.

At the end of the hall, the floor rose into a grand staircase that led to a raised platform, where an ornate stone casket rested.

Heart hammering, Percy climbed the steps. Each footfall echoed in the stillness, as if disturbing a sacred slumber. He paused at the casket, his hand hovering over the edge. Then, swallowing his nerves, he pushed the heavy lid aside.

Inside, nestled atop a bed of ancient, brittle hay, lay a golden three-pronged trident. It almost seemed to glow from within, humming with an energy that Percy felt resonate deep in his bones. His breath caught. He had found it. The weapon of legends, radiating with a power that promised both salvation—and unimaginable responsibility.

Poseidon's trident.

Percy stared at the trident for a breathless moment. Its golden surface practically shimmered under the temple's ghostly light, humming with a life of its own. Every instinct told him to be careful—this wasn't some trophy. It was ancient. It was alive.

Still, he reached out and wrapped his fingers around the polished haft.

The moment his skin made contact, power surged through him like a tidal wave. His knees nearly buckled as a thousand images exploded behind his eyes.

He saw Atlan, clad in brilliant Atlantean armor, standing on the cliffs of his own doomed city, driving the trident into the ground. An impossible shockwave shattered towers and streets alike. Waters rose like claws and swallowed Atlantis whole, dragging its splendor into the abyss.

Another vision overtook it: the god of the sea himself—Poseidon, vast and terrible, wielding the trident as if it were an extension of his very soul. He hurled it with a roar at a colossal figure wreathed in fire and molten rock. The trident struck true, exploding into blinding light, driving the towering Titan back into the churning ocean depths.

More visions raced by—wars beneath the waves, monsters cracking under the weight of divine power, entire armadas splintering on the rocks.

Then, abruptly, the visions ceased. Percy stood there gasping, his chest heaving. He realized he was gripping the trident so tightly his knuckles were bone white.

But something inside him had changed. The trident felt natural in his hand, almost familiar, like it had been waiting for him all along. Its power thrummed under his skin, mingling with his own, whispering of the ocean's depths, of storms that could shatter continents.

A new voice sliced through the hush of the temple.

"Thanks for doing all the hard work," it drawled, smooth and cold. "But that trident belongs to me."

Percy spun around, heart lurching.

A figure stood at the base of the staircase, clad in ornate armor that shimmered like polished abalone shell. His hair was long and dark, his eyes an unsettling shade of sea-glass green, glittering with cruel amusement. Behind him, arrayed in disciplined rows that stretched back into the shadowy temple hall, was an entire host of warriors. Atlanteans by the look of them—though their armor was darker, sleeker, almost predatory.

Percy tightened his grip on the trident, forcing down the spike of panic that clawed up his throat. "Who are you?" he demanded.

The figure smiled—a lazy, condescending tilt of his lips. "I am Tritonius. Your half-brother."

Dread coiled in Percy's gut like a nest of eels.

Tritonius climbed the steps with deliberate slowness, his armor whispering against itself, his gaze never leaving Percy. He began to circle him, like a shark tasting blood in the water.

"We share the same father, you know," Tritonius said, voice soft, almost casual—but dripping with venom. "Though I suppose you might not have known what happened to him."

Percy tensed, his pulse thudding in his ears. Tritonius leaned in, eyes narrowing.

"He's dead. Executed. For killing an Atlantean... all in some foolish attempt to save you. And your surface-dwelling mother." He practically spat the word, as if it were filth on his tongue.

Tritonius let out a hollow, humorless laugh. "Imagine growing up without a father. Because he abandoned Atlantis—abandoned me—for a mortal woman. A pathetic, fragile little creature who couldn't even breathe beneath the waves."

His expression twisted, jaw tightening. "And then, to come into power far too young. To be forced to lead armies, balance treacherous courts, shoulder the expectations of an empire—all while knowing my father died for you. That he chose your worthless half-blood life over his duty, over me."

He stepped even closer, their faces inches apart, voice dropping to a growl.

"So I made a vow when I took the throne. That I would find you, wherever you were hiding on this miserable planet, and make you pay for everything you cost me."

Tritonius gestured sharply behind him, to the ranks of soldiers that filled the temple corridor, silent and unblinking. "When you slaughtered those Atlantean scouts on the ferry, you revealed yourself. It was only a matter of tracking you from there—because of course Poseidon would mark you, make you his champion."

"Poseidon is mistaken. Only a king may wield the trident of the sea god. And you… you are no king," he continued.

He held out his hand, palm up, expectant. "So hand it over. Now."

Percy tightened his grip on the trident, feeling its power pulsing up his arm like a second heartbeat. He met Tritonius' glare without flinching, though his own anger trembled just beneath the surface.

"You think I've had it easy?" Percy snapped, voice rough with bitterness. "You think you're the only one who lost something? I grew up without a father too — because you went and had him executed."

"All I ever wanted was a normal life. Friends, school, maybe a shot at a future that didn't involve gods and sea monsters. But you Atlanteans? You've been hell-bent on making sure I never get that."

Percy lifted the trident, its prongs crackling faintly with power, and leveled it square at Tritonius' chest.

"So yeah... I've been defending myself. And if you want Poseidon's trident?"

His eyes narrowed, voice dropping to a lethal whisper.

"Then you're gonna have to pry it from my cold, dead hands."

Tritonius' expression hardened, eyes narrowing to icy slits. "So be it, then."

Percy didn't give him another heartbeat to prepare. With a roar, he drove the trident into the stone floor. A thunderous crack split the chamber as a shockwave of oceanic force erupted outward — like a tidal bomb detonating at point-blank range. Tritonius was hurled backward, crashing into his own armored phalanx, sending warriors sprawling in a tangle of limbs and spears.

Percy ripped his weapon free and leapt, sailing through the air and landing in a crouch at the bottom of the temple steps. The moment his feet hit the ground, the army surged toward him in a tide of gleaming bronze and snarling faces.

It was chaos.

An Atlantean lunged; Percy spun low, swept his legs out from under him, then pivoted and brought the butt of the trident up into another soldier's chin, sending him crumpling backward in a spray of blood and teeth. He ducked a spear thrust, twisted inside the guard, and slammed his palm against the soldier's chest, blasting him away with a concentrated burst of water that cracked the stone walls.

More came. Blades and spears flashing. Percy blocked high, redirected a thrust, then smashed his elbow into a helmeted jaw. He felt bones give way under his strike. His heart thundered, every sense electric, the trident humming like it was alive in his hands — guiding him, urging him on.

He wove through their ranks, pure instinct and hard-trained muscle memory. A slash came from behind — Percy pivoted, hooking the shaft of the trident under the attacker's arm and heaving him over his shoulder, sending him crashing into two more soldiers.

One grabbed him from behind. Percy dropped his weight, slammed his head backward into the attacker's nose, felt the cartilage shatter, then rammed the trident's prongs straight back without looking. They pierced armor with a wet crunch.

He tore the weapon free, spun, and drove the trident into the ground again. A geyser of pressurized water exploded upward, scattering soldiers like leaves in a hurricane.

But it wasn't enough. They kept coming.

Percy panted hard, sweat and blood streaking down his face. His arms ached. His knuckles were raw. But he held the trident ready, feet planted firm.

Then Tritonius roared through the din, shoving aside his own men as he advanced with eyes blazing murder.

Their gazes locked.

The real fight was about to begin.

"You and me, Perseus," Tritonius snarled, hefting his five-pronged spear and rolling his shoulders, eyes glittering with savage promise.

Percy tightened his grip on the trident. His muscles burned. His breaths came ragged. But he met Tritonius's gaze with fire of his own.

"Bring it on."

Tritonius lunged first, closing the distance in a blur of trained fury. Their weapons clashed with a teeth-rattling crack that echoed through the cavernous temple, the sparks of impact flaring bright in the gloom. Percy barely caught the downward swipe, locking shafts with Tritonius, their faces inches apart as they strained against each other.

"Always knew you'd be weak," Tritonius hissed, breath hot with contempt.

Percy shoved him back and countered with a sweeping arc of his trident, forcing Tritonius to duck. He pivoted, spun low, aiming a kick for Tritonius's side — but Tritonius anticipated it, catching Percy's leg and hurling him into a pillar. Stone cracked against Percy's ribs, pain lancing through him.

He rolled aside just as Tritonius's spear bit deep into the column where his head had been. Percy surged up, slammed the butt of the trident into Tritonius's gut, then whirled and smashed the flat of the prongs across his jaw. Tritonius staggered, spitting blood.

They circled each other now, footwork echoing off the silent statues of Poseidon that loomed like ancient judges. Tritonius struck again — fast, brutal jabs — Percy parried, redirected, danced backward, then shot forward with a sudden thrust that forced Tritonius to deflect wide. Their weapons locked again, shafts grinding, faces twisted with exertion.

"Getting tired?" Tritonius taunted.

"Not even a little," Percy bit back.

With a snarl, he twisted under Tritonius's arm, hooked his leg behind Tritonius's knee, and swept him off his feet. Tritonius hit the stone floor with a thunderous crash, his spear clattering away.

Percy was on him in a blink, planting a knee on his chest and driving the golden trident down until its prongs hovered just at Tritonius's throat.

A hush fell over the temple. Even the remaining soldiers stood frozen, staring. Tritonius's chest heaved beneath him, his eyes wide with shock and raw hatred.

Percy's own breath shook as he held the trident firm, every muscle tense, sweat and blood dripping from his jaw.

Percy stared down at Tritonius, his chest heaving. The golden trident hummed with restrained power, its prongs hovering just shy of tearing into Tritonius's throat.

"I don't want your throne," Percy finally ground out, voice raw. "You can have that. Rule Atlantis, wear the crown—whatever it means to you."

Tritonius glared up at him, face twisted with hate and confusion.

"Because if you died here," Percy continued, leaning closer, eyes hard as flint, "Atlantis would be left without a ruler. It would fall into chaos. And I'm not about to be responsible for that."

He drew in a shaky breath, then added in a voice low and cold, "But if you ever come after me or my family again… I'll finish what I started. And I promise you, I will kill you."

For a long, taut moment, Tritonius just lay there, chest rising and falling rapidly, his lip curling as if to spit another insult. Then his gaze darted around — taking in his watching soldiers, the ruined temple, the glowing trident poised over him.

With a reluctant, bitter exhale, he gave a short nod. "Very well. You have my word. Stay away from Atlantis… and you'll never hear from me again."

Percy held his stare a moment longer. Then he stood, pulling the trident back and letting its prongs point down in a silent gesture of truce. Tritonius slowly pushed himself up, dust and blood streaking his regal armor.

For a heartbeat, it looked like Tritonius might say something else. His eyes flickered, his jaw worked — but no words came. Instead, he simply turned, lifted a hand, and gestured to his army. The ranks of Atlantean soldiers parted, falling in line behind him as he stalked out of the temple, their footsteps echoing through the vast chamber.

Percy watched them go, his expression unreadable, the trident's tip resting on the stone floor. Only when the last of them disappeared into the darkness beyond the temple door did he finally let out a long, unsteady breath. He twirled the trident once more, gripping it with both hands as he looked at it. It was a huge responsibility, but it was one he was ready to accept.

The sea was his turf. And he would protect it with his life.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6: Percy VI

Percy stood in front of his closet, toothbrush still dangling from his mouth, staring at the absurd sight inside.

There, propped up against a pile of old Converse boxes and his skateboard … was the trident of Poseidon. Its polished prongs caught the morning light streaming through his window, casting little rippling shadows across the carpet. If he listened closely — or maybe just imagined it — he could almost hear the ocean sighing inside the metal.

Most kids his age had a baseball bat in their closet. Maybe a stack of overdue library books. Not the sacred weapon of the sea, forged by ancient gods, humming with power that could flatten a city block.

He could help but smirk and scoff at the irony that such a weapon was just chilling in his closet.

"Percy!" his mom's voice floated up from the kitchen. "Breakfast is ready!"

He gave the trident one last look, and closed the closet door before walking back to the bathroom, spitting the toothpaste out and washed his mouth. He had the huge responsibility of guarding the ocean waters with that trident in his closet belonging to him, but right now … his pancakes were getting cold and he needed to get to school after that.

Days turned into weeks after that. The NYPD wrapped up their investigation of the ferry attack with the official line: pirates. It was neat, convenient, and let everyone sleep easier at night. Percy was off the hook. Back to school, back to homework, back to Rachel doodling hearts in his notebook margins.

But sometimes, between the classes and the normal, he felt the ocean tug at him. A gentle, insistent call — like it was reminding him he had more important things to look after.

…

The fishermen were in high spirits.

Their boat pitched gently on calm waters, deck sticky with brine and scales, boots splashing through puddles of salt. Above them, the crane strained under the weight of the haul, the cable thrumming like a plucked harp string.

"Easy there! She's heavy today!" the captain barked. A roar of laughter rose up. Heavy was good. Heavy meant money. Heavy meant a few weeks where no one worried about rent or overdue dock fees.

Slowly, the massive net broke the surface, streaming water. Thousands of fish twisted inside — striped bass, bluefish, tuna — a living treasure trove that glistened under the sun. The crew whistled and slapped backs, already planning which bars to hit tonight. Then the net was swung over the deck and hoisted up, fish flopping and gasping in a tangled heap.

"That's gotta be a record," one deckhand breathed.

They didn't see the problem. Not yet.

That was when the water beside the boat exploded.

A column of spray shot thirty feet into the air, and from its heart burst a figure — lean, dripping, muscles taut like coiled cable. In one hand, he held a golden trident that steamed in the sun.

Percy Jackson landed on the deck hard enough to make the metal groan. Water sluiced off him, running in rivulets back to the sea.

"What the hell …" one of the fishermen murmured.

Percy's eyes swept over the stunned men, hard and cold. The trident's tips hummed with a faint glow, as if tasting the salt in the air.

"You're proud of this?" Percy demanded, voice deceptively calm. He pointed at the heaving pile of fish. "Hauling up half the damn ocean in one net?"

The captain bristled, hands half-raised. "Look, man — whoever you are — this is legal. We're way outside territorial waters, all our permits—"

Percy took a step closer, the trident at his side crackling faintly with blue light. "Legal? Maybe on paper. But you're wrecking the ecosystem every time you do this. You're depleting fish stocks faster than they can recover — wiping out entire schools, ruining breeding grounds. You destroy coral reefs when your nets drag. You drown unintended catches: dolphins, sharks, even whales sometimes. You kill off the little fish that bigger predators rely on, and the whole chain collapses."

He swept his gaze across the crew. "You're not just hurting some fish. You're gutting the entire ocean's balance — and eventually, that means less fish for you, too."

The laughter and bluster from before was gone. Now the men shifted uneasily, glancing away, shuffling boots. A few dropped their eyes completely.

Percy exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "And by the way… you caught a sea turtle. It's tangled in there — I can hear it in my mind, screaming for help."

One of the deckhands blanched. "We… we did?"

Percy didn't answer. He just spun the trident in a quick, practiced arc and sliced clean through the thick ropes. The net split open midair — and an avalanche of fish poured back into the ocean in a frothing silver cascade. In the middle of the torrent, a loggerhead sea turtle tumbled free, flapping its flippers once before disappearing below the surface.

The fishermen stood there in stunned silence, staring at the empty crane and the ripples spreading across the water.

Percy turned back to them. His expression was hard, voice calm but edged with something ancient and dangerous. "Moderate your fishing. Don't make me have to come back here."

Without another, Percy jumped off the boat, splashing into the sea below. The fishermen stood there in stunned silence, listening to the wind whistle through their empty rigging.

…

The next thing Percy would end up tackling: oil spills.

Now, Percy understood that sometimes ships sink and they contain oil and they spill. Or sometimes, there is human error in these offshore rigs that causes a one-time spill. Now, he can't tackle the offshore drilling business altogether, people are gonna do what they want.

The problem Percy had was with a company that kept popping up on the news for oil spills. At that point … there is a problem that needs to be addressed.

Percy, Rachel, Grover and Will were all sprawled out on the patchy lawn behind Goode High's field, under the half-shade of an old oak. Lunch trays and water bottles littered the grass around them. Percy lounged against the trunk with Rachel's head on his chest, idly scrolling through his phone. Grover was whittling something with a tiny knife and Will was stretched out on his stomach, reading a thick biology textbook for fun.

Percy flicked past memes and funny videos until a headline caught his eye, big and blocky at the top of his feed:

Nereus Energy Faces Fifth Major Offshore Spill in Three Years — Millions of Gallons Threaten Gulf Ecosystem

A grim frown settled over his face. "These guys again?"

Rachel tilted her head back to look up at him, strands of her red hair tickling his jaw. "Who again?"

"Nereus Energy. Offshore drilling company." He showed her the screen. "This is like the fifth time in a few years they've dumped oil into the ocean. Different rigs, same company. Coral reefs, fish nurseries, turtles — all coated in sludge. It's the same shit with them, they pay a fine, do a shiny PR campaign about 'green initiatives,' and then it happens again."

Grover shook his head. "That's awful. If nobody keeps them in check, they're just gonna do it again."

Will nodded, tapping his pen against the open page. "Yeah, I agree with that."

Rachel slipped her hand into Percy's. "If there's anything you can do… I think you should. That's your ocean they're destroying."

Percy stared at the article a moment longer, jaw tightening. "Yeah, maybe it's time I pay these guys a visit."

The next day ...

The offshore rig groaned and shuddered under the weight of its own machinery, a symphony of hissing valves and grinding gears echoing across the deck. The air stank of crude — slick rainbows danced on the waves far below, a thin veneer of oil leaking out from somewhere deep inside the rig's iron bones. The superintendent, a thickset man with sunburnt skin and a neatly pressed company jacket, walked briskly across the grating with a clipboard clutched tight in his fist. Each tick of his pen sounded almost cheerful, at odds with the dark smears of oil trailing down a nearby drainpipe. Trailing two steps behind him was the OIM, shoulders hunched, helmet cradled under one arm. His eyes darted from puddle to puddle, from corroded weld seams to sweating pressure gauges that should have been replaced years ago.

"So far," the superintendent said, voice buoyant, "I'm not seeing anything to justify a full operational stand-down. Valves look functional, main pumps are still running. Honestly —" he made a lazy flourish with his pen, checking another box, "I'm struggling to see how you folks could've spilled enough crude to show up on satellite images. Unless…"

He let the word hang in the salt-streaked air, turning just enough to give the OIM a pointed look over his wireframe glasses.

"Unless you or your crew are… mishandling procedures. Not logging minor leaks. Something that, well, could come back on you. Would be a real shame to have a safety board hearing, don't you think?"

The OIM's jaw worked, but he said nothing. His eyes fell to the deck. He hugged his helmet closer to his chest, biting back any defense. A single word out of line could be the end of his career — and the men out here needed these paychecks to feed families back home. The superintendent gave a satisfied little snort, turned another page on his clipboard, and kept walking. Oil dripped steadily from a joint overhead, pattering down like black rain.

At the same time, elsewhere on the rig — down by the main deck where rust-streaked catwalks ran like arteries across the steel beast — a cluster of workers were busy wrestling a length of cable into place when something exploded out of the ocean. A towering column of seawater fountained upward, showering them all in brine. At its peak, a figure launched through the spray and slammed down on the deck with a heavy, echoing clang.

For a heartbeat, nobody moved.

There, dripping seawater onto oil-stained steel, stood a teenager — maybe twenty at best, lean and athletic, dark hair plastered to his forehead. His hand gripped a golden trident that still dripped foam, prongs humming faintly as though alive. A dozen roughnecks and roustabouts stared at him, open-mouthed. Someone's wrench clattered to the floor.

Percy swept his eyes across them, unbothered by the stunned silence. "Who's in charge here?" he demanded, voice echoing off bulkheads.

A foreman in a grease-caked coverall finally stepped forward, eyebrows pinched. "Who the hell are you supposed to be?"

"That's none of your concern," Percy shot back, taking a single, deliberate step closer. The trident's points gleamed, bright enough to reflect confused, worried faces. "Now — who's in charge here?"

"Um… the OIM," he replied.

Percy rolled his eyes, letting out a low, exasperated sigh. "I know the OIM runs the rig. I meant give me a name."

He gulped. "Uh… John Evers."

Then he shouldered past them without another word, wet boots splashing through standing puddles of oil and seawater, leaving the startled deck crew to gape after him as he disappeared into the maze of pipes and walkways.

John Evers trailed the superintendent across the grated catwalk, oily wind tugging at his collar. He ran his pen over the last line on his clipboard and shook his head.

"I don't know, John. Everything looks good here. Pumps are running, separators are steady, pressure's clean. I don't see what else could've caused that spill."

John's jaw tensed. His eyes darted across the stained, pitted steel; the salt-ravaged pipelines crusted in barnacles and corrosion flakes. He was ready to finally say it — to snap that everything was not good, that these systems were one storm away from total failure —

But he didn't have to.

A new voice cut through the gusting wind. "This looks good to you?"

It was incredulous, sharp — and coming from behind them.

Both men spun around.

There stood Percy, still dripping from the sea, trident slung loosely in one hand. His sea-green eyes glittered with disdain as they locked on the superintendent, his face one of utter disbelief.

The superintendent's face twisted in confusion and alarm. "Who the hell are you? And how did you get up here?"

Percy raised an eyebrow delicately. "I'm the protector of the ocean. And you…" he pointed the trident at the superintendent's chest, "…are dumping oil into my waters. Because of your negligence."

The superintendent's mouth worked for a moment. Then he scoffed. "Nothing here looks out of the ordinary. You're making a lot of noise over—"

"Really?" Percy's voice dropped dangerously low. "Because on my way up here, I passed piping so rusted it's bleeding flakes into the sea, walkways with cracked weld seams, safety valves so ancient I could snap them off with my pinky. Your hydraulic rams are corroded, your vent stacks are patch-patched instead of replaced. Your company would rather pour money into PR campaigns to fix your public reputation than actually invest in new equipment or keep these guys safe."

His eyes narrowed, trident tip glinting inches from his shirt. "Five spills in three years. That is five times your company poisoned the ocean that I protect and love. That is unacceptable."

He lowered the trident and stood closer to him. "So here's what's going to happen. You're going to fix this. Or I'll shut this entire rig down myself."

The superintendent let out a scoffing breath, trying to rally his bravado. "Oh really? And how exactly do you plan on doing that?"

Percy didn't answer.

Instead, he lifted his trident slightly — then in a single, effortless motion, brought it down against the steel railing beside him.

Metal shrieked. Sparks flew. A thick chunk of the catwalk's handrail toppled away, crashing into the ocean below with a distant splash.

The superintendent flinched violently, eyes wide.

Percy leaned the trident against his shoulder, as casual as if he were resting on a baseball bat. "Like that," he said. "I'll just destroy the whole rig."

The superintendent's face twisted, trying to snarl but coming out strangled. "You realize I could have our lawyers bury you in lawsuits for threatening us?"

Percy gave a lazy shrug, his sea-green eyes glittering with cool amusement. "Yeah, you could. But then I'd just respond by destroying all your rigs. And then what are you going to drill with?"

The superintendent went utterly still. His jaw worked, but no sound came out.

Percy stepped a little closer, his voice dropping. "Look… I don't like offshore drilling to begin with. I'd rather it didn't exist. But I get it. People want oil. Energy. Jobs. So I'm willing to be reasonable. I can accept that sometimes there's human error. Sometimes equipment fails. It happens. But if your operation is spilling oil five times in three years…? Then we got a problem."

His gaze locked with the superintendent, hard as deep-sea stone. "So, what's it gonna be…," he looked at his name tag, "Malloran?"

Malloran swallowed. His voice was strained, shoulders sagging. "I'll… I'll talk to my superiors. I'll push for a full maintenance overhaul. Safety upgrades. New inspections. We'll handle all that, you have my word."

Percy studied him for a moment, then gave a single, sharp nod. "Good. I'll be back to check on you soon. Have a good day, Mr. Malloran."

And with that, he vaulted clean over the side of the catwalk, plunging into the sea in a burst of spray — leaving Malloran and Evers staring over the edge, thunderstruck and silent.

…

Percy saw progress in his role as protector of the seas. Overfishing became a thing in the past, now moderated. The one company most prominent for oil spills actually spent their budget getting up-to-date equipment. He also participated with Rachel in cleaning up the beaches across the Atlantic coast. And he himself would dive into the ocean to clean up garbage that had made its way there. He made a genuine effort to keep the ocean clean and safe over the course of a year.

But … once he graduated high school, protecting the oceans basically became a full-time job. And his girlfriend proceeded to go to art school. Neither of them had any interest in going to a university. Only Will ended up going to one.

Once he graduated, he started going global. He went after Haitian pirates. He went after private whaling companies in the Scandinavian area, putting them out of business. But the trickiest bit was the whaling still happening in the Japan area. Not just because they were the biggest contributors but because they were in whole different waters. The Pacific.

Ultimately, he decided against pursuing them. It was too prominent and and too far to do anything about it. As long as he shut down whaling in the Atlantic that was good enough for him.

A few years would pass before he went on a personal mission that would put him in the public eye.

A 21-year-old Percy Jackson peeked out of the night waters as he locked eyes on his target.

"La Princesse Andromède," Grover said into his earpiece. "Translated, that's The Princess Andromeda."

Rachel's voice followed, calm and analytical. "Officially, she's a French cargo vessel — but our digging found she was quietly taken over by a private outfit. We don't think the French authorities even have a clue — and the crew cut their radar days ago. Last ping was in the Mediterranean. They're moving west towards the Panama Canal, which is why we're catching them in the Atlantic."

Grover jumped in, tone darker now. "And the guy running it? A mercenary named Luke Castellan. Ex-special forces — body count that looks like a damn Call of Duty scoreboard. They think it's mostly cargo theft, ransoms, who knows what else."

Percy exhaled through his nose, eyes narrowing. "How many mercs onboard?"

Rachel hesitated, then answered, "Not sure. Could be twenty, maybe thirty. It's hard to pin down."

Percy's eyes narrowed. "Any hostages?"

"Yeah," Rachel said quietly. "The vessel's original crew. They're still alive — being used to keep the ship running."

Percy let out a slow breath, jaw tightening. "Means I can't just go in there loud and crazy. Gotta take it slow, pick them off quiet."

Rachel's voice softened over the comm. "Be careful, Percy."

He managed a small, reassuring grin she couldn't see. "Aren't I always?"

And with that, he sank back beneath the waves, dark water swallowing him whole as he moved silently toward La Princesse Andromède.

Percy rose from the sea, water solid beneath his feet as if it were glass. Silent. Controlled. He stepped lightly across the surface until he reached the hull, then climbed up the side with practiced ease. Peeking over the railing, he took in the deck — floodlights cut through the night, glinting off assault rifles slung across mercs' shoulders. They paced in loose, bored patterns, unaware a storm was creeping aboard. Percy vaulted over the railing and landed in a crouch behind a stack of metal crates. He pressed himself into the shadows, breath steady.

A lone merc wandered past, rifle hanging carelessly as he gazed out at the dark ocean. Too easy. Percy lunged out, wrapped an arm around the man's throat and clamped a hand over his mouth. The merc struggled, but Percy's grip was iron. A few moments later, he went limp, eased silently to the deck.

Percy exhaled, eyes hard. One down. Many more to go.

Percy eased the unconscious mercenary down, then melted back into the shadows. His heartbeat was steady — almost too calm. A couple of years dealing with Haitian pirates had honed him for moments like this. He scanned the deck. Nine more. Spread out, lazy patrols, flashlights bobbing in uneven arcs. Percy slipped from crate to crate, a shadow among shadows.

The next merc came into view, smoking by the railing. Percy surged forward, slammed the butt of his trident into the man's solar plexus, then cracked him across the temple. He caught him before he could clatter to the deck.

Eight.

Percy ducked behind a coil of rope. Two mercs ambled past, chatting in low voices. He waited for the perfect gap — then snapped forward, hooking one with his elbow and driving a knee into the other's gut. They crumpled in stunned silence, and he finished them both with quick strikes that knocked them out cold.

Six.

A flashlight beam swung dangerously close. Percy flattened against a bulkhead. As the merc passed, Percy seized him by the collar and jerked him backward into the dark. One swift punch to the jaw, and he was out.

Five.

He crawled under a gangway, spotted two more by the lifeboats. He whistled — soft, deliberate. They turned, guns half-raised, puzzled. Percy was already on them, sweeping one's legs out and ramming his shoulder into the other's chest. He wrenched their rifles away and cracked the stocks across their heads.

Three.

Footsteps approached. Percy vaulted up a ladder, perched silently on the catwalk overhead. The last three mercs gathered below, trading jokes. Percy dropped down behind them without a sound.

He grabbed the nearest by the collar and swung him headfirst into his friend. They tumbled with a muffled thud. The third spun, eyes wide, fumbling for his weapon. Percy was faster — he rammed the trident's haft into the man's ribs, stole his breath, then elbowed him into unconsciousness.

Percy stood among the sprawled bodies, breath still slow and measured. The deck was clear.

Time to move below.

Percy was halfway to the door when it suddenly swung open. A merc stepped out, rifle slung carelessly — until his eyes went wide at the sight of Percy.

"Shit," Percy muttered.

The man didn't hesitate. He yanked up his walkie, shouting, "Intruder! We've got an intru—!"

Percy's fist crashed into his jaw, cutting the shout short. The man crumpled. But the damage was done.

Alarms blared inside as Percy charged through the narrow corridor. The ship lurched slightly underfoot. He sprinted up the stairs toward the bridge.

Two mercs burst from the wheelhouse, rifles already raised. The muzzles flashed. Percy dived low, the bullets sparking off bulkheads behind him. In a blur he closed the distance — driving his shoulder into one man's gut and hurling him into the wall, then spinning to crack the other across the skull with the blunt end of his trident.

They dropped, groaning.

Another merc stormed in, weapon half-lifted. Percy snapped a kick into his chest, launching him through an open door into a navigation room. Glass shattered, equipment clattered.

Before Percy could breathe, arms snaked around him from behind in a chokehold. He clawed at the man's elbows, then hooked his leg around the merc's ankle and wrenched sideways. They crashed to the ground. Percy seized the man by his vest, hauled him up, and slammed him back-first into the ceiling hard enough to knock him cold.

Breathing heavy, Percy stepped over the bodies and pushed forward, deeper into the ship.

Percy shoved open the heavy door to the control room — and froze.

Ten mercenaries waited for him, rifles and shotguns aimed dead center on his chest. The air crackled with tension, the only sound the low hum of the ship's systems and the distant wail of the alarm.

"Drop the weapon!" one barked.

Percy didn't move. Didn't blink.

The room erupted in gunfire. Muzzle flashes stuttered in the gloom, hot lead tearing through the air. Percy surged forward, trident spinning in a fluid arc that batted bullets aside as if they were nothing more than rain. Sparks flew, metal screamed.

One merc lunged with a combat knife — Percy grabbed his wrist, twisted until bone popped, then drove an elbow into his sternum so hard it sent him sprawling across a console.

A shotgun blast thundered from point-blank range, catching Percy square in the face. His head snapped violently to the side, neck twisting almost unnaturally. For a heartbeat, the merc stood there, smoking barrel trembling in his hands, eyes wide with triumph.

Then Percy slowly turned his head back to face him. Green eyes glinting with icy irritation.

"…Really?"

He grabbed the man by the collar and slammed his forehead into his nose with a sickening crack. The merc went limp.

Another tried to club Percy with the butt of his rifle — Percy sidestepped, caught the weapon, and swung the merc around like a rag doll, using him to knock two more off their feet. A hail of bullets raked his side. Percy flinched, but more from annoyance than pain. He spun, trident stabbing through a rifle, wrenching it out of the shooter's grip before kicking him in the chest so hard he flipped over a console.

Three mercs came at him at once, screaming. Percy ducked low, rammed his shoulder into one's gut and lifted him clean off the ground, hurling him into his comrades like bowling pins.

One last merc backed toward the wall, fumbling to reload. Percy flicked his trident — a burst of pressurized water shot out like a cannon, blasting the gun from his hands and sending him crashing into the bulkhead.

The room went still.

Percy stood there, surrounded by groaning bodies and sparking machinery, breathing hard. He planted the butt of his trident on the floor and scanned the wreckage with cold disdain.

"Anyone else?"

Silence.

He cracked his neck, then moved on, ready to find the hostages.

Percy swept through the corridors, eyes sharp, trident dripping seawater and faint pulses of power. After a tense few minutes searching cabin after cabin, he found what he was looking for.

The galley.

Packed inside were terrified crew members, huddled together — disheveled, pale, many with cuts or bruises. French voices overlapped in panicked whispers. The moment they saw Percy, a stranger armed with a gleaming trident, they flinched.

A young deckhand clutched his cap and stammered in rapid French, "S'il vous plaît, ne nous tuez pas…" (Please, don't kill us...)

Percy raised his free hand. "Je ne suis pas ici pour vous tuer. Je suis ici pour vous sauver." (I'm not here to kill you. I'm here to save you.)

For a heartbeat, there was silence. Then it broke in a chorus of relief: "Merci!" "Merci beaucoup!" "Dieu merci…"

A faint smile tugged at Percy's mouth. "Allez, suivez-moi." (Come, follow me.)

He led them back down the corridor toward the deck. They clung close to him, hope flickering in exhausted eyes.

But then—

"Percy Jackson!"

Percy stopped. Turned. The crew shrank back behind him.

At the end of the corridor stood a man in black tactical gear, tall and lean, with a long blade resting casually on his shoulder. His blond hair was tousled, his expression calm but eyes sharp — calculating.

Percy's jaw tightened. He looked over his shoulder at the crew. "Continuez sans moi. Courez." (Go on without me. Run.)

They didn't argue. The sailors scrambled down the hallway, boots echoing as they disappeared toward freedom.

Percy turned back to the mercenary and switched to English.

"I presume you're Luke Castellan."

Luke's lips quirked into something that wasn't quite a smile. "I am. You must be the ghost who's been sinking half the pirate operations from Nova Scotia to Morocco."

Percy shrugged. "Yeah, that's me."

Luke's eyes narrowed, icy with something like professional bitterness. "You've ruined everything. Months of planning, resources, payoffs— all burned because you can't keep your nose out of things that don't concern you."

"It's not personal, Luke," Percy replied evenly. "You're in my ocean. And I don't let pirates conduct business on my turf."

Luke let out a slow breath, then slid his blade off his shoulder. Its steel edge caught the overhead lights, gleaming. "You took down thirty men. Impressive." His mouth twisted. "But you know I can't let you leave here."

Percy's expression turned wry. "Buddy, I took a shotgun blast to the face and didn't even get a scratch. That little knife of yours? Not going to do much."

Luke's eyes flashed with a reckless glint. "Worth a shot."

They squared off, muscles tensing, feet shifting for balance.

Then they lunged — blade against trident, steel ringing in the dark corridors of La Princesse Andromède.

Luke attacked with ruthless precision. He slashed, stabbed, twisted — every move practiced and deadly. Percy dodged most of it with lazy shifts of his shoulders or tilted his head just enough for the blade to whistle by harmlessly. When Luke did manage to slice across Percy's shirt or land a cut, it barely did more than tear fabric or leave the faintest scratch.

They spun through the narrow hallway, Luke growling with exertion, Percy almost casual as he parried with the shaft of his trident. Then, with a quick pivot, Percy slammed the butt of the trident into Luke's ribs. The mercenary stumbled with a grunt, clutching his side.

Percy smirked. "Tell you what. To make it fair, I'll drop my weapon. You drop yours. We fight like men."

Luke's eyes darkened. He cracked his neck, spat blood onto the floor. "Fine by me."

Percy let his trident clatter to the ground and Luke then let his blade drop. Metal rang against the steel deck.

They came together like crashing waves. Luke was relentless, fists hammering into Percy's sides, gut, even his jaw. But Percy barely flinched — each punch that landed felt like hitting a concrete wall. Luke's knuckles were already bruising.

Percy let him work for a while, absorbing the hits, his own face set in almost amused concentration. Then he decided he'd had enough. He caught Luke's next punch, twisted his arm, and grabbed him by the collar.

Luke tried to keep swinging with his free hand, slugging Percy twice across the cheek — but Percy didn't even blink.

"Good fight," Percy muttered.

Then he hauled Luke up and slammed him into the floor. Hard. The mercenary's eyes rolled back, body going limp.

Percy stood over him, gave a tiny shrug, as if to say too easy, then stepped over Luke's unconscious form. He scooped up his trident and started for the deck to return to the scared French crew. After the whole ordeal, Percy was kind enough to stick around, just in case any opportunistic scum thought to try a second hijacking. The French crew — still rattled but grateful — kept throwing nervous glances his way. Meanwhile, below deck, the surviving mercenaries were tied up tight in the galley. Percy had done it himself, making sure they wouldn't pose any more problems.

They were headed back to Marseille, with Percy standing at the stern, trident propped casually on his shoulder, eyes scanning the dark horizon. There was a gentle sway beneath Percy's feet as La Princesse Andromède cut steadily through the moonlit waters.

Many hours later, the sun was coming up in the east, and so was the port of Marseille. a wiry crewman approached Percy. He wrung his cap in his hands, hesitating before speaking in halting French. "Mon ami… Comment devons-nous vous appeler?" (My friend... what should we call you.)

…

RIPTIDE

Mysterious vigilante foils pirate takeover, who is this ocean's new protector?

That was the headline on Rachel's phone as she opened Twitter and showed it to Percy, while he entered her family's penthouse. "You made international news."

"Let me see," Percy replied with a grin as he took her phone and read the report thoroughly. "Riptide, huh? I like that name."

Rachel grinned as she took her phone back. "So do I." She swiped up and showed a video to Percy. "Look, they even got the moment you zipped out of there."

Sure enough, the cameras of the French media had been rolling when Percy jumped out of the ship and disappeared into the waves.

Percy smirked. "I didn't want to stick around for the interrogating."

"So what does this mean for you now?" Rachel asked as they sat on her couch.

Percy shrugged. "I don't know, but I'm not gonna stop what I'm doing. So … I guess we'll see."

…

Meanwhile …

A man walked briskly through the polished marble halls of a government building, folders tucked under one arm.

He wore a dark three-piece suit. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with neatly kept brown hair, a well-trimmed beard, and sharp brown eyes that scanned ahead with quiet focus. He reached an office door, turned the handle, and stepped inside. With a soft sigh, he closed it behind him, then crossed to his desk. Dropping the folders in a practiced motion, he lowered himself into the chair and rolled forward, the wheels clicking softly on the floor. He tapped the keyboard to wake up his computer, the screen humming to life. As he waited, he adjusted the nameplate on his desk until it sat perfectly aligned.

CHIRON BRUNNER

Chiron tapped the keyboard again, and the monitor flickered on, illuminating his face with a pale blue glow. The screensaver still hovered there for a moment longer — a sleek, professional insignia with three bold letters:

BID

Bureau of International Defense

He clicked out of it, then flipped open the first folder on his desk. Pages of dense reports, photographs, and analysis lay within, but two words leapt off the paper in crisp, authoritative bold:

PERSEUS JACKSON

Chiron's brow furrowed slightly. He pulled the folder closer, scanning quickly through the pages before setting it down and turning to his inbox. A new flagged message waited for him at the top, sent by one of his field operatives. He clicked it open.

Inside was a brief note — then a video file. He double-clicked.

The footage loaded, grainy at first, timestamped and marked with the vessel's internal security tags. It showed the inside of La Princesse Andromède. A young man, dark-haired and moving like a shadow, wielded a golden trident like it was simply part of his body. He dispatched armed mercenaries in a blur, tore through reinforced steel as if it were cardboard, and withstood a shotgun blast to the face without so much as a scratch.

Chiron leaned back, stroking his beard thoughtfully as the video played on, his dark eyes following every movement, every unnatural feat.

His lips pressed into a thin line.

The screen kept rolling. Chiron watched, silent and calculating, already weighing possibilities far beyond what the video alone could show.

The footage jumped to a new angle — this time, a wide shot from a corner of the bridge. It captured Percy squaring off with another man wielding a long blade.

Chiron narrowed his eyes, watching closely. The man — flagged in the file as Luke Castellan, international mercenary — fought with ruthless, practiced efficiency, striking Percy again and again with all the strength he could muster.

Percy barely flinched. Each blow landed with a dull thud, hardly moving him, until finally he seized Luke by the collar and slammed him into the floor hard enough to rattle the camera.

Chiron's brow arched. The corner of his mouth twitched, almost into a smile. The more he watched, the more intrigued he became. Fingers drumming against the folder, he leaned in, eyes fixed on the screen — already envisioning the endless ramifications of what, or who, he was witnessing.

The video switched one final time — shaky cell phone footage from the docks at Marseille. Reporters and local bystanders crowded near the ship, cameras flashing. Then, just for a heartbeat, the lens caught a streak of motion. A blur so fast, it zipped as it jumped off the boat, disappearing under the waves. Almost too quick to register.

Chiron leaned back in his chair, lips parting slightly. His eyes gleamed.

"Could it be?" he murmured to the empty office. "Could I finally get the project started?"

He closed the email and returned to his cluttered desktop. Among dozens of folders and briefings, one icon glowed in the corner, practically demanding attention:

PROJECT GUARDIANS OF EARTH.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7: Jason I

Far from Earth, past dying stars and forgotten systems, there lies Zephyron: beautiful, brutal, and brimming with power.

Zephyron was a world born of breath and light, a living symphony of winds and colors, the kind of planet where the sky sang in endless hues and every dawn felt like a promise whispered anew. It stretched wide, a vast mosaic of shimmering crystal forests, oceans that gleamed like liquid sapphires, and floating islands that drifted lazily in a cerulean sea of air. Here, the air was alive — not just with the rustle of leaves or the hum of creatures, but with an energy that danced invisibly, weaving through every gust and breeze like the planet itself breathed in rhythm with its inhabitants. Mountains carved from translucent stone caught the sunlight and fractured it into rainbows that stretched like bridges to nowhere, while rivers wound through emerald valleys, their waters sparkling with bioluminescent life that pulsed softly beneath the surface. The skies, an endless canvas of swirling pastels, stretched infinitely, painted with twin suns that bathed everything in a warm, golden glow.

Zephyron was more than nature's masterpiece. It was a pinnacle of civilization, a testament to millennia of wisdom and ingenuity. Towers of iridescent alloys pierced the skies, their surfaces shifting colors like living gemstones. Cities floated effortlessly, suspended by magnetic fields and humming softly with energy that came not from pollution or destruction, but from the planet itself—harnessed through crystal cores that pulsed with pure, sustainable power. Every facet of life here was enhanced by technology that felt less like machines and more like extensions of the natural world: gardens that grew in symbiosis with nanobots, communication woven seamlessly through thought and light, and transportation that glided silently through the air as if carried by the wind itself.

Zephyron was not just a home; it was a living, breathing entity — a perfect haven where life thrived in harmony, where every leaf, every gust of wind, and every heartbeat was part of a greater song.

But perfection, as all things, held its fragility beneath the beauty.

The camera of the mind drifted downward, past the swirling pastel clouds, settling on one of Zephyron's great capitals: Elyndra.

Elyndra floated like a jewel suspended in the endless sky, its spires of gleaming crystal and metal reaching upward, while terraces of lush gardens spilled over edges, softening the city's shimmering edges with vibrant greenery. From here, the hum of life was a symphony—soft footsteps on polished walkways, the murmur of voices spoken in melodious Zephyronite tones, and the gentle whoosh of personal gliders weaving silently through the air. Citizens moved with a serene grace, their clothing shimmering with adaptive fibers that changed color and texture like living fabric. Children laughed as they played amid floating orbs of light that followed them like gentle sprites, while elders sat beneath translucent canopies, their eyes reflecting the warm glow of data streams softly flowing around them. Marketplaces buzzed quietly with exchanges not only of goods but of knowledge—holographic displays shimmered over counters, showing histories, star maps, and the intricate genealogy of Zephyronite families. Hover-carts glided effortlessly between vendors, carrying exotic fruits that pulsed faintly with bioluminescence and delicate crafts forged from the planet's rare minerals.

Technology here was subtle, woven seamlessly into every moment of daily life: personal assistants manifested as shimmering projections, whispering reminders and news; transport hubs floated nearby, ferrying citizens on silent journeys through the city's vertical expanse; and in the distance, vast crystal arrays harvested the energy of the twin suns, their glow pulsing like a heartbeat that kept the city alive. Despite the sophistication, there was no rush—time here flowed like the gentle zephyrs that gave the planet its name, steady and unhurried, a harmony of progress and peace.

This was home.

The gentle hum of Elyndra's daily rhythm pulsed softly beneath the surface, but deep within one of the city's gleaming towers—home to the Zephyron Aeronautics and Space Administration—the air was suddenly thick with tension.

Inside a sleek command center, rows of crystalline consoles shimmered with streams of data. One employee, his fingers flying across translucent keys, froze mid-motion. His eyes widened as the holographic projection before him shifted, revealing an ominous shape hurtling through space—a massive asteroid, the size of one of Zephyron's moons, locked on a direct collision course with their perfect world.

A cold dread crept over him, and his breath caught in his throat.

"By the winds of Aelys..." he whispered, the sacred exclamation of shock and despair among the Zephyronites.

He leapt from his station, heart pounding like a drumbeat of warning. The crystalline floors echoed beneath his swift steps as he raced through the labyrinthine halls, his mind grasping at every protocol, every contingency. Through the translucent walls, the city continued its dance of light and life, oblivious to the approaching shadow. His vision tunneled, data and alarms flashing in his peripherals as he burst into the chamber of his superior.

"We have an incoming—an impact trajectory. It's... it's catastrophic," he gasped, voice barely steady.

The room fell silent, the weight of the news hanging heavy in the air.

The boss narrowed his eyes, voice steady but tense. "Are you certain? There's no room for error."

The employee didn't hesitate. "Come with me. I'll show you everything."

They moved quickly through the winding corridors, the hum of the city fading behind them. The employee spoke in hurried, clipped tones as they walked. "The asteroid's trajectory is stable and unaltered. It's on a direct collision course. Estimates say impact within seventy-two hours. Its diameter rivals that of Zephyron's largest moon."

The boss absorbed every word, nodding grimly.

When they reached the crystalline workstation, the employee tapped a sequence, and the holographic projection flickered to life. A massive, jagged silhouette loomed in space, precise calculations spinning beside it. The boss took the seat, fingers dancing across controls as he ran simulations and scans. The room fell silent except for the soft whir of machines.

His face tightened, jaw clenched. The data confirmed the worst: an unstoppable asteroid, large enough to wreak untold devastation.

He rose slowly, voice low but firm. "This cannot stay here. It needs to go straight to the President."

Zephyron's flawless skies were marred by a growing storm of fear and unrest. Across the sprawling planet of 58 billion souls, panic rippled like wildfire. Markets that once thrived with vibrant trade now lay deserted, replaced by shattered stalls and looted goods. Riots erupted in city after city, angry voices clashing in every tongue Zephyronite spoke. Religious fervor flared, with some factions preaching salvation through conversion to ancient Zephyronite faiths, while others demanded surrender to science or reason. Fear made friends into foes, and the delicate harmony of Zephyron's society began to unravel. Amid the chaos, some sought refuge in denial, crowding public squares to celebrate life as if defying fate itself. Others descended into despair, their cries echoing beneath the once-joyous skies.

Inside a modest yet elegant home in Elyndra, the city's glow filtered softly through crystal windows.

A man with blonde hair and piercing blue eyes bent over a complex device, wires and crystal shards scattered across his workbench. Sweat traced lines down his brow as he adjusted the intricate mechanisms, each movement fueled by urgency and hope. Nearby, his wife clutched their infant son tightly to her chest. Her eyes, also a striking shade of blue, shimmered with tears as she glanced anxiously toward her husband.

"Is it done yet?" she asked softly.

The father didn't look up immediately. Finally, he sighed, "Almost. But it's missing something... something important."

He paused, his gaze distant as if searching for the answer.

"I'll be right back," he said firmly. "I'm going to the basement."

"Okay," she whispered, pressing her cheek gently to baby Kael-En's soft hair. "It's going to be okay, little one. Mommy and Daddy are going to keep you safe."

The father returned from the basement, the tool glinting faintly in his hands. Setting it down beside the pod, he took a deep breath and went back to work. He carefully reconnected wires, tightened delicate screws, and adjusted the alignment of the glass canopy. His fingers worked with practiced precision, every movement deliberate and measured. Then, with the tool in hand, he focused on the thruster controls—tweaking settings, recalibrating fuel flow.

A soft hum began to fill the room. The pod's thrusters sputtered at first, then roared to life, lifting the small craft off the table with surprising grace. The glass window sealed tightly with a satisfying click.

The father stepped back, holding a remote control, his eyes never leaving the pod. With a tentative press of a button, the pod floated upward, drifting smoothly through the air. He guided it around the room, a small dance of hope amid the chaos outside. After a few cautious circuits, he gently landed the pod back on the table.

"I did it," he said, voice low but filled with triumph.

The mother's eyes widened, a shaky breath escaping her lips. "You did?"

He nodded, a fierce determination hardening his features. "We might just be able to save our baby."

Tears welled in her eyes as she threw her arms around him. In that embrace, they shared a silent vow — no matter what came, they would protect Kael-En at all costs.

Hours passed. The doomsday clock ticked relentlessly toward zero. In just three hours, the monstrous asteroid would tear through Zephyron's atmosphere. Night had fallen, draping the world in quiet darkness. Outside their home, the parents held their precious son close, cradling him as if their love alone could shield him from the approaching storm. The father carefully lifted Kael-En into his arms, his voice steady but soft.

"Little one," he whispered, "you carry the hope of all we are. No matter where you go, remember you are brave and strong. You will make us proud."

He handed the baby gently to his wife, who held him with trembling hands and tear-streaked cheeks. Her voice cracked as she began, a torrent of love and sorrow pouring out.

"Kael-En… my sweet boy. Wherever this journey takes you, I know you will be safe. Someone, somewhere will care for you just as fiercely as we do now. You will grow up to be a fine young man—strong, kind, and full of light. I'm so sorry we can't be with you longer. I wish we had more time to watch you laugh, to see you grow. But you must take care of yourself, my love. Never change who you are, because who you are is everything good in this world. Be brave, my son. And know that my heart goes with you, always."

She kissed his forehead softly, her tears falling freely as she placed him carefully into the small pod resting on their lawn. She pressed the button, and the glass canopy slid closed with a soft, final hiss.

Turning to her husband, she met his gaze.

"Are you ready?" he asked quietly.

She swallowed hard, then nodded, her voice barely a whisper.

He exhaled deeply, gripping the remote control with trembling hands. Slowly, he lifted the control stick, and the pod stirred—its thrusters igniting in a gentle pulse. With a sudden surge, the pod shot upward, piercing the night sky, disappearing into the vast darkness beyond. Yet he kept the stick pressed forward, pushing the pod higher and higher until it was only a faint glimmer among the stars.

The mother's sobs broke free, and she collapsed into his arms, tears soaking his shoulder. One hand still steady on the remote, the father wrapped his other arm around her, offering what comfort he could.

Together, they looked up into the endless night, a silent prayer hanging between them.

"Take care of yourself, son," he muttered, voice heavy with love and loss.

…

The morning sun spilled golden light across San Francisco, casting long shadows over the city's rolling hills and sparkling bay. The iconic Golden Gate Bridge stretched boldly across the water, its rust-red towers piercing the morning mist like sentinels welcoming a new day. Cars hummed steadily along its lanes, ferrying commuters and tourists alike between the city and Marin County beyond. Downtown, the bustling streets thrummed with energy. People of all ages and backgrounds navigated sidewalks lined with towering glass skyscrapers and historic brick buildings. Streetcars clattered along their tracks, weaving through neighborhoods rich with culture and character—from the vibrant murals of the Mission District to the Victorian charm of the Painted Ladies near Alamo Square.

Coffee shops and cafes spilled onto sidewalks, their aromatic scents mingling with the salty ocean breeze. Cyclists zipped past, while joggers took advantage of the crisp morning air along the Embarcadero, where the bay's waters shimmered beneath a sky streaked with wisps of cloud. The iconic Transamerica Pyramid stood tall amidst the skyline, a symbol of San Francisco's unique blend of innovation and history. Nearby, the bustling Ferry Building Market buzzed with locals picking up fresh produce and artisanal goods, the clock tower chiming softly in the background.

From the heights of Twin Peaks, panoramic views showcased the city's patchwork of neighborhoods, the Pacific Ocean stretching endlessly beyond. Seagulls called overhead, their cries mingling with the distant rumble of boats cutting through the bay's gentle waves. This was a city alive with possibility—a mosaic of stories waiting to unfold beneath the watchful gaze of its landmarks.

And then, without warning, the sky answered.

A bright streak tore across the blue above San Francisco, fast and deliberate, trailing white fire as it cut through the afternoon air. Pedestrians paused mid-step along the Marina District, shielding their eyes as they looked up. Joggers near the Embarcadero slowed, squinting toward the bay. Even atop the Golden Gate Bridge, a few drivers leaned over their steering wheels, their attention momentarily captured by the glowing arc overhead.

The streak curved downward, vanishing behind the skyline before it struck the water just beyond Alcatraz with a sharp hiss and a plume of rising steam. A few overlapping waves lapped at the shore, harmless but strange.

Then, just as quickly as it had come, the moment passed. The city blinked, adjusted, and continued on.

Just before the object struck the Bay however, 13-year-old Thalia Grace is seen sitting alone on a weathered bench at Fisherman's Wharf, the salty breeze tugging at her tangled hair. The usual bustle of tourists and vendors felt distant—like noise she couldn't quite reach, a world she didn't belong to. She stared out across the bay, where the gentle rise and fall of waves mirrored the heaviness settling in her chest. Her gaze drifted to the sea lions basking lazily on the docks, their carefree grunts a stark contrast to her own restless thoughts. Far beyond, the grim silhouette of Alcatraz loomed like a forgotten ghost, while Treasure Island sparkled faintly in the afternoon sun.

Thalia's mind wandered, darker thoughts swirling beneath the surface. She'd been here countless times, finding refuge in this quiet corner of the city. Sometimes, she imagined slipping beneath the cold water, letting it swallow her whole — a way to escape the chaos she'd never asked for. Her mother, once a glamorous TV actress, was now a shadow of herself—more often lost in bottles than in the warmth of motherhood. Thalia had never known her father. Life had handed her a series of empty promises and broken dreams.

But despite the weight pressing down on her, despite the temptation of the deep, she had never gone through with it. Somewhere, buried beneath the pain, a stubborn flicker of hope held her back.

For now, she just sat there, alone with the wind and the sea, wondering what her future might hold.

Thalia's thoughts swallowed her whole, dragging her deeper into the mire of misery she knew all too well. The bright streak blazing across the sky barely registered in her mind. Behind her, the gathered crowd gasped and pointed upward, but she remained lost in her own world—untouched by the momentary spectacle.

The streak slammed into the bay with a tremendous splash, sending waves rippling along the shore. People stopped, stared, whispered—and then, just as quickly, they moved on, returning to their routines. But Thalia didn't move. She barely even noticed.

She considered the cold water in front of her, the gentle pull of the tides calling. What would it be like to let the waves take her? Who would even notice if she disappeared? Friends? She barely had any. Her punk-style clothes, her sharp tongue—it all kept others at arm's length. Family? Her mother was a ghost lost in drink, too broken to care. Her father? A deadbeat who'd never shown up.

No one would miss her. No one cared.

Her heart ached with the bitter truth.

Slowly, she rose and stepped closer to the water's edge, the chilly ocean lapping at her boots. She took a deep breath and moved forward, letting the waves wash over her feet, her legs. Just as she prepared to sink beneath the surface, surrendering to the silence she craved, something caught her eye—a flicker beneath the water, a movement too deliberate to be a fish.

Her breath caught. There was… something in the water.

It wasn't a shark or a dolphin or any sea creature she recognized. Whatever it was, it shimmered and glided beneath the surface like something out of another world. Thalia's mind stuttered, momentarily halting the dark thoughts that had threatened to pull her under. She didn't step further into the water — not yet. Instead, she stayed rooted to the shore, letting the strange object drift closer on the gentle tide. When it finally drifted close enough, Thalia hesitated. Her hand hovered above the water, her fingers twitching before she reached down and pulled it from the shallows. It was small. Metallic. Cool to the touch. Unlike anything she'd ever seen — like a miniature spacecraft, sleek and smooth, its surface etched with faint, unfamiliar markings that shimmered faintly in the light.

Curious, cautious, and more than a little on edge, she turned it over in her hands. The metal was heavier than it looked. It thrummed faintly, as if it still held energy from its descent.

Then she saw it: a baby, curled up inside the transparent dome, fast asleep and utterly vulnerable.

Her eyes widened in shock.

It was a blonde little baby, Thalia realized, staring in bewilderment. Of all the bizarre things she might've expected to fish out of the bay that day — trash, a dead fish, maybe a lost phone — this hadn't even crossed her mind.

While she didn't care much about anything—least of all herself—there was one thing she did care about: babies. Something long-buried cracked open inside her — some instinct, raw and ancient. Her chest tightened with sudden urgency as she examined the pod, her hands working with frantic care. There was no way she could break the glass — she wouldn't risk so much as a scratch on him. Her fingers searched every seam and groove of the pod until, at last, they brushed over a softly glowing button near the base.

She pressed it.

With a gentle hiss, the glass canopy lifted.

Thalia reached in with trembling hands and lifted the baby into her arms. He was warm. Lighter than she expected. His tiny fingers curled instinctively against her jacket, his skin soft against her own. Her heart pounded until she felt it — the steady, delicate pulse beneath her fingertips. Thalia let out a shaky sigh of relief, clutching the little one tighter as if afraid he might slip away.

Questions crashed into her mind, one after another, unrelenting.

Who's baby was this? Where did he come from? Was he hurt? Why was he in a pod — was someone trying to hide him, or save him? Was there anyone out there frantically searching for him right now? How did he even survive being underwater and in a small pod like this one?

Her thoughts raced, tumbling over each other faster than her own heartbeat.

Was he abandoned? Was he special? Was she supposed to find him — or was this all just some cosmic accident? And what on earth was she supposed to do now?

Thalia looked down at the baby nestled in her arms. He was warm, soft, and blissfully unaware of the storm churning inside her. His tiny chest rose and fell in a rhythm so calm, it felt like an anchor in the middle of a crashing tide.

Then, with a faint stir, the baby began to move. His little arms shifted, his fingers curling as he blinked slowly up at her. Bright blue eyes—so much like her own—opened and gazed up at her with innocent wonder.

Then, to Thalia's utter surprise, the baby cooed and broke into a wide, gummy smile. Thalia's breath hitched. In that moment, something inside her cracked clean through. All the bitterness she'd wrapped around herself like armor, all the numb apathy she wore like a second skin — it all melted in an instant, dripping away like snow in the sun. A soft, breathless laugh escaped her lips, tremulous and surprised. Her eyes stung, and she blinked hard, unsure if it was joy, fear, or something else entirely.

Thalia looked down at the little bundle in her arms and couldn't help but whisper, "You're such a cutie. Who in their right mind would dare leave something this adorable behind, huh?"

The baby only cooed again, a tiny hand flailing upward, brushing against a strand of her dark hair as if reaching for her. She let out a long, unsteady sigh, her mind still spinning, her future blank and uncertain. But one thing she did know — one thing she couldn't do — was leave him behind. Walk away. Pretend she hadn't seen.

"Alright…" she whispered, shifting him more securely against her chest, feeling the warmth of his small body press into hers. "Let's go see if we can find your parents. Whoever they are."

The baby made another soft noise, almost a hum, as if content in her arms — as if he trusted her completely, without hesitation or doubt. That, more than anything, made Thalia's chest tighten.

She had no idea who he was or where he came from. But somehow, in that moment, she knew her life would never be the same.

Chapter Text

Chapter 8: Jason II

The heavy glass doors of the San Francisco Police Department's Northern Station groaned as they opened. Thalia Grace stepped inside, clutching the bundled infant tightly to her chest. Her sneakers squeaked faintly on the linoleum floor, damp from the city's morning fog. The lobby was fluorescent-lit and sterile, lined with steel-framed chairs occupied by a handful of tired faces — a man mumbling to himself, a woman filling out a form with trembling hands, and a patrol officer escorting a cuffed teenager toward the back.

The scent of burnt coffee lingered in the air, mixing with the sharper tang of disinfectant. To the right, a bulletin board was cluttered with flyers: Missing Persons, Crime Prevention Tips, a Community BBQ poster curling at the edges. Behind a thick glass pane sat the front desk — a half-circle enclosure of gray counters and old monitors, manned by a uniformed officer flipping through a clipboard.

Thalia hesitated for a second. She was thirteen, rail-thin, soaked from the waist down, and visibly exhausted. The baby in her arms let out a soft noise — not quite a cry, more like a sleepy sigh. The desk officer looked up. A man in his late forties, with a receding hairline and a badge that read Sergeant Brenner, raised a brow as he clocked the girl and the bundle.

"You lost, kid?" he asked, voice gruff but not unkind. His pen stilled over the page.

Thalia stepped forward slowly, approaching the counter. "No," she said, adjusting her grip on the infant. "I… I found this baby. In a pod. In the bay."

Brenner stared at her for a beat, then leaned forward, squinting through the glass. "You found a what in the bay?"

"A pod. Like a… metal thing. It was floating in the water. I pulled him out. He was just… sleeping inside."

The sergeant's eyes flicked down to the baby — quiet, wide-eyed, wrapped snugly in a silver-toned cloth that shimmered faintly under the lights.

He exhaled, reached for a button near his desk. "Okay. Come on around, sweetheart. Let's get you inside and get some details. Just stay calm."

The door next to the front desk buzzed. Thalia stepped through as it clicked open, cradling the baby protectively as she followed Sergeant Brenner into the interior of the station.

The small interview room was sterile and cold, lit by a flickering fluorescent bulb that buzzed faintly in the background. Thalia sat in a metal chair, her arms wrapped protectively around the baby sleeping soundly in her lap. His chest rose and fell in soft, even breaths, completely unbothered by the cold table or the two uniformed officers seated across from her.

Sergeant Brenner leaned forward, hands folded on the table. His partner, Officer Linares, typed quietly on a nearby laptop, casting occasional glances toward the girl and the child.

"Alright," Brenner said, voice even. "Let's go over this again. You were at the pier this morning?"

Thalia gave a slight nod. "Yeah. Fisherman's Wharf. I was just… there."

"You go there often?" he asked, not unkindly.

She shrugged. "Sometimes."

"And that's when you saw… something floating?"

"Yeah," she said. "Out in the water. Looked like debris at first, but it was shaped weird. Metallic. I waited a bit, then it drifted closer to the rocks. I climbed down and checked it out."

Brenner scribbled something in his notebook. "And you said it was… a pod?"

Thalia nodded again. "Metal, silver-blue. Like a capsule, kinda. Sealed tight, but there was a blinking light. A button. I pressed it, and the glass slid open. He was inside. Sleeping."

The sergeant looked at Linares, who had paused her typing.

"No injuries, no signs of neglect?" she asked.

"No," Thalia said quickly. "He looked… fine. Just asleep. Calm."

"And there was no one else around?" Brenner asked. "No parents, no crash debris, no witnesses?"

"Nothing," Thalia said. "Just the pod and him."

Linares resumed typing, her fingers moving with practiced speed. "I ran facial recognition and national alerts," she murmured to Brenner. "Nothing. No local or federal missing child reports. No matching DNA markers. It's like he doesn't exist."

Brenner sat back in his chair, frowning. "Alright. You did the right thing bringing him in."

He glanced back toward Thalia. "We'll file a missing child report, spread his description through all the proper channels, and notify the state. But based on what we've got… this isn't criminal. No foul play, no signs of abuse. No reason to take him into protective custody right now."

Thalia tensed slightly. "So what happens now?"

"Well," Linares said gently, "if you're willing to care for him temporarily, we can process it that way. Someone from Child Services will check in, of course, but until we get more information — if we ever do — the safest place for him might be with you."

Thalia looked down at the baby. He'd curled slightly against her, one tiny hand resting near the collar of her jacket, his face still soft with sleep.

"He seems… attached," Brenner noted, a hint of surprise in his voice.

Thalia hesitated for only a second. Then she nodded. "Okay. Yeah. I can do that."

"We'll be in touch if anything comes up," Linares added. "But for now… he's yours to care for."

Thalia said nothing else. She simply held the baby closer, as if she already knew that, somehow, she wouldn't be letting him go.

...

The apartment smelled like stale wine and old carpet.

Thalia closed the door quietly behind her, the baby still sleeping in her arms. The late-morning light filtered through the grimy blinds, casting lines across the living room's mess: takeout containers stacked on the coffee table, dirty dishes in the sink, ashtray full to the brim. The TV was on, muted, playing some daytime game show no one was watching.

Beryl Grace lay sprawled across the couch in a robe, one leg dangling off the side. Her hair was tangled, mascara smudged from the night before. A half-empty bottle of merlot hung loosely in her hand, barely resting against the armrest. She cracked one eye open as Thalia entered.

"You skip school again?" Beryl slurred, her voice dry and scratchy.

Thalia didn't answer. She didn't break stride. She just held the baby tighter and walked toward the hallway.

"Thal—" her mother started, but didn't finish. The bottle slipped a little in her grip, and her eyes drifted shut again.

Thalia turned the corner and stepped into her room, kicking the door shut behind her. She let out a slow breath once she was alone, away from the static noise and the weight of her mother's indifference.

The room wasn't big — just a twin bed, a dresser with peeling paint, and posters on the wall that had long since curled at the edges. But it was hers. It was safe. She set the baby down gently on her bed, bundling him in the softest blanket she could find — an old one with faded cartoon stars. He stirred a little but didn't wake. Thalia sat down beside him, legs crossed, just watching him for a while. So small. So quiet.

Her fingers brushed a lock of fine blond hair from his forehead.

"…Guess it's you and me now," she murmured.

In the other room, the volume on the TV spiked suddenly as Beryl rolled over on the remote. Thalia didn't flinch. She reached over, turned on her bedside lamp to a low glow, and leaned back, resting one hand gently on the sleeping baby's back.

For the first time in a long while, she didn't feel entirely alone.

...

Days passed.

Thalia kept waiting for the knock at the door — for the officers to return, for Child Services to say it was time to give him up, for someone to claim the baby with a birth certificate and a story she couldn't compete with.

But no one came.

Child Services checked in, sure. The first visit was formal, clipboard questions and careful eyes. The second was quicker. By the third time, the social worker seemed more curious than concerned. She smiled at the way the baby lit up when Thalia entered the room, jotted something encouraging on her form, and left with a quiet, "You're doing just fine."

Then… nothing. The calls stopped. The case faded. Just another file in a system with too many. Thalia didn't complain.

The baby — still unnamed, still mysterious — had become her world. He giggled when she sang off-key. He held her thumb while he slept. He woke her up with soft babbling instead of screams. For the first time in what felt like forever, Thalia Grace felt needed. Not tolerated. Not resented. Needed. And the thoughts… the dark ones, the ones that used to curl around her ribs like barbed wire at night — they were quieter now. Some days, gone completely.

One warm afternoon, she lay on the floor of her bedroom, the baby tucked beside her on a blanket scattered with toys. A rare shaft of sun came in through the window.

She turned her head to look at him. "You know, you really can't go on not having a name forever," she said.

He blinked at her, curious.

"I've been thinking about it," she continued. "Something strong. Something kind. Something that… fits."

She rolled onto her side, propping herself on one elbow. "What about Jason?"

The baby stared at her a moment longer — and then smiled. Not just a small twitch, but a full-face beam, accompanied by a squeaky giggle and two excited little fists.

Thalia chuckled. "Jason it is."

Not long after that, she managed to trick her mother into signing adoption paperwork. It took weeks of quiet maneuvering. Beryl barely remembered half the things she agreed to. A forged signature here, a conveniently placed stack of documents there. A forged date, a notarized stamp paid for in cash. Illegal? Probably. But the papers were real. And so was the love. By law — or at least, enough of it — Jason was hers.

One night, as the city lights flickered to life along the coastline, Thalia stood on the roof of their apartment building, the baby asleep in her arms. The breeze from the bay carried a quiet chill, but she didn't mind. Jason was warm against her chest, his breath soft, steady, peaceful. Below, car horns echoed faintly through the city. Above, a single star poked through the fading clouds.

She pressed her lips gently to his forehead.

"You saved me," she whispered.

And for the first time in a long time, she meant every word.

...

Twelve Years Later

Thalia sometimes wondered, half-mad with stress, if it would've been kinder to let the Bay take him.

She never meant it. Not really. But the thought still flared behind her eyes in moments like this — when thirteen-year-old Jason stood on the sidewalk in front of their building, arms crossed tight over his chest, jaw clenched in that same impossible scowl he'd worn since he was five and learned what no meant.

"You can't just vanish, Jason!" Thalia snapped, her voice sharp and rising. A couple passing by slowed and gave them a quick, uncomfortable glance. She didn't care. "I have no idea where you are for hours — I'm tearing up half the damn city looking for you — what were you thinking?"

Jason didn't flinch. If anything, he squared his shoulders, his chin lifting defiantly.

"I told you, I was fine," he shot back. "I just needed to get out. You don't have to lose your mind every time I leave the apartment!"

"I absolutely do!" Thalia shouted, hands slicing the air. Her voice cracked on the edge of something deeper — fear, fury, fatigue. "You think after everything — after Mom — I'm just gonna shrug and hope you come back? I can't do that, Jason! I won't!"

Jason's eyes flashed. "Oh come on, Thalia — stop making this about her."

She stepped toward him so fast he instinctively took half a step back.

"Don't you dare," she hissed, stabbing a finger toward his chest. "Don't you dare pretend that doesn't matter. She drank herself to death and left me to clean it up. Me! I've been your mother, your father, your whole damn family since you were a baby. And this is what I get? You sneaking out and disappearing like none of it matters?"

Jason looked away for the first time, his jaw working furiously, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

"What do you want me to say?" he said through gritted teeth. "That I'm sorry you got stuck with me? That I should check in every time I breathe so you don't lose your mind? What do you want from me, Thalia? You act like I owe you every second of my life."

"You owe me knowing you're safe!" Thalia practically screamed, her voice cracking in the middle. "Is that really so hard? A text, a dumb note, anything! So I'm not wondering if you're lying dead in some alley or — or worse—"

"I'm not her!" Jason suddenly shouted, louder than he meant to. His voice echoed off the brick and glass around them. A car honked somewhere nearby. "I'm not gonna waste away like she did! Stop acting like I'm already halfway there!"

Thalia's entire body was trembling now, fists clenched so tightly her nails dug into her palms. She barely felt the sting — not compared to the ache in her chest.

"You're thirteen, Jason!" she shouted, voice raw and ragged. "A kid, and my little brother whether you like it or not. You don't get to vanish and leave me wondering if I failed you the way she failed us. Because guess what?" Her voice cracked, a sudden edge of desperation bleeding through the fury. "I still lie awake every night terrified I'm gonna screw this up and lose you too!"

Jason's breath hitched — just enough to be noticed — his eyes suddenly too bright. For a split second, it looked like he might break.

But instead, the anger came roaring back.

"Maybe you'd be happier if you didn't have to worry about me at all!" he shouted, his voice breaking in the middle. "Maybe I should've just stayed in that water. Then you'd be free, right?!"

Thalia reeled back like he'd struck her. Her chest rose and fell in jagged waves, and for a long second she didn't speak. Couldn't.

"Don't you ever say that to me," she growled, voice shaking with fury and tears. "Don't you ever. You are all I have left. So yeah, I'm gonna lose my mind when you pull this crap. Because if something ever happened to you—"

Her voice faltered, her throat tightening too much to get the rest out. The words collapsed in her mouth. And for the first time, Jason looked unsure. The space between them felt suddenly electric — not loud, but charged. Like the moment before a storm. Thalia swallowed hard, forcing herself to keep going.

"If something ever happened to you..." she said again, barely above a whisper now. "I don't know what I'd do. You think I'm hard on you, but it's only because I care. Because I love you, Jason. And you don't get how much that terrifies me sometimes."

Jason let out a bitter laugh — hollow, shaky. "Yeah, well, love sure feels a lot like a cage. Maybe if you'd stop treating me like I'm about to break, I wouldn't have to sneak out just to breathe."

Thalia's eyes snapped open wide. Her voice sharpened like a blade.

"That's what you think this is? Me caging you?" Her laugh was choked, furious. "You ungrateful little—" She cut herself off before the word landed, breathing hard through her nose. "I gave up everything for you. My freedom, my friends, college — hell, even my sanity some days. And you act like I'm the villain in your tragic little story?!"

Jason looked away then — not ashamed, just done. His jaw clenched, his lips a tight line.

"You didn't have to do any of that," he muttered.

"Oh, I did," she spat, stepping closer now, eyes wild. "Because no one else was going to! Because Mom was a useless drunk and you were just a baby and had no one! You think I wanted to be twenty-five and still playing mom? No! But I did it! I kept doing it! Because I love you, Jason."

She was breathing hard now, like she'd sprinted miles on anger alone.

"But some days..." Her voice dropped, the words twisting as they came out. "Some days I wonder if maybe I shouldn't have pulled you out of that bay."

Jason's eyes blazed. "You think I asked for this?"

"I think you need to grow up!" Thalia roared back, the words like whiplash. "Stop acting like the whole damn world owes you something just because you're confused and hormonal! You're not special, Jason! You're just a kid with a chip on his shoulder!"

And then—

"Enough!" Jason shouted.

His voice hit the air like a thunderclap — not loud in volume, but in force. It rattled the air, humming with something primal and deep. There was a flash — a blinding, electric pulse that cracked outward from his chest. A jagged arc of lightning shot violently toward the nearest telephone pole.

With a deafening pop, the transformer exploded in a shower of blue-white sparks. The entire block went dark in an instant. Streetlights blinked out. Storefronts died. Apartment windows flickered to black. Down the street, alarms began to shriek in confused chorus — distant, chaotic, wrong. Smoke curled from the mangled transformer. The faint scent of ozone clung to the air like a storm had passed through — but the skies were clear.

For one long moment, the world held its breath. Jason stood at the epicenter, his chest rising and falling in shallow bursts. His hands trembled in front of him, eyes wide with horror as if he didn't recognize his own skin. The silence between them was louder than the alarms.

"Jason…" Thalia breathed, her voice tight and low. The name caught in her throat.

"I—I'm sorry," he stammered, turning toward her. His face was pale, stricken. "I didn't mean to. I swear, Thalia, I didn't— I don't even know what that was—"

Thalia's heart slammed against her ribs. Every instinct in her screamed to panic. But she didn't. She stepped forward and grabbed his arm — not gently, but not harshly either. Her grip was firm. Protective. Unsteady.

"Inside," she said, her voice all steel and urgency now. "Now."

Jason didn't argue. He just nodded — small, ashamed — and let Thalia take his arm. She pulled him across the cracked sidewalk and through the entrance of their apartment building, the darkened street swallowed behind them. Inside, the stairwell was pitch black. The emergency lights hadn't kicked in. They fumbled upward in silence, each footstep echoing too loud on the concrete steps. Jason held a small flashlight — cheap, plastic, the kind they kept in the junk drawer. Its beam flickered slightly as he aimed it at the stairwell wall, then down at the knob to their front door. Thalia twisted the lock and pushed it open. The apartment inside was dim, unfamiliar in the dark, like a shadow version of home. Distant alarms still rang outside, muffled by layers of walls and time. The faint glow of the flashlight bounced off old furniture and stacked laundry.

"Sit down," Thalia said, her voice low. Not angry anymore — just tired. "We need to talk."

Jason obeyed, sinking onto the couch. He sat stiffly, hands on his knees, his thumbs fidgeting with the edge of a tear in his jeans. The silence between them thickened — not the kind that asked for peace, but the kind that weighed like lead.

Finally, he looked up.

"So…" he began cautiously. "You pulled me out of the Bay when I was a baby, right?"

Thalia leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Yeah," she said. "You were in a pod. It was barely big enough to hold you."

Jason stared at the shadows cast across the carpet. "Did you see where the pod came from? Before you pulled it out?"

She hesitated, her brow furrowing. The question reached farther back than she liked to think — to a day she'd replayed a hundred times in her head, but never fully understood.

"Something else happened that day," she said slowly. "The news went nuts. The Chronicle, local stations — they all ran stories about a 'meteorite' falling into the bay. Bright light. Sonic boom. Whole thing. People swore they saw it from miles away."

Jason looked up at her, brow raised. "But it wasn't a meteorite."

Thalia shook her head. "No," she said. "Now that I think about it it must have been you. You were the one who fell from the sky."

Jason raised an eyebrow, trying to process it. "You missed a bright streak in the sky?"

Thalia's lips twitched into something between a grimace and a smile. "I was… kind of in a dark place. Had a lot on my mind."

Jason considered it for a moment, his fingers picking idly at the frayed threads on his jeans. The faint beam of the flashlight cast long shadows across the living room.

"So maybe I'm from another planet," he said finally, the words landing somewhere between joking and serious.

Thalia tilted her head, giving him a sideways glance. She was expecting sarcasm — but didn't find it. Just curiosity. Wonder, even. "…Could be," she said, slowly. "Makes the most sense, honestly."

Jason smirked, a little flicker of pride rising in his chest. "So… I'm proof that aliens exist."

Thalia rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched. Her smile broke through the tension like sunlight through storm clouds. "I guess you are."

Jason's smirk faded after a beat, brows pulling together as he stared down at his hands again. "But if I'm really from another planet…" he murmured, quieter now, "why would I be sent here? Why Earth?"

Thalia gave a dry, almost hollow laugh as she leaned back on the couch. "That," she said, "is the million-dollar question."

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn't heavy like before. It was quieter. Warmer. Outside the window, the sounds of the city drifted faintly through the glass — the echo of a siren, the chirp of an alarm that hadn't yet been reset, a dog barking somewhere two blocks over.

Jason's shoulders slumped a little. He let out a sigh, long and quiet. "Hey… I'm sorry," he muttered. "For earlier. For running off. I know you care. I was just… mad. And stupid."

Thalia's eyes softened. The sharp edges in her face relaxed as she looked at him — not with judgment, but with something older than that. Something tired. Something maternal. She sat down beside him, the cushion shifting under her weight until their shoulders touched.

"It's okay, kiddo," she said gently. "Look — if you ever want space, that's fine. I get it. Just… let me know beforehand, alright? Shoot me a text, leave a dumb note, anything. It's not because I want to control you. It's because I worry. Because I care. You know that, right?"

Jason nodded. His throat felt tight, but he swallowed past it. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I know."

Thalia reached out, brushing her fingers lightly along his cheek — an instinct more than a gesture. Her touch was warm, steady. A small, unspoken reassurance. "Pulling you out of that pod…" she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, "was the best decision I ever made."

Jason let out a soft huff — half a laugh, half a sigh — and ducked his head slightly, embarrassed by the sudden weight of the affection. "Yeah, well… you're stuck with me now."

Thalia gave an exaggerated groan and leaned back against the couch. "Ugh, don't remind me," she said with a theatrical scowl. "You were way less of a pain in my ass when you couldn't talk or walk."

He scoffed and rolled his eyes, but the grin tugging at his lips betrayed him. She nudged him lightly with her elbow, then fixed him with a look — more serious now, steady and clear.

"Promise me," she said. "If you're gonna go out, just let me know. That's all I ask."

Jason met her gaze, sincere. "I promise."

Thalia pulled him into a hug, wrapping her arms tightly around his shoulders. Jason didn't hesitate — he leaned in and hugged her back, burying his face into her shoulder like he was six years old again and the world had just tipped sideways. Neither of them said anything else.

They didn't need to.

...

The sun hung low over Tilden Park, casting long shadows across the golden hills and winding trails. The scent of eucalyptus drifted on the breeze, crisp and clean, carrying with it the distant chirping of birds and the rustle of leaves. It was quiet here — far from the city, far from prying eyes. Just trees, dirt, and sky.

Thalia had led him off the main path, past the edge of the picnic areas and hiking trails, until they found a small clearing tucked between a grove of tall oaks and a slope of sun-dappled grass. It was secluded, surrounded on all sides by thick trees and underbrush, the kind of place where a person could scream without anyone hearing. Or in this case… discharge lightning. Jason stood in the middle of the clearing, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his hands clenched and unclenched as if expecting something to just click.

Thalia leaned against a tree with her arms crossed, watching him carefully. "You ready?" she asked.

Jason inhaled slowly, exhaled through his nose. "I think so," he said, glancing down at his palms. "There wasn't exactly a manual for this."

Thalia pushed off the tree and nodded toward the open space in front of him. "Go ahead."

Jason took another breath — deeper this time — and closed his eyes. For a moment, nothing happened. Just the wind stirring the leaves and the quiet creak of the trees above them.

Then, slowly, something began to shift.

It started in his fingertips — a faint tingling, like static after dragging socks across carpet. He focused, willing it forward, breathing through the tension building beneath his skin. His jaw clenched as the feeling grew stronger, like pressure building just beneath the surface.

And then — snap!

Electricity burst across his arms, crawling up from his wrists to his shoulders in jagged threads of blue light. It crackled along his chest, illuminating the veins under his skin in glowing pulses. His eyes snapped open — fully alight now, glowing an intense, otherworldly blue that hummed with barely restrained power.

Thalia took a half-step back instinctively, her breath catching in her throat. Her heart pounded. She'd seen strange things in her life — lived through strange — but this was something else. Something raw and dangerous and unmistakably alien.

"…Well, damn," she muttered, eyes wide.

Jason didn't say anything. His face was tense, focused, electricity dancing across his arms like it belonged there.

Thalia pointed to a tall pine standing across the clearing, its bark dark and weathered. "Alright, lightning bug. Try hitting that."

Jason narrowed his eyes at the tree, raised his arm — and with a sudden flick of his wrist, fired a bolt.

It missed by a mile.

The lightning veered wide and scorched a completely different tree ten feet to the left, blasting a chunk of bark off its side and sending a squirrel screeching up into the branches. There was a long beat of silence.

Thalia smirked. "Good effort. If you were trying to prune it."

Jason sighed heavily and rolled his eyes, the lightning still crackling faintly along his arms.

Thalia crossed her arms again and nodded toward the target tree. "Try again."

Jason didn't argue. He squared his stance, focused, and raised his arm. Another bolt. Another miss. He exhaled sharply through his nose, reset, and tried again.

Crack! — too high. The bolt split a branch well above the mark, leaving it dangling precariously.

He gritted his teeth and fired again. Too far left. Again. Too low — scorched the roots. Again.

The static in the air thickened with each attempt. Small arcs of electricity crawled along his fingers even between shots, jittery and impatient. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His breathing grew heavier, shoulders rising and falling with effort. His hands shook — not from fear, but from exhaustion and strain.

He tried again. And again. The tree remained largely untouched.

Finally, Jason let out a sharp, frustrated breath and threw up his hands. "Why is this so damn hard?!"

The lightning dissipated around his arms in a scatter of sparks, vanishing into the air with a quiet hiss. Thalia didn't speak right away. She stepped away from the tree she'd been leaning against and crossed the clearing slowly, her boots crunching softly over leaves and dry grass. Jason kept his eyes down, shoulders tight with shame.

She came to stand beside him, arms loosely folded, voice low and steady. "Hey," she said gently. "No one's expecting you to master it overnight. You've had powers for, what… twelve hours? You're not gonna be a walking EMP right out of the gate."

Jason shook his head, jaw clenched. "It's pointless," he muttered. "What good are powers I can't even control? All I've done is wreck a transformer and traumatize a squirrel."

Thalia snorted softly despite herself. "Pretty sure the squirrel'll live."

He didn't laugh. Just looked away, hands curling and uncurling at his sides. "Maybe I should just… not use them. Just avoid it. Pretend it's not there."

Thalia's expression hardened — not in anger, but something close. Resolve.

"No," she said firmly. "You don't get to bury this. You can't. These powers are a part of you now. You think hiding from them will make them disappear? It won't. It'll just make it worse when they come back — and they will come back. Next time, it might not be a power outage. It might be someone getting hurt. Someone you don't want to hurt."

Jason opened his mouth, then closed it. The words sank in deeper than he wanted to admit.

"You're not dangerous because you have power," Thalia continued. "You're only dangerous if you refuse to understand it. And you've never been the kind of person who quits. Not with anything that matters."

He looked up at her, eyes full of conflict. "You really think I can control it?"

"I know you can," she said. "But only if you stop being afraid of it."

Jason was quiet for a long moment. Then, finally, he gave a slow nod. Not confident. Not certain. But willing.

He turned back toward the clearing and flexed his fingers. "Okay," he said quietly. "Let's try again."

Jason planted his feet, raised his arm, and tried again. The bolt flared — and missed, slicing past the tree and into the dirt with a sharp hiss.

"Too wide," Thalia said, stepping a little closer. "Don't over-extend your wrist. Keep your elbow loose, like you're throwing a punch."

He reset and fired. Miss.

"Closer. Don't just focus on the tree — feel the charge first, then aim."

Another bolt. Off target.

"Stop rushing it, Jason. You're not lobbing fireworks."

Again. Crack!

"Better. But you're still flinching when you release."

Again.

Each time, the sound echoed through the clearing — sizzling energy, scorched bark, split branches. Leaves floated to the ground like confetti from every near miss. Jason was sweating now, hair stuck to his forehead, arms trembling from exertion. His jaw was set, lips pressed in a tight, stubborn line.

Still, he kept going.

Thalia watched him with arms crossed, equal parts coach and sibling — tough, but with that flicker of pride she didn't try to hide anymore. Between every strike, she offered something — a pointer, a word of encouragement, a steadying look.

And then—finally—

Jason raised his hand one more time, breath steady, power building under his skin like a tide coming in. He released it. The bolt flew clean and straight — a perfect arc of blue lightning that cracked against the center of the tree with a resounding snap!, bark exploding outward in a bright, smoking impact.

There was a half-second of stunned silence.

And then—

"YES!" Jason whooped, fist pumping the air. "Did you see that?! I nailed it!"

Thalia grinned wide, genuine and fierce. "Hell yes, you did!"

Jason turned toward her, beaming with breathless pride. Thalia stepped forward without hesitation and threw her arms around him, pulling him into a tight hug.

He hugged her back instantly, laughing against her shoulder, the thrill still surging through him like the lightning hadn't quite left.

"I told you," she said into his hair, her voice proud and steady. "You just had to stop being afraid."

After a moment, Thalia pulled back, her eyes still wide with exhilaration. "Okay," she said, practically bouncing on her heels, "do it again."

Jason grinned — wild, electric, unstoppable. "You sure?"

"Hit it!"

He turned back toward the clearing, raised his hand, and fired.

Crack!

Another bolt struck the same tree, scorching a fresh line into its trunk.

Jason barely paused.

Again.

Crack!

And again.

Crack!

He didn't stop. The lightning poured from him in rapid bursts, more precise than before — each strike hitting the same spot, carving deep into the wood. The tree began to lean, smoke curling from its bark where the lightning had seared layer after layer away.

Thalia's smile faltered. "Okay, okay — Jason, you're good! Seriously, you're gonna—"

Another bolt.

CRACK!

There was a splintering snap — loud and final — as the tree gave out, its trunk splitting clean through. The great pine groaned as it toppled, crashing down through the clearing with a force that shook the ground.

"Jason!" Thalia shouted, ducking instinctively as branches whipped toward her.

Jason didn't move. Not until the last second — when the heavy trunk came down directly over Thalia's head, and everything happened at once. Her eyes squeezed shut— and then... nothing.

No impact. No pain. She opened her eyes slowly, heart pounding in her ears. The tree was hovering above her, frozen in mid-air.

Jason stood beneath it, both hands raised, holding the entire trunk above his head like it weighed nothing. His expression was wide-eyed, stunned — but controlled. Lightning still flickered faintly under his skin, but it was his strength holding it there.

Thalia blinked up at him, too shocked to speak.

"Uh…" Jason said, cheeks flushed. "Sorry. Got carried away."

He gently turned, walked to the stump, and set the massive tree down beside it with surprising care — as if he'd just picked up a chair and moved it across the room.

Thalia stared at the felled tree, then back at Jason, her mouth slightly open. "You just—" she started, still breathless. "You just caught a tree."

Jason rubbed the back of his neck, trying to look casual. "Yeah… I guess I did."

"That wasn't normal," she said, eyes wide. "That was, like… superhuman. Do you know how heavy that thing is?"

"I mean, yeah," Jason muttered, shrugging awkwardly. "It was heavier than it looked, but… I dunno. It didn't feel impossible."

Thalia paced in a small circle, gesturing wildly. "Okay, so you've got lightning. You've got super-strength. What if there's more? What if that wasn't it?"

Jason blinked. "More?"

"Yeah. What if this is just the start?" she said, eyes sharp with thought. "You've already ticked off, like, half the superhero starter pack. Lightning, strength—what else is in the deluxe set?"

Jason lifted his hands, palms up. "I dunno. I didn't exactly come with an instruction manual."

Thalia stopped pacing and looked at him, serious now. "What about flying?"

Jason tilted his head. "Flying?"

"Yeah." She looked up toward the sky beyond the trees. "I mean, if anyone could… it'd be the glowing lightning kid who fell from space, right?"

Jason gave a skeptical laugh. "Okay, but how does that even work?"

Thalia shrugged. "Try jumping really hard… and try not to come back down."

Jason raised an eyebrow. "That's your advice?"

"It's either that or I throw you off a hill and see what happens."

Jason sighed, then stepped back, flexed his hands, and bent his knees slightly. "…Here goes nothing."

He jumped... and he didn't come back down. He hovered several feet off the ground, eyes wide, limbs awkwardly spread as if unsure how to balance in midair.

Thalia's jaw dropped. "No. Freaking. Way. You're actually—you're flying."

Jason laughed — a shaky, astonished sound. "I'm flying!"

They both burst out in overlapping whoops, the clearing echoing with pure disbelief and excitement. Thalia spun in a circle with her hands on her head, like she couldn't process it. Jason just hovered there, grinning like an idiot.

"This is insane!" he shouted down at her.

"This is awesome!" she shouted back, grinning just as wide.

Jason's laugh gradually faded into a breathless, overwhelmed smile. "Okay… so what now?"

Thalia beamed up at him. "Move around a little! Test it! See what you can do."

Jason hesitated for only a second — then angled his body slightly. He drifted left. Then right.

Then he shot forward, overshot, wobbled in the air, and pulled himself back mid-hover. "Whoa—okay—hang on—"

He dipped low, then jerked up again, then floated back down before springing up once more, gaining a little more control each time. He was still clumsy — like a toddler learning how to walk — but he was doing it.

Jason blinked, wind in his hair, eyes sparkling with adrenaline. "I think… I think I'm actually getting the hang of this."

"Take it slow, okay?" Thalia warned gently, her eyes locked on him with a mixture of caution and awe.

Jason's eyes gleamed with excitement — wild, electric, barely contained. "Slow?" he said, grinning. "Where's the fun in that?"

Before she could say another word, he shot upward — faster and bolder than before — zipping through the air like a blue comet on a sugar rush. His body arced high above the treetops, a blur against the sky. Then, without warning, he dove straight down, slicing through the air at a speed that made Thalia's breath catch. At the last second, he pulled up hard, whooping with laughter, the rush of movement leaving a rippling echo in his wake.

"Jason, ease up!" Thalia called, raising her voice now, but he was already gone again — zigzagging wildly across the sky with no rhythm or restraint, just pure, unfiltered exhilaration.

"Shit," she muttered, and took off running, pushing herself through the underbrush, boots pounding against the uneven ground as she tried to keep up.

Jason was everywhere — darting from one end of the clearing to the other, looping around treetops, cutting through low-hanging branches, spiraling higher than before. He rose again, this time piercing the clouds, his form momentarily swallowed by white mist before he reappeared — falling like a meteor toward the ground.

He flipped midair, spinning like a gymnast, twisting once, twice, before snapping upright in a sharp vertical climb that barely cleared the treetops. Then, wearing a grin so wide it looked like it hurt, he shot horizontally in a lightning-fast streak, carving the sky like a blade made of storm.

"Jason! Seriously, slow down!" Thalia shouted, breathless now, her pace faltering as he whipped past overhead. The wind from his slipstream tousled her hair and kicked up dust and pine needles.

But he wasn't listening. Or if he was, he didn't care.

He hovered for a heartbeat, arms outstretched like wings, chest heaving with adrenaline. He looked completely at home up there — like gravity no longer applied to him. Then he tilted forward and launched into a spinning corkscrew, twirling tighter and faster until he blurred in motion, the wind howling around him.

Thalia's heart was hammering now, part awe, part dread. "You're pushing it—ease up!" she yelled again, trying to track his erratic flight pattern. But Jason just kept climbing, faster, higher.

Jason shot forward suddenly, faster than before, a streak of motion cutting low over the trees. He weaved through the air with sharp, sudden turns — jerking left, then banking hard right, pushing tighter and tighter curves like he was daring his body to fail. His grin hadn't faded, but there was something more concentrated in his expression now — a look that said he wasn't just having fun anymore. He was testing himself. Trying to find the edge.

But then — without warning — something went wrong.

His momentum caught awkwardly mid-turn, and his body lurched in midair. His balance faltered, his limbs flailing as his trajectory stuttered violently out of rhythm. The light around him flickered, and the control he'd barely begun to master vanished in an instant.

"Jason!" Thalia shouted, her voice rising in alarm.

Too late. He tumbled downward — hard, fast, out of control. His body spun once, twice, before he dropped like a stone, crashing through a break in the tree line.

Splash!

The impact with Lake Anza was loud and violent, a spray of water shooting high into the air as his body disappeared beneath the surface.

People nearby jumped up from picnic blankets and folding chairs scattered along the shore. A pair of kids screamed. One woman dropped her iced coffee. A man standing waist-deep in the water stumbled backward, eyes wide as he pointed toward the rippling lake.

"What the hell was that?!"

"Did something fall?"

"Was that—was that a person?!"

Within seconds, the quiet afternoon along the lakefront had erupted into chaos. Voices rose in confusion and fear. Someone fumbled for their phone. Others backed away from the shoreline entirely, staring at the wide circle of churning water where Jason had gone under.

Thalia sprinted through the scattered crowd, weaving through startled onlookers and brushing past outstretched arms as people backed away from the shore in confusion. A man tried to stop her with a cautious "Miss, is everything okay?" but she didn't even break stride.

She reached the water's edge just as ripples began to spread wider across the lake's surface. Her boots skidded slightly on the wet stone, her eyes locked on the churning spot where Jason had gone under.

Then — with a sputter and a splash — Jason surfaced.

He emerged drenched from head to toe, hair plastered against his forehead, water running in streams down his arms and back. He coughed once, wiped his eyes, and looked up at her with a sheepish grin.

"Okay," he said breathlessly. "Maybe I got a little carried away."

"You think?" Thalia barked, hands on her hips, eyes sharp enough to cut steel. "You could've gotten hurt!"

Jason slogged toward the shallows, water sloshing around his knees, his clothes sticking to him like a second skin. He shrugged, still smiling. "I can't get hurt."

Thalia's glare only deepened. "You're not invincible, Jason."

His smile faltered just a touch. He sighed, then nodded with a sheepish tilt of his head. "Alright, yeah… you're right. I could've gotten hurt."

Without another word, Thalia stepped forward, grabbing his face between her hands like she might shake the sense back into him. Her thumbs brushed over his cheekbones, eyes scanning his skin, searching for any sign of injury — a bruise, a cut, anything. There was nothing. Only a soaking-wet teenage boy with too much power and not quite enough fear.

Relief flooded her features like a valve had finally been released. Her shoulders relaxed slightly, but her grip didn't loosen. "That's probably enough for today," she said firmly.

Jason groaned. "Aww, come on! I just started figuring it out. I wanted to keep going."

"You nearly crash-landed into someone's lunch." She slipped an arm around his shoulders as they started walking. "Another day. For now, this is enough."

Jason rolled his eyes, but his grin softened, settling into something quieter. Grateful. Safe. He leaned into her a little as they stepped around the edge of the lake, drawing a few lingering stares from the remaining crowd.

The chaos faded behind them. The storm had passed. And now — together — they made their way back toward the trees, one careful, steady step at a time.

Chapter Text

Chapter 9: Jason III

Two Years Later ...

The final bell echoed through the halls of Cypress Ridge High, followed by the usual stampede of students flooding toward the exits. Lockers slammed, laughter carried down crowded corridors, and the warm afternoon sun spilled over the front steps like a signal flare: freedom.

Jason Grace stepped outside, his backpack slung lazily over one shoulder, earbuds stuffed in but playing nothing. The buzz of chatter around him was just noise today — meaningless, distant. He kept his head down as he cut through the small crowds gathered near the bike racks and pickup line, not stopping when someone called out to him from across the lot.

By now, he had a routine. The streets near the school were familiar — a blur of corner markets, cracked sidewalks, rusted street signs, and crooked telephone poles. He passed a man selling fruit from a cart, a tired-looking dog tied outside a dry cleaner, and a mural he'd watched fade and be re-tagged a dozen times over the past year.

A few blocks later, he turned onto Grayson Avenue, the scent of grilled onions and toasted bread tugging at his memory. His stomach grumbled on cue.

Gino's Grill sat quietly on the corner, wedged between a paint-chipped hardware store and a vape shop that changed names every six months. The green awning over the windows was faded and peeling, but the inside always smelled like something worth stopping for.

Jason pushed the door open, letting in a gust of warm air behind him. It was quiet inside — low chatter, the clink of silverware, and the tinny sound of a baseball game coming from a wall-mounted TV behind the counter. A waitress he didn't recognize gave him a nod, and old man Gino glanced up from the kitchen window but didn't say a word. He just waved him toward the usual booth.

Jason slid in near the window, the vinyl seat cracked but familiar. He ordered without needing a menu — grilled chicken sandwich, fries, root beer — and then leaned back, letting his thoughts drift while he waited.

The food came fast, as it always did. No frills. No words. Just a basket of hot fries and a sandwich that hit exactly right. Jason ate slowly, taking his time between bites. Outside, people passed by in pairs and small groups, shadows stretching across the sidewalk. The world looked normal. Ordinary. He almost forgot, for a moment, who he was. What he could do.

He wiped his hands on a napkin and leaned back in the booth, full and content in that sleepy, after-school way. A few more minutes passed like that — the hum of the city outside, the smell of fryer oil, and the fading voices on the television. Then he stood, dropped a ten and a few wrinkled ones on the table, and made his way toward the door.

The late afternoon sun hit him as he stepped back outside, the air cooler now, the light golden and beginning to stretch long across the pavement. Jason adjusted his backpack and tucked his hands into his jacket pockets as he started down the sidewalk. The sky had shifted while he was eating — the sun now dipped low behind the buildings, casting longer shadows across the street. A light wind rustled the awning above Gino's, carrying with it the faint scent of car exhaust and something sweet from the corner bakery.

Jason wasn't in a rush. The walk home wasn't far, and this part of Berkeley — older and quieter — always felt calmer at this time of day, comfortably familiar. But halfway down the block, just as he passed a closed-down print shop, a sudden noise broke the rhythm of his footsteps.

He suddenly heard a sharp yelp and stopped in his tracks, his head snapping toward the sound. Another noise followed — the scrape of a heel against pavement, then a muffled shout, too garbled to make out but unmistakably filled with fear.

He turned slowly toward the alley just ahead — a narrow space between the print shop and a boarded-up salon with broken windows and faded lettering. The shadows were heavier there, the light struggling to reach beyond the main street. Jason crept forward, careful not to make noise as he approached the mouth of the alley. He pressed himself against the brick wall and leaned just enough to peer around the corner.

What he saw made his stomach twist. There was a woman — maybe mid-thirties, brown jacket, shoulder bag hanging from one arm — was backed against the alley wall. Her eyes were wide, one hand raised between her and the man closing in. The guy was tall, wiry, maybe in his twenties, wearing a hoodie pulled low and holding something in his right hand — not a gun, but a short length of pipe. He gestured sharply with it, shouting something Jason couldn't quite hear over the hum of distant traffic.

She tried to push past him once, but he shoved her hard against the bricks, pinning her back with one hand while ripping at the strap of her bag with the other. Jason stayed perfectly still, his heart hammering in his chest. He didn't move — not yet. He leaned in, listening more closely now that the sounds weren't just muffled background noise. The woman's voice trembled as she pleaded, "Please, just take the bag—"

"Shut up and stay still, or I'll make you," the man snapped, his voice low and threatening.

There was a scuffle — the slap of skin against skin — followed by a frightened gasp. Jason didn't pause to think; he moved. In one swift motion, he slipped off his backpack and hurled it into the alley with as much force as he could muster. It crashed into a stack of milk crates beside the man, the clatter loud enough to startle him. The attacker flinched and turned in confusion, giving the woman just enough space to scramble to the side.

Jason didn't wait for the man to figure it out; he lunged. The guy barely had time to lift the pipe before Jason tackled him hard into the alley wall. The metal clanged to the ground as it slipped from his grip, but Jason didn't let up. He drove a knee into the man's gut, forcing a grunt from his lungs, then followed with a quick right hook across the jaw that sent him reeling sideways.

The man tried to recover, but Jason grabbed the back of his hoodie, yanked him backward, and slammed him into the dumpster with a metallic bang. He cocked back again and landed a clean shot to the ribs, then another. The man swung wildly in return, but Jason ducked, then shoved him down to the guy didn't get back up. He groaned once, curling slightly, and went still.

Jason stepped back, chest heaving, hands shaking with leftover adrenaline. His fists stung — raw knuckles, the throb of impact echoing through his forearms — but he was still standing. Slowly, he turned. The woman was staring at him, frozen just a few feet away, her shoulder bag still clutched tightly in one hand.

Jason took a step forward, still catching his breath. "Are you okay?"

The woman nodded quickly, her hands shaking as she clutched her bag tighter to her chest. "Y-Yeah. Thanks to you."

Jason glanced down at the guy still groaning on the pavement. "You sure you're not hurt?"

"No, I'm good. Just… rattled." She offered a weak smile, brushing hair from her face. "You came out of nowhere. That was… something."

He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly unsure what to do with himself. "Yeah. I just—I heard what was happening and figured I had to do something."

"Well… thank you." Her voice steadied a little. "You probably saved my life."

Jason looked away, embarrassed. "I'm just glad I got there in time."

They stood in silence for a beat, the sounds of distant traffic slowly returning around them, the danger fading as quickly as it had appeared.

"I should go," Jason said, adjusting the strap of his backpack. "You take care, alright?"

"I will. You too."

Jason gave a small nod, then turned and headed out of the alley, his heart still pounding, his hands still aching — but a strange, lingering sense of clarity blooming in his chest. He didn't know what this was yet. Or who he was supposed to become.

But it did feel like the start of something.

...

The Grace apartment was quiet that night — peaceful, even. Outside, the city of Berkeley hummed with distant noise, but in here, it was all dim lights, old furniture, and the soft drone of the TV playing something neither of them was really watching.

Thalia pushed through the front door just after eight, keys clattering into the ceramic dish by the entrance. She kicked off her boots and groaned, rubbing at her neck with one hand while the other dropped her messenger bag to the floor.

Jason was already home, sprawled on the couch, eyes on the TV. The flickering light played across his face, but his mind seemed elsewhere. A half-full bottle of water sat beside him on the coffee table. His backpack was slumped by the hallway door.

"Hey," Thalia greeted, heading into the kitchen. "You eat?"

"Yeah," Jason said, not looking away from the screen. "Went to Gino's after school."

"Ugh, lucky. I've been thinking about their garlic knots all day."

She dug into the fridge and pulled out a Tupperware container of last night's enchiladas. Tossed it in the microwave, set the timer, and leaned back against the counter with a sigh.

"How was work?" Jason asked, glancing her way.

"Hell," she muttered. "We had a power outage at the clinic for twenty minutes. Some guy tried to fight a vending machine. I think a patient's dog peed in the hallway. Pretty standard."

Jason huffed a laugh through his nose.

"You?"

Jason shrugged. "Nothing special. Tests. Long day."

She squinted at him but let it go. The microwave beeped.

Thalia grabbed the container and a fork, then dropped herself into the worn armchair beside the couch. She dug in, eating in tired, satisfied silence while Jason kept half his attention on the TV.

Only once she'd finished — licking the last bit of sauce from her fork — did she set the container aside, stand up, and cross over to the couch.

"Make room," she said, nudging his legs.

Jason shifted without protest as Thalia slid in beside him, leaning over to rest her head in his lap. She curled into the cushions with a deep exhale, and he adjusted slightly to make her more comfortable. One hand eventually came to rest in her hair, idly brushing through the strands.

The movie kept playing — some early 2000s action flick with cheesy dialogue and improbable explosions — but neither of them paid attention. It was about the quiet, the comfort, the normalcy. Yet beneath it all, Jason's mind was still racing. His knuckles still ached faintly, and he hadn't told her yet.

Eventually, Thalia's breathing slowed. Her body, warm and heavy against him, melted further into the cushions. She shifted once, murmured something half-formed, then went still again — sound asleep.

Jason didn't move at first. He kept his eyes on the screen, pretending to be as relaxed as he appeared, but his mind was racing. He thought about the alley, about the man's face when he tackled him, and about the woman's eyes — wide, stunned, and grateful. She hadn't screamed or run; instead, she had thanked him.

Carefully, Jason shifted under Thalia's head. He slid his hand beneath her, gently lifting, then easing himself out from under. With practiced care, he lowered her head back onto a throw pillow and tucked the old fleece blanket from the back of the couch around her shoulders. She murmured again but didn't wake.

Jason stepped lightly down the hallway, pushing open the door to his room and slipping inside. He shut it behind him with a soft click. The room was dark, lit only by the streetlamp glow leaking through the blinds. His bed sat unmade, hoodie tossed across the footboard. Posters on the walls, a couple trophies from middle school track, some books piled up on his desk. Normal and safe stuff.

Jason lay down, staring at the ceiling, but sleep didn't come. He kept seeing it — that flash of fear in the alley. The way the man grabbed the woman's purse, how easily he'd shoved her into the wall. That could've been Thalia. That could've been anyone.

He sighed, ran a hand through his hair, and sat up again. His desk chair creaked faintly as he pulled it out and opened his laptop. The screen glowed to life in the quiet room, casting blue light across his face. For a second, he didn't know what he was looking for.

Then, on impulse, he typed into the search bar: "Live crime reports near me."

The first few results were local police blotters, a link to the Citizen app, and a site that tracked 911 call logs in real time. Jason clicked. And what started as curiosity began to shift into something else entirely.

Jason clicked through the site, expecting maybe a handful of incidents. What he found instead was a flood — a seemingly endless scroll of alerts, each one a small snapshot of something awful. Armed robbery in West Berkeley. Carjacking near Fruitvale. Shots fired in Hunter's Point. Assault downtown. Petty theft in Richmond. Domestic calls out of East Oakland. A stabbing in the Tenderloin.

His stomach turned. He hadn't even meant to dig this deep. It started with idle curiosity, just a random click while trying to settle his mind after everything that had happened earlier that week. But now his screen was cluttered with police logs and incident maps, heat spots glowing red and orange like festering wounds across the Bay Area. Berkeley. Oakland. San Francisco. Richmond. Emeryville. It was everywhere. And this was just one night.

He sat still for a moment, processing it all. This wasn't a one-off mugging in an alley. It wasn't just bad luck. It was a system that seemed to be breaking — or maybe it had already broken. The woman he saved could've been anyone, on any block, in any of these cities. And there were hundreds more like her — people who didn't get lucky. People who had no one to step in.

Jason opened his laptop fully now, fingers hovering over the keyboard. A few searches later, he found it — a police scanner app. Free. Easy. He downloaded it without hesitation.

The moment the feed came alive, his room filled with a crackling, chaotic kind of noise. Cold dispatcher voices. Static-laced police chatter. One unit responding to a robbery. Another flagged down by a street witness. Words like "suspect fleeing on foot," "possible weapon," "shots fired," all blurred together in a flurry of coded urgency. And it never stopped.

The app updated in real time. Every few seconds, a new incident. Every few minutes, another neighborhood. Jason felt like he was standing at the center of something huge, dark, and impossible to ignore — a city, multiple cities, straining under the weight of their own shadows.

He leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on the map now pulsing red with crime alerts. His reflection stared back at him in the glass of the darkened window, faint and flickering. The thought that had lingered ever since that night in the alley — it finally settled into something solid: I could be doing more.

He thought about the woman. The fear on her face. The way she'd looked at him, like he was something more than just a kid. She had no idea what he could actually do — and he hadn't even used his powers then. But he could've. He could've ended it faster. Cleaner. Safer.

He had lightning in his body. Strength in his bones. The ability to fly. That wasn't a fluke or a gift to be wasted. It was power. Real power. And what was the point of it, if he didn't use it?

Jason's eyes flicked to the hoodie hanging off his chair. One of his gloves sat tucked underneath it. His mind was already racing. He didn't need something flashy — just something basic, something that let him help without being recognized. Something that let him move at night, quietly. Unseen.

He wasn't sure what this would look like. He wasn't even sure how far he was willing to go. But one thing had become clear: he couldn't sit back anymore. Not with this many people slipping through the cracks. This wasn't just Berkeley's problem. This was everywhere.

And maybe, just maybe, he could do something about it.

...

The next evening came with a quiet chill in the air — a typical Bay Area dusk, cool and tinged with fog. School had come and gone like usual. Jason kept his head down through most of it, barely registering his history quiz or the cafeteria noise. His mind was elsewhere — on the feed, on the map, on the night ahead.

After school, he made his way to Gino's again, sliding into his usual corner booth. He ordered a sandwich and fries, eating with one eye on the door and the other on his thoughts. He didn't talk to anyone. Didn't linger. Just ate, paid in cash, and slipped out the door with his hood up.

From there, he made his way down the block to a small, cluttered corner store — the kind that sold everything from energy drinks to Halloween masks. He scanned the shelves, looking casual, until he spotted what he needed. Tucked beneath a rack of novelty sunglasses was a simple black face mask. It wasn't flashy — just a matte black neoprene thing, meant for skiing or biking. But it would do. He paid for it in exact change and left without a word.

Later that night, with the apartment bathed in stillness and the faint hum of Thalia's white noise machine echoing from her room, Jason stood in front of his mirror. He pulled on a plain black hoodie — nothing eye-catching, just thick and practical. He tugged the mask down over his face, tucking it neatly beneath the hood. Then came the gloves — dark utility ones he'd used for helping Thalia move boxes a few months ago.

It wasn't a real suit. It wasn't even close. But it was something. Enough to blur the line between Jason Grace, sophomore, and whoever he was about to become tonight. He took a breath, checked his reflection one more time, and turned off the light.

The night air hit him the moment he stepped out onto the rooftop. It was crisp, laced with the distant scent of car exhaust and blooming jasmine from someone's garden two buildings down. The city below was alive — restless — even though most windows glowed with the warmth of evening routines.

Jason stood still for a moment, letting the wind rustle his hoodie. Then, cautiously, he closed his eyes. He wasn't sure what he expected. Maybe silence. Maybe nothing. Instead… he heard everything.

At first it was just static — a wall of ambient noise that made no sense. But as he focused, the chaos began to sort itself, like turning a dial on a radio until the frequencies lined up.

He could hear footsteps — hundreds of them — layered like a moving puzzle over the sidewalks of Berkeley. A couple arguing in hushed voices on a porch. Laughter from a backyard gathering several blocks away. A dog barking, another answering in the distance.

Then he listened farther. A car engine sputtering on University Avenue. Sirens in Oakland, echoing across the bay like distant drums. A baby crying in a Richmond apartment complex. The clang of metal on concrete as someone — somewhere in San Francisco — knocked over a trash can and cursed under their breath. He could hear tires squeal. A phone vibrating on a wooden table. The rush of wind funneling between skyscrapers across the water.

Jason's eyes snapped open, breath catching in his chest. What the hell…?

It was like the city had opened itself to him. No — not just Berkeley. Oakland. San Francisco. Richmond. El Cerrito. Emeryville. The whole Bay, layered around him like a breathing organism. Every sound a pulse. Every voice a flicker of life.

His heart pounded. Another power. Not just flight. Not just strength. Not just lightning. But also awareness. He backed up a step, nearly overwhelmed, clutching the edge of the rooftop as if to ground himself. He hadn't even meant to do it. It had just… happened.

Jason stared out at the sprawl of lights, the whispering chaos below. It was overwhelming, and yet he felt a pull — an urge to do something with it. He had to.

Jason drew in a breath and closed his eyes again, steadying himself against the wall of sound. It crashed into him like a tidal wave — engines revving, dogs barking, TVs chattering from apartment windows. But now he understood how to filter it. How to separate the noise from the signals. One by one, he tuned out the distractions: the arguments over parking spaces, the basketball thuds in a driveway, the old man grumbling at his cat.

Then something snapped into focus — the sound of glass shattering, followed by a startled voice shouting, "Hands up! Now!"

Jason's eyes flew open, his body suddenly tense. The voice was rough, panicked — and nearby, just a few blocks east. He stepped closer to the edge of the rooftop, listening harder. The familiar chime of a convenience store door rang out, followed by another shout from the same man, louder this time.

"No hero moves, alright? Just open the register. Let's go!"

Jason clenched his jaw. The next voice he heard made his stomach twist — a scared teenager, probably no older than him. "O-okay! Okay, just don't shoot me, man!"

There was a shuffle of movement, the distinct rattle of a drawer being pulled open, coins clinking against one another, the soft slap of bills being grabbed in a hurry.

Jason's fingers curled into fists. His heart hammered in his chest, not from fear — but from something else. That same feeling he'd had in the alley the other night. A spark deep in his gut telling him he couldn't sit this one out and hope it ended okay. Not when he had power. Not when he could help. Not when someone was scared, and he had a way to stop it.

He took one last glance across the rooftops, locking in on the direction. And then — without another second of hesitation — Jason moved.

…

The two masked robbers were in full control. One held a gun on the trembling cashier, a lanky teenager with a nametag that read "Ben." The other was behind the counter, stuffing cash into a black duffel bag, cursing under his breath as bills slipped from his grasp.

Neither of them noticed the faint rush of wind outside. Not until the front door jingled softly — and a figure stepped in.

"Who the hell—?"

The one with the gun barely finished the sentence before Jason moved.

A blur of black — hoodie, gloves, and a simple mask concealing his face — crossed the space in a fraction of a second. Before the gunman could even raise his weapon, Jason was in front of him, hand snapping forward to slap the pistol clean from his grip. It clattered to the floor, and before the man could even shout, Jason grabbed the front of his jacket, spun him around, and slammed him flat onto the floor with a force that knocked the wind out of him.

The second robber reacted slower, reaching for something under his coat — a knife, maybe — but Jason was already there. In a rush of wind and a blur of movement, the man went from standing to face-down on the tile floor, his arms twisted behind his back and the duffel bag spilled open beside him like an afterthought. Ben stood frozen behind the register, mouth hanging open in stunned silence. The entire robbery had been dismantled in less than ten seconds.

Jason straightened, taking a quick glance around to confirm there were no more threats. He walked over to the counter, scooped up the fallen bills from the floor, and gently handed them back to the cashier.

"Here," he said, voice calm but firm. "Call the cops. They're not getting away."

Ben blinked, finally able to move. He grabbed the store phone with trembling fingers. Jason gave a faint nod, then turned and bolted out the door — a rush of air trailing behind him.

By the time the police arrived, there was no sign of the masked teen. Only two unconscious robbers, a bag of recovered cash, and a cashier trying to explain what had just happened.

...

The television screen buzzed with static for half a second before cutting to a live broadcast. The words BREAKING NEWS flashed in bold red across the bottom of the screen, and the anchor's expression was caught somewhere between bemusement and disbelief.

"Tonight, something... strange happened in downtown Berkeley," the reporter said, her voice tinged with curiosity. "A convenience store on College Avenue was the target of an attempted armed robbery — until it wasn't. Two suspects were taken down in a matter of seconds by what witnesses are calling a 'masked blur.'"

The screen cut to shaky cellphone footage, likely taken from across the street — just a flash of black dashing into the store and a few seconds later, two men sprawled on the ground. The footage was chaotic and inconclusive, but it told enough of the story to fuel speculation.

Then it cut to a short interview outside the taped-off storefront.

Ben, the cashier, stood in front of a KRON 4 News mic, pale but animated. "He just… appeared," he said, eyes wide behind his glasses. "Like, one second I'm staring down a gun, and the next — boom! They're both on the floor. He was wearing a black hoodie and a mask. Moved like lightning or something. I don't know what I saw. But… he saved me. Straight up. Whoever he is — he's a hero."

The reporter turned back to the camera. "Police are still reviewing security footage and questioning witnesses, but so far, no identification has been made. As for the masked vigilante, the internet is already buzzing with theories. Is Berkeley home to its first real-life superhero?"

…

Sunlight filtered through the windows of the modest kitchen as the smell of coffee and toast filled the air. Jason sat at the table, dressed for school and scrolling absently on his phone, while Thalia stood over the stove reheating last night's pasta.

"I swear," she said, scooping food onto a plate, "the world gets weirder every week."

Jason didn't look up. "Oh yeah?"

She set the plate down in front of him and reached for her coffee. "Yeah, check this out." She slid her phone across the table.

On it was a local news tweet, complete with a blurry still image from the store's exterior camera. The headline read:

"Masked Vigilante Stops Armed Robbery in Berkeley — Who Is the Mysterious Hero?"

Jason's eyes flicked over the screen. The photo showed nothing identifiable — just a figure in motion, little more than a shadow streaking into the store.

He let out a noncommittal hum, poking at his food. "Huh. Wild."

Thalia narrowed her eyes at him, sipping her coffee slowly. "Yeah. Wild."

Jason didn't flinch. He took a bite of toast like he hadn't just single-handedly taken down two armed criminals the night before.

"I mean," he added casually, "good for that guy, whoever he is."

Thalia stared at him for a beat longer, then shrugged and returned to her breakfast. But Jason couldn't stop the tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Thalia's eyes narrowed the second Jason tried to play it off. That subtle little smirk on his face was all the confirmation she needed.

"It was you, wasn't it?" she asked flatly, pointing at him with her fork. "You took down those robbers."

Jason's eyes widened for a fraction of a second, but then he sighed, guilty and caught. "…Yeah. It was me."

Thalia stared at him, her breakfast forgotten. "Jason, are you out of your mind?"

"I know," he said quickly, "but I couldn't just walk away. I heard the robbery happening — it was bad, Thalia. Guys with weapons, yelling, threatening the cashier. I had to step in. And I did. I stopped them. No one got hurt. Not even the ones robbing the place."

Her jaw clenched, a storm brewing in her expression. "That's not the point. You could've been shot. Or stabbed. We don't even know if you're bulletproof, Jason."

"I'm fast," he countered. "Faster than any of them could react. I've got powers, Thalia. I can't just sit around doing nothing when people are in danger."

Thalia stood up from the table, pacing now. "So what, you're gonna start prowling the streets at night? Like some knockoff superhero? Jason, this isn't a comic book!"

"I don't think it is!" he snapped, standing too. "But I can't pretend like I didn't stop something awful last night. What if no one else had stepped in? What would've happened to that kid behind the counter?"

Thalia stopped pacing. Her shoulders slumped slightly. "…You really want to do this?"

Jason met her gaze and nodded, firm. "Yeah. I do."

She studied him for a long moment, torn between worry and pride. Then she slowly stepped forward and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Fine. But if you're going to keep doing this… you be smart about it. No hero crap unless you absolutely have to. You keep a low profile. And you do not get caught. Got it?"

Jason nodded, grateful. "Got it."

She embraced him. "Be careful, Jason."

He nodded into her shoulder. "I will."

...

Over the course of the next year, Jason Grace became something else. Something unspoken. Something whispered.

He was a blur in the dark — a hooded figure streaking through alleyways, darting across rooftops, and vanishing before authorities could even ask questions. There was no name yet, no identity to latch onto. Just stories.

A liquor store robbery in Oakland — masked men stormed in, armed and loud, and were gone in under two minutes. But so were the culprits. A witness swore they saw someone tackle the men outside, disarm them, and knock them out cold before melting back into the night.

A woman walking home late in San Francisco — shadowed by two men with bad intentions. She didn't even realize she was being followed until a sudden gust of wind, a flash of movement, and her stalkers were on the ground groaning. She turned to thank her rescuer, but there was no one there.

A fire escape collapsed during a party in Richmond — Jason caught the first girl mid-fall, dashed up the wall, and grabbed two more before they hit the pavement. He didn't stick around to be thanked.

Then there was the car crash.

It was late, pouring rain, somewhere on Interstate 80 just outside of Berkeley. A black SUV clipped the divider and flipped, colliding with a second vehicle and trapping a family of four. The police were still en route, sirens echoing in the distance, when Jason arrived. He landed hard, the asphalt slick beneath his sneakers, his hoodie already soaked.

The first thing he did was pry open the crushed passenger door — his strength turning twisted metal into scrap. He calmed the panicked father, pulled the unconscious mother out with delicate care, and then helped the two children crawl out through the shattered back window. When the gas tank began to leak, he hoisted the entire SUV just enough to drag the final survivor out.

By the time the first responders arrived, all they found were stunned victims and rumors of a "young guy in black" who moved like a storm.

Back in Berkeley, Jason broke up brawls outside bars, intervened in gang disputes before they turned deadly, and once even pulled a stolen SUV out of the Bay before it could sink. He wasn't just hunting criminals — he was saving lives. Sometimes it was as simple as stopping a thief. Other nights, it was carrying an injured cyclist ten blocks to the ER or escorting an elderly man home when he'd gotten lost and confused.

He never stayed long. He never gave a name. But slowly, videos began to circulate — grainy, shaky phone footage of a black-hooded figure sprinting across rooftops, or disappearing around a corner at impossible speeds.

People started giving him all kinds of names ranging from "a shadow" to "a kid". But he knew who he was. And every night, when the city fell quiet and the police scanners came alive in his room, he pulled on the mask again.

...

It was a lazy Saturday afternoon, and the apartment was unusually quiet. Thalia was at work, pulling a double shift, and Jason was home alone, stretched out across the couch in a pair of joggers and an old hoodie. A half-eaten bag of chips lay open on the coffee table beside the TV remote, which he flicked through mindlessly.

He clicked past a rerun of a sitcom, then a cooking competition with way too much yelling, and finally a nature documentary narrated by someone who sounded half-asleep. With a sigh, Jason leaned his head back against the cushion. "Nothing on."

Then the screen flickered. A red BREAKING NEWS banner flashed across the local news station. Jason's hand froze, remote still pointed at the TV.

"—live footage from downtown San Francisco, where the First Bay Financial Bank is currently under siege," the anchor said breathlessly. "Reports confirm that several armed suspects entered the bank around 2:45 p.m. this afternoon. Authorities believe there are hostages still inside. The SFPD has surrounded the area and is urging residents to stay away."

Jason sat up straighter, eyes narrowing. The screen cut to shaky footage from a news helicopter circling the scene from above.

The chopper's camera zoomed in on the massive stone-and-glass building that made up the First Bay Financial Bank, one of the largest banks in the city. The entire block was cordoned off with yellow police tape and flashing patrol cars. Officers crouched behind their cruisers, weapons drawn, while a negotiator stood near a bullhorn, trying to reason with whoever was inside.

Dozens of civilians were pressed behind barricades two blocks away, held back by more officers. A SWAT van had just arrived, sirens wailing, and a second news chopper hovered nearby, blades slicing through the air.

From the aerial view, the building looked tense — like it was holding its breath. Two front windows were shattered. A duffel bag, likely dropped in the chaos, lay just outside the doors. The camera panned closer to show several dark silhouettes moving inside, one of them waving a rifle as they paced back and forth behind the front desk.

The anchor's voice continued over the footage. "Law enforcement officials are currently in communication with at least one of the robbers. No word yet on demands or injuries, but the situation remains fluid. Again, if you're in the area, stay clear—this is an active hostage crisis."

Jason's heart was already thudding as he reached for the remote and lowered the volume, his gaze never leaving the screen. Something deep inside him had already made the decision, and he didn't waste another second.

He shot up from the couch and strode toward his room with purposeful urgency, the sound of the news chopper still echoing faintly from the TV in the background. The moment he stepped through his doorway, his eyes locked onto the items laid out neatly across his desk — his hoodie and his mask.

The hoodie was no longer just a simple black sweatshirt. He'd been working on it all week, spray-painting it with care. Now, it was a deep, stormy blue, the color of dark skies before a lightning strike. And right across the chest, jagged and unmistakable, was a bold yellow lightning bolt, slightly asymmetrical by design, like it had been slashed across the fabric by the storm itself.

The gloves were new — reinforced with grippy material on the palms and knuckles for better traction and maybe even a little protection. His old pair had torn weeks ago during a late-night scuffle in Richmond. These felt more real. More serious.

And the mask — simple, matte black, with subtle contours around the eyes — was halfway done. He'd added faint blue lines tracing along the edges, meant to glow when he charged up. He hadn't finished the effect yet, but it was close enough. It would do.

He stood there for a moment, staring at everything. This was no longer a kid's experiment. No longer some thrill-seeking late-night phase. He could feel it in his chest — that pull. That certainty. Whatever was happening at that bank, whoever was trapped inside, they didn't need more cops with guns or news anchors making guesses. They needed him.

Jason reached for the hoodie, slipping it on over his T-shirt and zipping it up. The fabric clung snugly to his frame, familiar now. He pulled the mask over his face, the world narrowing to the eyeholes. 0This was his calling.

It was time.

...

The building loomed with an unsettling stillness, a monolith of glass and stone flanked by flashing red and blue lights. Police cruisers formed a barricade across the wide avenue, officers crouched behind their doors, guns trained on the bank's grand double-doors. Yellow tape fluttered in the breeze, already cordoning off half the block. Pedestrians and tourists were being held back by a growing perimeter, the hum of panicked whispers thick in the air.

Above, a news helicopter circled like a vulture, its camera zoomed in on the bank's tall windows. The image that beamed into living rooms all over the Bay Area was grainy but chilling: several people inside, sitting on the floor with their hands raised, guarded by masked figures carrying rifles.

One of the robbers, a tall man with a red skull balaclava, paced near the hostages. "Any of you even think about moving, and we make an example outta someone," he snapped, voice loud and sharp enough to make a woman in a business suit flinch.

"We're already behind schedule," another robber grunted near the vault, sweat shining on his neck despite the chilly air blasting from the vents. "Why the hell did the silent alarm trip so fast?"

"Because you didn't jam the front keypad like I told you," the leader barked, slamming a fist against a pillar. "We had a window. Now it's gone."

The hostages — ten, maybe twelve — huddled together near the front lobby. A father clutched his crying daughter against his chest. An older woman mouthed silent prayers, eyes squeezed shut. Across the polished marble floor, one of the guards was bleeding from the temple, slumped but conscious.

Outside, a negotiator stood behind the main line, bullhorn in hand. "This is Sergeant Ryan Mendel of the SFPD!" he called toward the building. "Let's talk this out! We want everyone to get out of this safely — hostages and all!"

From within the lobby, a third robber — younger, more impulsive — peered out through a cracked blind. "Cops are surrounding the back entrance now too," he muttered nervously. "What's the plan?"

The leader didn't answer immediately. He stared at the hostages, his mind working behind that mask.

"No plan changes," he finally said. "We get what we came for. If they try to breach…" His gaze shifted to the little girl. "We show them we're serious."

The words hung in the air like a knife.

And up above, the helicopter's camera caught it all — a still frame of chaos waiting to erupt.

...

The tension inside the bank was razor-thin. Dozens of hostages huddled on the marble floor, backs pressed to teller counters or walls, hands trembling atop their heads. The grand, vaulted ceiling made every noise echo, from the shallow sobs to the nervous breaths. The massive chandeliers above swayed slightly, their crystal droplets catching the light like silent witnesses.

Then came a sharp, shuddering sob from the back corner. A woman, maybe in her forties, couldn't help it anymore—fear had unraveled her composure. Her eyes squeezed shut, her hands pressed tightly over her mouth as she tried to muffle the sound.

A masked robber, stationed closest to her, whipped around. He raised his shotgun slightly and stalked toward her with a scowl. "Hey! I said shut up!" he barked, his voice cutting like a whip through the tense air.

But before he could take another step, there was a blur. One moment he was mid-stride, and the next, he was gone. Gasps and screams erupted as the hostages shrank back, their eyes darting around in sheer panic. No one had seen where he went — until one man pointed upward with a shaking hand.

There he was. The robber dangled from the nearest chandelier, his limbs bound tight with cords ripped from desk electronics — printer cables, power cords, even a phone charger. His rifle had vanished from sight. He let out a dazed groan, twisting slightly in the air as the chandelier groaned beneath his weight, swaying with each creak of metal.

Another robber that was standing close-by spun around wildly, gripping a shotgun with white-knuckled panic. "What the hell?! Who's there?" he screamed, chest heaving. "Show yourself! I swear to God, I'll kill you! You hear me?! I'll kill you!"

There was another blur, and when he blinked, the shotgun was gone. The man looked down at his now-empty hands, dumbfounded, his arms still clenched as if he were holding something. He blinked again and looked up.

Above him—hovering effortlessly just beneath the high ceiling—stood a masked figure in a dark blue hoodie, gloves, and a fresh yellow lightning-streak insignia on the chest. His face was hidden behind a sleek black mask with glowing lenses that pulsed faintly, but his presence radiated control, strength… and danger.

Jason.

He held the shotgun loosely in one hand, as if it weighed nothing at all, and his voice rang out cold and clear, as he said, "With what weapon?"

In one smooth motion, he raised the shotgun and snapped it clean in two with his bare hands. The metal shrieked as it cracked and folded before the broken pieces clattered onto the polished floor below.

"You little freak!" the robber screamed, stepping back in panic. "You're dead! You hear me?!"

In another blur of motion, Jason shot forward like a human missile, driving his fist into the man's chest with seismic force.

The robber's body launched backward as if shot out of a cannon, crashing through the glass wall of the manager's office. The windows exploded in a storm of shards, the metal frame buckling inward with the impact. Furniture toppled. A bookshelf flipped. A desk cracked in half. The robber bounced off the far wall with a crunch and landed in a crumpled heap, completely unconscious.

A third robber let out a guttural roar from behind one of the overturned desks, stepping into the open and raising his rifle. His face was a mixture of fury and panic, the whites of his eyes wide beneath his black ski mask.

He didn't hesitate and pulled the trigger, aiming at the stranger. The sharp sound of gunfire echoed like thunder inside the marble chamber. Bullets tore through the air in short, deafening bursts, slamming straight into Jason's chest.

His hoodie shredded with each impact—ripped by force alone—but the bullets bounced off his skin harmlessly, sparking and clattering to the floor in a loose, useless pile. Jason flinched at first, instinctively bracing for pain—but there was none. Just a faint pressure, like someone flicking him hard.

His eyes narrowed behind his mask. Guess that answered the question of whether or not he was bulletproof.

In the next instant, he shot forward. The robber barely had time to scream before Jason closed the distance, tore the rifle from his hands, and cracked him across the face with it. The man went down hard, his body limp before it hit the floor.

Two robbers remained — one who bolted for the door and another who ducked behind the row of teller counters, frantically loading a shell into a sawed-off shotgun. Jason didn't give chase. Instead, he appeared in front of the runner so fast it looked as if he had teleported, and the man slammed into him chest-first at full sprint. It was like running into a brick wall.

The robber bounced off, crashing backward to the ground in a dazed heap. Before he could even groan in protest, Jason grabbed him by the vest and, without a second thought, hurled him. Just as he heard the sound of a shotgun pumping behind the counter.

The second robber popped up—only to be met by his own teammate's flying body. The two collided midair with a thud, tumbling over each other in a tangle of limbs and weapons. They crashed to the ground in a heap and didn't move again.

Around this exact same time, down the side corridor behind the lobby, the leader of the group—taller, older, unmasked, and with colder eyes than the rest—was forcing the bank manager toward the vault. He held a sleek black pistol pressed tightly to the man's ribs, his other hand gripping the trembling manager by the back of the neck.

"Move," he barked. "Don't stall."

The hallway was tight, sterile, and silent—lit by flickering fluorescent lights and lined with cold security doors. At the far end, the vault loomed. The manager's hands trembled as he walked, flinching at each echo of destruction from the lobby. His knees nearly buckled as a deep crash sounded—something heavy hitting a wall. But he kept moving, too afraid to do anything else.

The leader stayed locked in, stone-faced and focused. While his men flailed and fell behind him, he was nearly at the prize. And the code to the vault was already forming on the manager's lips.

…

The vault hallway echoed with the heavy zip of duffel bags being filled and slung. The leader moved quickly, adrenaline driving him as he stuffed the last stack of bills into the fourth bag. He barked a final warning at the trembling bank manager to stay put, then yanked the bags off the floor and made his way back toward the main lobby—confident, expecting to find his crew holding the perimeter.

But when he stepped out, the sight made his stomach drop — every last one of his men was down. One was strung up and swaying from the chandelier like some kind of twisted ornament. Another was out cold, buried in shattered drywall and debris from what used to be the manager's office. Two more lay crumpled near the teller stations, tangled together like bowling pins. And the last… the last looked like he'd been thrown across the lobby, unmoving, his rifle snapped in half nearby.

Standing at the center of it all, perfectly calm … was a masked stranger. Tall. Rather young looking. His shoulders squared with quiet confidence. He wore a dark blue hoodie, the front marked with a jagged yellow lightning bolt across the chest. A black mask concealed his face, save for the faint electric-blue glow around the eyes. His arms were folded across his chest as though this were all routine—as though five armed men hadn't just been dismantled in minutes.

The leader's eyes darted between the boy and the bodies. His hands clenched tighter around the duffel bag straps. "You did this?" he asked, voice rough with disbelief.

Jason didn't move. "Yep."

There was a beat of silence—thick, oppressive. Sirens wailed in the distance, faint but growing louder.

Jason tilted his head slightly. "So, what's it gonna be? You gonna set those bags down, or do you wanna end up like your buddies?"

The leader hesitated. His jaw worked, calculating, but one glance at the carnage around him made the answer clear. Without a word, he slowly bent down and placed the first bag on the ground, then the second… third… and finally the fourth. No sudden moves. No twitch toward the pistol tucked beneath his coat. Just a slow, grudging surrender.

He stood up empty-handed. Jason remained still. The tension in the room began to bleed away, replaced by stunned silence and the sound of approaching sirens growing louder through the shattered windows. The hostages watched from behind desks and teller counters, still wide-eyed, but safe.

Jason gave a slow nod. "Smart choice."

…

Outside, chaos hummed under a veil of flashing lights and shouting officers. Police cars surrounded the building, sirens still echoing through the streets of downtown San Francisco. Yellow tape fluttered in the wind. SWAT stood ready at the perimeter. News cameras panned the scene from across the block. The standoff had stretched too long.

Police Chief Roland Vega stood with arms crossed, jaw tight, watching the clock. The heat shimmered off the pavement around him.

"This has gone on long enough," he muttered to the lieutenant beside him. "Get the team ready to move in. I want eyes in there—now."

But before the order could be carried out, the massive double doors of the bank creaked open, and everyone froze. Out stepped a lone figure — the ringleader of the robbers — with his hands behind his back and his face flushed red with humiliation, being walked out like a child in trouble.

Behind him, gripping the perp's collar with one gloved hand, was the masked stranger in the blue hoodie, his face hidden behind a black, angular mask with eyes that glowed faintly. Gasps rippled through the officers, cameras pivoted toward the scene, and Chief Vega's eyes widened in disbelief. Jason walked the man right up to the chief, stopping just inches away, his posture calm and unbothered.

"Here's your guy," Jason said coolly. "The rest are inside. Tied up or unconscious."

There was a stunned silence. Vega blinked, slowly reaching forward to take the leader by the arm. "You… took them all down?"

Jason gave a single nod. Before the chief could ask another question, he added, "The rest are inside. One of them's hanging from the chandelier."

Still processing what was happening, the chief took the robber and signaled two officers to take him into custody. He turned back to the masked teen.

"Wait. Who are you? What should we call you?"

Jason didn't answer. He just gave a smirk from behind the mask—then vanished, a crack! of electricity sparking through the air where he had just stood. A glowing streak of lightning zipped into the sky and out of sight, leaving everyone stunned.

Officers stared.

One leaned toward his partner, eyes wide. "He just disappeared… like a flash of lightning."

The other officer nodded slowly, eyes still on the empty space. "Yeah. Almost like a…"

...

BOLT.

The bold white letters stretched across the front page of the San Francisco Chronicle, underscored by a smaller but no less dramatic headline:

"Masked Vigilante Ends Downtown Bank Standoff — Hostages Freed, No Injuries Reported."

Thalia slapped the paper down on the kitchen table like a gavel. "Care to explain this?"

Jason, halfway through a spoonful of cereal, glanced down at the paper and winced. There he was—sort of. The grainy photo caught the blur of his departure, lightning still crackling in the wake of his exit. But the name? That was new.

He chewed and swallowed his cereal. "I deescalated the situation."

Thalia's jaw dropped. "Deescalated? You ended a hostage crisis! In San Francisco! And now the Chronicle is calling you Bolt?"

Jason gave a sheepish shrug. "The name is new. But … I do like it, to be honest."

"Jason," she said sharply, dragging a chair out and sitting across from him. "This is serious. You're not just breaking up muggings anymore. You flew halfway across the Bay Area and took down armed robbers. What if something went wrong? What if one of them shot you?"

He met her eyes. "They did."

The words knocked the wind out of her. "What?"

"They shot at me," he clarified calmly. "One of the guys had a rifle. The bullets tore through the hoodie, but… they didn't even scratch me."

Thalia stared, processing. "You're saying you're—"

"Bulletproof," Jason said, voice quiet. "I wasn't totally sure until yesterday, but… yeah. I am bulletproof."

She leaned back in her chair, rubbing her temple. "Okay… that's… a relief, I guess. Still scary, but… I guess that means you're full-on invincible now?"

Jason gave a modest shrug. "Maybe not full-on. I mean, I haven't tried lava or anything."

Thalia exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, her tension slowly bleeding away. "Well. I suppose that's one less thing to lose sleep over."

He looked at her for a moment, the weight behind his words clearer now. "I know you're worried but… I'm careful. I don't take dumb risks. And I really want to help people."

Thalia studied him—this kid she'd raised, who used to curl into her side during thunderstorms and now was the thunder. Her expression softened. "Just… promise me you'll keep being careful. Promise you won't go looking for trouble just because you can handle it."

Jason nodded. "I promise."

A beat passed. Then Thalia rose, came around the table, and wrapped him in a tight hug. Jason stood up into it, arms circling her waist.

"I love you, you idiot," she muttered into his shoulder.

"Love you too," he said with a crooked grin, resting his chin on her head.

The paper sat forgotten on the table between their empty bowls, the name BOLT still boldly printed across the page—no longer just a mask or a hoodie, but something real. Something new.

Chapter Text

Chapter 10: Jason IV

A Few Years Later ...

The morning sun filtered softly through the high windows of Wheeler Hall, casting long rectangles of golden light across rows of tired students and open laptops. Jason Grace sat near the middle of the lecture hall, back straight, glasses on, one hand lazily spinning a pen between his fingers while his other hovered near the keyboard of his MacBook. He wore a fitted charcoal hoodie over a plain white T-shirt, jeans, and scuffed-up Converse — just another face in a sea of overachievers.

"Journalism," the professor's voice rang out, "isn't about telling people what to think. It's about showing them what they need to know."

Jason scribbled the line into his notes, more out of habit than inspiration. Professor Greene was passionate, no doubt — a veteran reporter who'd covered wars, exposés, and half a dozen administrations — but Jason wasn't exactly here to be inspired. He was here to learn how to navigate the system. To tell stories that mattered. And, occasionally, to hide in plain sight.

A few seats over, someone yawned dramatically. Laptops clicked and clacked. A classmate in the front row raised her hand to ask a question about sourcing anonymous tips, while someone in the back scrolled through their phone, probably half-asleep. The smell of burnt coffee and overused cologne lingered in the air.

Jason leaned back slightly, stretching his legs under the seat, and stared toward the front of the room. Greene was pacing now, gesturing as he talked about journalistic integrity, about what made a source reliable, about not getting too close to a story.

Jason smirked to himself. Too late for that. The lecture rolled on. He checked the time — still twenty minutes to go. His notes were clean, his laptop organized, and he was already halfway through next week's reading. He wasn't exactly the quiet kid in the back, but he didn't draw attention either. He answered questions when asked. Turned in every assignment early. Professors liked him. Classmates mostly forgot his name. And that was exactly how Jason liked it.

The only thing that really stood out about him — if anyone bothered to notice — was how alert he always seemed. Even when bored, his eyes scanned the room like he was waiting for something. Or someone.

Today, though, there was nothing but the usual. Just Jason Grace — college sophomore, journalism major, freshly accepted as an intern at the San Francisco Chronicle. A good kid with good grades. A little quiet. Always polite. Wore glasses like he was trying too hard not to be noticed. And right now, he was just trying to make it through another Thursday.

Professor Greene wrapped up with a few reminders about the upcoming article critique — Jason had already picked out the piece he'd be writing about — and dismissed the class with a wave of his hand and a gruff, "Get out there and write something worth reading."

Chairs scraped. Backpacks zipped. Jason stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder and walking out with the rest of the crowd, blending seamlessly into the academic blur of students hurrying off to their next destination. But he wasn't headed to another class.

He checked his phone as he exited Wheeler Hall — 11:13 AM. Plenty of time to catch the next BART train to San Francisco. His first day as an intern at the Chronicle.

Jason adjusted his glasses and exhaled through his nose, steadying himself. A new identity to manage. A new role to play. And maybe, just maybe… a new story beginning.

…

The Chronicle offices sat nestled in the heart of the city, an elegant blend of old brick and modern steel. Jason stepped through the front doors, greeted by the quiet hum of computers, clacking keyboards, and the occasional ring of a desk phone. The air inside was cooler than outside, tinged with ink and fresh coffee.

He approached the front desk and gave his name to the receptionist, who barely looked up before pointing him toward the elevators.

"Third floor. Ask for Kendra."

Jason nodded his thanks, took the elevator up, and found himself stepping into a buzzing hive of activity — journalists typing, arguing, fielding calls, flipping through notepads. His eyes moved quickly, scanning the environment as instinctively as breathing. He could feel the pulse of the place — rapid, relentless, alive.

"Jason Grace?" a voice called.

He turned to see a tall woman in her forties, curly black hair pulled into a bun, thick-rimmed glasses perched on her nose. She wore a blazer over a T-shirt that read: Deadline Makes the Best Muse.

"I'm Kendra," she said, offering her hand. "One of the senior editors. You're with the intern cohort starting this week."

Jason shook her hand. "Nice to meet you."

"You'll meet the others in a sec. Mostly small assignments to start — fact-checking, basic research, maybe covering a press conference if you're lucky. Think of it as initiation."

Jason gave a small nod. "Sounds good."

Kendra led him through the bullpen, weaving between desks, until they reached a corner near the back — a row of small but tidy workspaces with laminated tags that read Intern. A girl was already seated at one of them, legs crossed, notebook open in her lap. She had dark brown hair streaked with faint amber, worn in loose waves, and an effortless confidence to the way she sat — like she owned whatever space she was in, even if it wasn't hers yet.

She glanced up when they approached.

"Jason, this is Piper McLean," Kendra said. "She's been placed here through a Bay Area journalism program. You two will be splitting most assignments."

Jason offered a polite nod. "Nice to meet you."

Piper stood, taking his hand with a firm shake and a once-over that wasn't subtle. "So you're the other intern."

"That's me," Jason replied, managing a small smile.

Piper raised an eyebrow, her gaze lingering just a second longer than expected. "You look like you walked out of a superhero comic. All clean-cut and mysterious."

Jason blinked, caught slightly off-guard. "I, uh… just came from class."

She smirked, clearly amused. "Sure you did."

Kendra chuckled as she turned to leave. "You two get acquainted. Your first task's in your inbox — coverage support for the Pacific Tech Expo this weekend. I want bullet points and background briefs by Friday."

As she disappeared into the fray, Jason took the desk beside Piper. She sat again too, still eyeing him with a strange mix of amusement and scrutiny.

"So," she said, tapping her pen against her notebook, "Jason Grace. What's your deal?"

Jason looked at his screen, then back at her with a composed expression. "Guess you'll find out."

...

Jason logged into his terminal, pulling up the email Kendra mentioned. A quick scan told him what he needed — a weekend tech expo downtown featuring keynote speakers, product reveals, and panels on everything from wearable AI to anti-surveillance legislation. Not the flashiest assignment, but something to cut his teeth on.

Piper had already opened a shared document and started typing. "Mind if we use this?" she asked, pointing to the doc.

Jason nodded. "Works for me."

She glanced sideways. "You type fast?"

"I'm decent."

"Good. I'm not wasting half the day waiting for someone to finish their bullet point on drone patents."

Jason cracked a small smile. "You always this easy to work with?"

"You'll get used to it," Piper said, not looking up from her screen. "You research, I draft?"

"Deal."

For a few quiet minutes, the only sound between them was the rhythm of typing. Jason dove into recent headlines and press releases about the expo, taking quick notes on relevant companies and speakers. Piper worked efficiently too — pausing occasionally to tilt her head or scribble in the margins of her notebook, biting her pen cap thoughtfully.

Eventually, she spoke again without looking up. "So, Jason Grace. You from around here?"

"Bay Area, yeah. Berkeley."

"Ah. Explains the hoodie and the borderline tragic coffee breath."

Jason looked up, eyebrows raised. "It's ten in the morning."

"I know. That's what makes it tragic."

He couldn't help the soft chuckle that escaped. "You give all your coworkers this much grief?"

"Only the ones who look like they're hiding a second life as a secret agent."

Jason said nothing for a beat too long. Then, smoothly: "What makes you think I'm not just a really boring guy with caffeine issues?"

Piper finally looked up at him. "Because boring guys don't carry themselves like they've got backup plans for every fire exit."

Jason hesitated, then offered a quiet, lopsided grin. "Or maybe I just watched too many spy movies growing up."

Piper narrowed her eyes. "Uh-huh."

Another beat. Then she said, "I'll figure you out eventually."

Jason glanced back at his screen. "Not sure there's much to figure out."

"Liar," she said, not unkindly.

He hid a smirk behind his screen and kept typing.

Despite the light tension of their banter, the workflow between them settled quickly into something… smooth. Unspoken rhythms formed fast — Jason pulling research efficiently, Piper organizing it into clean paragraphs, inserting the occasional snarky comment in a comment bubble ("Is this company name real or just a rejected sci-fi villain?"). She was sharp, funny, and startlingly observant.

After a while, she leaned back and crossed her arms. "You're good at this. For someone who just got here."

"So are you," Jason said genuinely. "For someone who thinks my hoodie's tragic."

"It is tragic," Piper said. "But you've got a solid grasp on sourcing. Balanced tone. Good instincts. You ever write for your college paper?"

He shrugged. "Briefly. Freelanced a bit."

Piper tilted her head. "You don't like talking about yourself much, huh?"

Jason leaned back in his chair, still smiling faintly. "Isn't mystery supposed to be part of the charm?"

She laughed softly. "I'll give you that. For now."

Jason turned his attention back to the screen. But in the corner of his vision, he could still feel her studying him.

...

They sat on a bench just outside a café a few blocks from the Chronicle building — Jason with a chicken sandwich and iced tea, Piper with a half-eaten quinoa bowl and a look that said she didn't really want to be eating quinoa. The midday sun filtered through the trees lining the street, and the clamor of passing traffic mingled with bursts of laughter from nearby tables.

Jason chewed thoughtfully, glancing across at her. "Piper McLean," he said slowly. "That name's been bugging me all morning."

She looked up from her bowl. "If you say it sounds like a cartoon character, I'm walking back alone."

Jason chuckled. "No, it's just… familiar. Like I've heard it before. Somewhere public."

Piper tensed just slightly — not visibly enough for most people to notice, but Jason's eyes didn't miss much. She shrugged, poking at her food. "I don't know. It's not that uncommon."

Jason tilted his head, thinking. "McLean…"

And then it clicked.

"Wait—Tristan McLean."

Piper froze.

Jason leaned back a little, grinning like he'd just solved a riddle. "That's where I know it. He's your dad, isn't he?"

Piper sighed and leaned her head back against the bench. "Knew that was coming eventually."

Jason smirked. "He was in The Sun Chariot trilogy, right? The myth-inspired action ones with the flaming sword and the flying car?"

"Yep."

"I saw those in high school. Pretty sure they got me through a boring winter break once."

Piper gave him a sidelong glance. "Please tell me you didn't dress up for the premiere."

"I didn't. But I might've quoted some lines for weeks after."

She snorted despite herself. "Tragic."

"I liked the dystopian one he did, too. 'Scorched Earth'? Underground cities, rebel leader, monologue about hope right before the explosion?"

"Yeah," she muttered. "That one got him a Saturn nomination."

Jason raised an eyebrow. "Impressive."

"He lost to a talking raccoon," Piper added dryly.

Jason blinked. "Wait, seriously?"

She nodded, stabbing at her salad. "Voice acting counts, apparently."

Jason laughed. "Still, your dad's kind of a big deal."

"Yeah. Which is why I usually don't lead with it."

Jason sobered. "Because people treat you differently."

She gave him a look. "They either want stories, or assume I got here on his coattails. Or both."

Jason nodded. "So you keep it quiet."

"Exactly."

He was quiet for a second, thoughtful. "I won't bring it up again."

Piper's eyes flicked to his. "Thanks."

Jason smiled faintly. "But for the record, the sword fight on the bridge in Sun Chariot 2? Still one of the coolest things I've seen."

Piper rolled her eyes, but she couldn't fight the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "You are such a nerd."

Jason took another bite of his sandwich. "I'm okay with that."

Another pause, and then she leaned back. "So what's your story? You've got that I'm hiding something vibe."

Jason gave her a noncommittal shrug. "Do I?"

"You do. You act like someone who's used to watching exits."

He didn't answer right away. Then: "Maybe I just don't like being surprised."

"Hm." She narrowed her eyes, studying him. "You're a tough nut to crack, Grace."

Jason smiled quietly. "Guess you'll have to keep trying."

Piper looked at him a moment longer. "Oh, I will."

...

The line at Brew & Bloom wound past the potted ferns by the window and curved around the pastry case, packed with the usual late-afternoon crowd. Suits and students mingled with tourists, phones raised like shields, voices hushed to the same tired murmur — a haze of people simply enduring the final stretch of the workday.

He stood somewhere near the middle of the line. Tall, maybe in his late twenties, he wore a brown jacket with the hood pulled up despite the mild heat. Deep shadows clung beneath his eyes like bruises that refused to fade. With slow, deliberate fingers, he rubbed at the side of his neck, breathing through his nose in steady rhythm — in, out, in, out.

The coffee helped. It always helped. Warmth dulled the sharp edge inside his skull, the constant hum and the pulling sensation that lingered just behind his ribs as though something inside him wanted out. He had learned to manage it — most days, at least. Sleep helped. Silence helped. But coffee was more than relief; it was ritual. Black, strong, and piping hot, it was the armor he carried against the noise.

He stepped forward. Only three people remained ahead of him now. His breath came steady — in, out, in, out.

A girl behind him brushed his shoulder with her bag and mumbled a quick "sorry." He didn't respond or even look at her. His eyes stayed fixed on the menu above the counter, though he already knew exactly what he wanted.

The hum inside his head grew louder. In, out, in, out.

Two people ahead. The barista moved too slowly. The couple at the counter argued over drink sizes while someone's phone rang behind him, a sharp, tinny ringtone that made his jaw clench. The girl with the bag giggled at something on her screen, her laughter cutting through the low murmur of the shop.

In, out, in—

Someone in front turned suddenly, bumping him by accident. "Oh, sorry, bro."

His eye twitched, and the first hair rose along the back of his neck. He reached up and rubbed at it as though he could force it back down, but his skin felt hot and stretched too tight, as if it were about to split. His fingernails scraped against his scalp as he stepped back, then forward again, shaking his head as if trying to clear it. His breathing grew shallow. The line inched forward. Only one person remained ahead, and the barista smiled at the woman in front of him, voice too chipper, too close. The man in the brown jacket gritted his teeth, his knuckles cracking from how tightly his fists had curled. Inside his skull the hum had become a roar. Not now. Not here.

The woman ahead stepped aside, and suddenly it was his turn. The barista looked up with an easy smile. "Hey there! What can I get—"

The man lifted his head, and his eyes had turned yellow. At first it was faint, almost like a trick of the light, but then the glow pulsed, animal and glassy, his pupils blown wide. He opened his mouth to answer, but a growl escaped instead.

"What—?" the barista began.

His back jerked violently, as though something had punched through from the inside, and the sharp pop of tearing tendons followed. His spine arched, shoulders bulging beneath the jacket as muscle swelled unnaturally fast. Screams erupted. A drink hit the floor and splattered. The barista stumbled backward into the pastry case.

"Sir? Sir—!"

Another crack split the air as his hand slammed onto the counter, claws tearing through his fingertips. His breathing turned ragged, half snarl and half gasp, while fur spread along his arms like fire racing across dry grass. The girl with the bag screamed and bolted. A man cursed and shoved toward the door. Chaos broke loose around him. He hunched forward as his jacket split down the center, the transformation ripping through his body. It wasn't clean or instant. It was violent.

The sound that tore from his throat wasn't pain but something deeper — hunger, rage, release. And then the windows shattered as he lunged.

...

The sun dipped low, casting the city in that golden-hour glow that made even the grayest sidewalks look like something out of a movie. Jason and Piper walked side by side, their pace unhurried as they left the Chronicle building, the buzz of a full workday finally behind them.

"…and that is why you never quote a press release word-for-word," Piper said, wagging a finger.

Jason smirked. "So you're saying I should delete half my draft?"

"I'm saying," she replied, mock-serious, "you should be ashamed of your lazy writing and deeply reconsider your career path."

"Harsh," Jason said, nudging her shoulder with his. "You always this supportive?"

"Only when I see real potential buried under mediocrity."

He laughed. "Wow. Okay."

Piper gave him a smug look, eyes sparkling. "You'll thank me when you win your first award."

Jason adjusted his glasses and shook his head. "Nah, you'll thank me when you get quoted in my Pulitzer-winning article."

She arched a brow. "Pulitzer? Aim high, I like it."

"I'm full of surprises."

"Yeah, I'm still waiting on the cape reveal."

Jason gave her a sideways glance. "You're not letting that go, are you?"

"Not a chance."

They both laughed, their steps falling into rhythm as they turned down a quieter side street where the sidewalk was lined with aging brick buildings. The lampposts flickered to life, their pale glow catching the edges of cracked windows and casting long shadows across the pavement. The air smelled faintly of hot asphalt cooling under evening air, mixed with the sweet, burnt tang of a nearby food cart closing down for the night.

Then the screams started — a chorus sharp and panicked, cutting through the calm. Jason froze mid-step. The sound was raw, desperate, echoing off the brick walls until it was impossible to tell how many voices there were. Gunshots followed: three in rapid succession, then silence that rang louder than the noise itself, before more shots cracked through the air.

People burst from the alley entrance ahead, their shoes slapping the pavement as they sprinted past in blind terror, the smell of spilled coffee and sweat trailing behind them. They scattered like leaves in a storm, some stumbling, some shoving others aside in their rush to escape. The low growl of police radios rose next, distorted voices bouncing between the buildings, punctuated by static as the chaos surged closer.

Piper stepped forward, peering toward the corner. "What the hell—?"

They turned the corner and saw it.

A hulking, snarling beast crouched in the middle of the street, its matted fur bristling as claws carved deep gouges into the asphalt. Its jaws snapped against the frame of a police car, teeth sparking off metal while officers scrambled for cover, shouting into radios and ducking behind open doors. Gunfire erupted — flashes of muzzle light, the sharp crack of bullets tearing through the night — but the rounds only sparked off its hide and slowed it for barely a heartbeat.

The creature loomed impossibly large, towering at least seven feet tall, maybe more, and it bore no resemblance to the werewolves of movies. This thing was raw and feral, terrifying in its reality. Its massive chest heaved with every breath, muscles rippling beneath the tangled coat. Yellow eyes burned with a sick, predatory intensity, locking onto everything that moved. The air reeked of gunpowder, scorched rubber, and something musky and wild that carried on the beast's hot exhale.

Piper's breath caught. "Oh my God…"

The creature roared and barreled into a squad car, its claws ripping through metal as it shoved the vehicle sideways into a fire hydrant. The hydrant burst open with a deafening crack, and a geyser of water shot into the air, raining down in a sparkling torrent that mixed with the screech of bending steel.

Screams rose all around them, sharper and closer now. Piper turned toward Jason. "Jason, what the—?"

But he wasn't there. She blinked, spun in a slow circle, scanning the chaos. He was gone — vanished into thin air. "…Jason?"

The werewolf roared again, a sound that rattled her chest like thunder, and Piper stumbled back, her heart hammering as the spray of hydrant water misted her face and the ground shook beneath its charge.

…

The werewolf was a storm of teeth and fury, circling the battered police cordon like a predator sizing up its next kill. A few brave officers continued to fire, but the rounds barely phased the creature. Most were retreating now, scrambling for cover, radios squawking as they called for backup that wouldn't come fast enough. The air was thick with smoke, adrenaline, and panic.

Then a sonic crack split the air, like thunder compressed into a single instant. From above, something blue streaked out of the sky.

A blur collided with the werewolf mid-roar, and the monster's head jerked violently to the side as a punch — fast, clean, and impossibly powerful — sent it crashing through the side of a parked armored van, denting the steel like crumpled foil. The street went silent. A few pedestrians who hadn't yet fled peeked out from behind cars. An officer stared, mouth half-open.

Jason Grace rose slowly from the shallow crater his landing had carved into the pavement, his boots grinding against the torn asphalt as steam hissed from a fractured pipe nearby. He straightened to his full height, square-shouldered and composed, the picture of calm amid chaos.

His suit was a deep, vibrant blue, smooth and form-fitting, its simplicity giving it a timeless strength. A golden lightning bolt slashed diagonally across his chest, catching the fading sunlight like a blade of fire. The design carried subtle accents: faint ridges running down his arms and legs, tapering toward the joints as if to suggest speed and motion; a trim of darker navy along the sides of his torso, giving the suit depth and contour without distraction.

Golden boots reached just past his calves, gleaming against the dark pavement, and matching gloves covered his hands, the fabric reinforced at the knuckles with discreet stitching. Together, they completed the image of a warrior wrapped in myth. Covering the upper half of his face was a navy mask with sharp, angular edges — simple, practical, unmistakable — leaving his blond hair tousled and windblown, defiant against the chaos around him.

This was Bolt now — regal, defined, a figure who seemed carved from the storm itself.

Somewhere behind the nearest squad car, a woman whispered, "It's him…"

Another voice rose louder, trembling with relief: "It's Bolt!"

The sound spread through the crowd like a shockwave. Even the officers lowered their weapons, shoulders sagging as if a weight had lifted. One of them exhaled like he'd been holding his breath all day.

Jason scanned the scene in a single sweep, his eyes taking in everything — the cluster of civilians huddled behind cover, the officers who were injured, the direction of the wind tugging smoke through the street, even the subtle shifts of shadow moving behind the debris. His focus cut through the chaos like lightning. Then his gaze settled on the wreckage. The werewolf was already forcing itself upright. It stood snarling, its yellow eyes wild, blood dripping from its fur. Wounded, yes — but far from finished.

Jason took a step forward and raised one hand in a calming gesture. His voice carried over the chaos, steady and unshaken.

"Hey," he said. "I don't know who you are. But I know you didn't ask for this."

The werewolf snarled louder, saliva dripping from its jaws, breath ragged and uneven. Yet Jason didn't flinch. His posture stayed tall, unwavering, like he could shoulder the fear of everyone around him without letting it bend him.

"I've seen this before," he went on, his tone calm but resonant, firm enough to steady the crowd and cut through the beast's rage. "People turned into weapons. You're not the first. You don't have to be the next casualty."

For a moment, the creature hesitated. Its claws twitched, and its massive chest rose and fell, something almost human flickering across its expression. Jason's gaze held steady, unrelenting but not unkind.

"You can fight it," he urged, his voice softer now, but carrying the weight of conviction.

The beat of silence that followed seemed to stretch forever.

Then the werewolf bellowed — pure rage, primal and deafening — and lunged for a police cruiser, seizing it in both hands.

"Don't—!" an officer cried out.

With a guttural roar, the beast hurled the cruiser like a toy, the vehicle spinning end over end through the air straight at Bolt.

Jason didn't flinch. His eyes locked on the incoming mass of twisted metal, reading its weight and speed in an instant. At the last possible second, he stepped into it and, with a clean, fluid swing of his arm like a batter meeting a fastball, struck the cruiser aside.

The impact rang out with a bone-deep crunch as the vehicle spun mid-air, twisting end over end before slamming harmlessly into the side of an empty bus. There was no effort in it, no strain. Jason's arm dropped casually back to his side, as if he'd done nothing more than swat away a fly. The crowd fell silent, mouths hanging open. Even the werewolf hesitated, its snarl faltering into a moment's pause.

Jason tilted his head slightly. "All right," he murmured, his tone calm, almost amused. "Let's see what you've got."

The werewolf roared and charged.

Jason barely had time to plant his feet before the thing was on him — a snarling blur of fur, muscle, and teeth. It moved like an animal but hit like a battering ram. Jason caught the first swipe across his chest with both arms crossed, skidding backward a dozen feet, boots carving twin trenches through asphalt as his heels ground sparks off the pavement.

The force rattled through Jason's bones, the impact reverberating across his frame. The werewolf was strong — far stronger than anything he had faced before. He barely had time to recover before the creature lunged again, claws flashing through the air. Jason ducked beneath the first slash, rolled under the second, and came up with a brutal uppercut that connected with the beast's gut, a strike powerful enough to crush a car in half. Yet the werewolf only staggered. It snarled, and with a vicious swing of its arm, backhanded Jason across the street and into the side of a parked sedan.

Glass shattered as the vehicle collapsed under the impact, its alarm shrieking into the chaos. Jason pushed himself out of the wreckage, his suit scorched from friction, shoulders rising and falling as he steadied himself against the destruction around him. This was no back-alley fight against muggers, no simple takedown like the bank robbery years before. This was something else entirely — a battle of raw power and survival. This was war.

He surged forward with a burst of speed, wind whipping through his hair as he closed the distance in a flash, slamming into the beast like a human torpedo. They crashed through the front window of a restaurant, shattering glass and sending tables flying.

Patrons screamed and scrambled as the two figures tore through the dining area. Jason grabbed the beast by the waist and drove him into a concrete support pillar, splintering the stone — but it barely slowed the monster down.

Jason stared in disbelief.

The werewolf roared and drove its claws into Jason's side, tearing through the fabric of his suit in a spray of sparks and blood. Jason cried out, twisting free, and unleashed a surge of lightning straight into the creature's chest. The resulting blast rattled the street, an eruption of light and sound that shattered every bulb in the block. Static hissed through the air as smoke rolled across overturned chairs and broken glass, debris scattering like leaves in a gale.

When the haze cleared, the werewolf crouched in the center of a smoking crater, its massive frame steaming from the impact. Yet it was already forcing itself upright, defiant, its yellow eyes burning hotter than before. Jason braced for another strike, but the creature was faster; it blurred forward with predatory speed, tackled him across the restaurant, and carried him through the far wall into the building next door. Drywall burst apart in clouds, steel beams groaned under the strain, and the impact left a man-shaped dent in the concrete as Jason slammed into the far wall of the abandoned laundromat.

Dust rained down in sheets from the ceiling, the structure creaking ominously around them. Jason slid to one knee, coughing once, sparks snapping at his fingertips as his shoulders squared. Enough of playing defense. He erupted forward in a crack of thunder, the floor buckling under the surge of force, and drove his shoulder into the werewolf's ribs. The blow lifted the beast clean off the ground and sent it crashing through a support column. The ceiling above them gave way, collapsing in a roar of falling debris as both combatants vanished into a cloud of concrete dust.

Outside, police shouted frantically for civilians to keep moving as the barricades failed and officers tried to restore order. Backup had arrived, but no one dared to enter the zone. The ruins of the laundromat stood like a smoldering tomb until the rubble shifted. Jason rose from the wreckage, blood streaking down his forehead, his suit torn and sparking with raw electricity. He steadied himself, crackling arcs running from hand to hand. And then, through the same haze, the werewolf climbed free after him — unharmed, its snarling maw split wide in hunger for the fight.

Jason clenched his fists, arcs of electricity snapping across his knuckles and tracing lines of light along his arms. His breathing was sharp and controlled, though the tension in his chest betrayed the pace of his heart. Across from him, the werewolf — no, the thing — stood barely twenty feet away, panting, saliva dripping from its jaws, its chest rising and falling with a constant, low growl. Its fur was scorched in places, but even now it was knitting back together, healing far too quickly. Jason rolled his shoulders once, then slammed his fists together, the impact unleashing a shockwave of blue-white lightning that blasted the lingering dust away and cracked windows across the street. Sparks danced around his boots, crawling up his legs like fire given form.

"You want a fight?" Jason muttered. "Let's go."

In a blink, he was gone. A streak of lightning ripped through the air, and before the beast could react, Jason appeared behind it, driving a crushing elbow into the back of its skull. The blow sent the creature crashing through a dumpster and into the alley wall beyond, the impact splintering brick and steel alike. Before it could rise, Jason blurred forward again, seizing the werewolf by the scruff of its neck and hurling it skyward. The monster smashed through the roof of a nearby building, tearing apart a billboard and half a ventilation unit in its ascent. Jason launched after it like a missile, a thunderclap chasing him upward through the night.

They met atop the roof in a spray of gravel and twisted steel, colliding with bone-shaking force. Jason spun midair, slamming both fists into the creature's chest and driving it through an industrial HVAC unit in an explosion of sparks and shrieking metal. The werewolf roared and lashed out wildly, claws slicing the air in savage arcs. Jason dodged once, twice — but the third strike caught him across the ribs and hurled him backward. He skidded hard across the rooftop until he stopped at the edge, glass and stone shattering under his weight. Gritting his teeth, he tore a jagged shard of metal from his side, blue light blazing in his eyes as electricity surged across his frame.

The beast lunged. Jason thrust his hand forward, releasing a focused torrent of lightning that struck it square in the chest. The bolt lifted the monster clean off its feet, its howl rattling windows as smoke poured from its fur. Jason gave chase instantly, closing the distance in a blur of light. They collided midair and smashed through the side of a glass-fronted office tower, showering the street below with shards. Inside, desks, monitors, and partitions exploded around them as they tumbled through the building, the fire suppression system bursting to life and filling the wreckage with a misting rain.

Jason landed in a crouch, his chest heaving, sparks cascading across his soaked figure as water dripped from his shoulders. Across from him, the werewolf clawed its way upright through the wreckage. It bled now, dark streaks staining its fur — but the fire in its eyes hadn't dimmed. If anything, it burned hotter, furious and unrelenting.

Jason launched forward again, colliding with the werewolf at the center of the floor in a thunderous crack, punches and claws flying in every direction. He caught the beast by the throat and slammed it against a pillar so hard the entire floor shuddered, but the monster twisted free, drove a knee into his side, and sent him crashing through the opposite wall. He fell into open air, tumbling until he struck the balcony of the next building, smashing through planters and snapping a trellis before rolling into the rooftop garden in a spray of dirt and steel. Blood traced his lip as he groaned and forced himself upright.

A second later, the werewolf dropped from above like a meteor and crashed onto him with bone-cracking weight. The roof gave way. They plummeted together, crashing through four floors in a storm of drywall, wiring, and shattered furniture until they finally struck the basement level with enough force to leave a crater in the concrete. The lights overhead flickered violently as smoke and dust curled into the air. For a long moment, neither moved. Jason's ears rang. His arms trembled as he forced himself onto one knee, his suit torn across the chest, the golden bolt scorched and smeared with blood. Across from him, the werewolf crouched low on all fours, its fur burned and matted, sparks still dancing faintly along its body from the last lightning strike.

The ruined basement creaked around them, a fractured skeleton of concrete and steel. Steam hissed from broken pipes. Dust hung in the air like ash. A pillar groaned somewhere in the dark as the weight of the building pressed down. Jason's lungs burned. His fingers sparked as he steadied himself, electricity crawling along his gloves, his chest heaving with the strain. The creature panted across from him, no longer charging, no longer flailing wildly. Its claws flexed but without the same violent twitch. Its shoulders rose and fell unevenly. One eye twitched as its breath hitched — not in rage, but in fear.

Jason straightened slowly. For the first time in the fight, he didn't ready a strike or summon lightning. He didn't brace like a warrior or stand tall like a hero. He simply stepped forward.

"Hey," he said quietly.

The werewolf snarled low in its throat but didn't advance. Its claws scraped across the broken floor, carving jagged lines into the concrete. Jason raised his hands slowly, steady, his voice carrying across the haze.

"You can stop."

Another growl answered him, thinner this time, fractured, the sound trembling on the edge of collapse. The creature's jaw quivered as though straining against itself.

"I've seen this before," Jason said, his tone calm even as static rippled faintly along his arms. "Not exactly like this, but close. Someone trapped inside a body that doesn't feel like theirs anymore."

The werewolf's chest hitched — not like the breath of a beast, but a sob caught too deep to break free.

"You're in there. I know you are."

For the first time, the eyes faltered. Gold flickered to hazel, then back again. The beast clutched its head, claws digging into its own scalp as it howled in anguish. Jason didn't move.

"It's not your fault."

The howl cracked into a scream. Bones shifted with sharp pops, muscles convulsing violently as the body began to unravel — not through rage, but collapse. Fur receded patch by patch, claws shrank back into hands, and the monstrous frame caved inward, reshaping with every agonized breath. The transformation was anything but clean. It was brutal, jagged, drawn out.

Jason stood watch as the figure crumpled to its knees. A man remained — bare from the waist up, body marked with bruises, burns, and long surgical scars. His chest rose and fell in ragged gasps, blood dripping from his mouth. Just below his collarbone, a barcode tattoo was burned into the flesh, stark against the pale skin. He shook uncontrollably, broken and human again.

Jason took a slow step forward. "What's your name?"

The man lifted his head. His eyes were rimmed red, carrying shame and relief in equal measure. "I don't know anymore," he rasped. "They called me… Subject 7, or Lycan sometimes. But my actual name… I don't remember it. I think… I think they wiped my memory."

Jason crouched, his voice low and steady. "Who did?"

The man trembled as he answered. "Fenris. Fenris Corp. They told me it was therapy, a chance to rebuild. Said I could control it, that I'd be… better." His voice cracked. "I begged them to undo it when it started happening. They said it was working as intended."

Jason's jaw tightened as the words sank in. Overhead, sirens wailed louder, boots pounded against the stairwell, and beams of flashlights began cutting through the haze of smoke.

"They're gonna kill me, aren't they?" the man whispered.

"No," Jason said firmly. "They won't."

"Even if they don't… I'll change again. It'll come back. I can feel it. It's always there, waiting…"

Jason hesitated, then shook his head. "Then we'll find a way to stop it. You're not alone anymore."

That was when the police burst in. Dozens of officers stormed the room with weapons raised, flashlights slicing through the dust. The man didn't resist; he kept still, eyes lowered as if surrender was the only thing left in him. Jason rose slowly, sparks still running faintly across his fists as he raised one hand.

"He's not hostile," he said. "Not anymore."

The officers advanced with caution, circling the man as though the monster might reemerge at any moment. Jason stepped back and allowed them to cuff him, watching as the broken figure was led away in silence. His fists still sparked faintly, his body rigid, his thoughts locked on the one name that lingered like a stormcloud. Fenris — the word seared into his mind, heavy and unshakable, and he knew with certainty this would not be the last time he crossed paths with them.

...

The street was half-lit now, bathed in the amber glow of emergency lights and setting sun. Police tape fluttered in the breeze. Fire trucks idled nearby, and news vans had already started pulling in. Paramedics treated the wounded. Civilians were being directed away from the debris zone. Someone hosed down shattered glass near the edge of the block.

Piper stood on the sidewalk, arms crossed tightly over her chest, her back leaning against a streetlamp. She looked shaken — not injured, just rattled — like someone who'd just survived a lightning strike and was still hearing the echo.

Jason slipped back under the tape, his hood pulled low, moving like he was just another bystander trying to sneak a better look. He was back in street clothes, though his gait carried the faint stiffness of someone fresh off a fight.

"Hey," he said quietly.

Piper spun, relief flashing across her face before it twisted into irritation. "Jason? Where the hell did you go?"

He forced a sheepish grin. "Got shoved around when everyone started running. Ended up a few blocks down helping people get clear. By the time I made it back—" He nodded toward the wrecked buildings, the cratered street, the swarm of flashing lights. "Looks like I missed the fireworks."

Piper just stared at him, jaw tight, like she was weighing whether to hug him or punch him. Then she exhaled sharply and shook her head. "You did miss it. Jason, you have no idea."

"Bolt, right?" Jason asked, keeping his tone light. "Tell me he finally showed up."

Her eyes lit instantly, the edge in her voice melting into something close to awe. "He didn't just show up — he saved everybody. Jason, I swear, I've never seen anything like it. That… that thing had half the precinct cornered, and Bolt just—" She mimed an explosion with both hands. "He tore into it. Lightning, speed, the works. He fought it through buildings. At one point he literally batted a car out of the air."

Jason let out a low whistle, adjusting his glasses. "Man. Of all the nights to get stuck on crowd control…" He shook his head with just enough regret to sell it. "Guess I'll be watching the highlights with everybody else."

Piper laughed once, almost disbelieving. Then she jabbed him in the shoulder — only to pause at how hard his muscles felt under her hand, how his body resisted more than it should have. Her brow furrowed, but she said nothing.

"Come on," Jason said quickly, nodding toward the street. "I'll walk you back to the station."

As they started moving, Piper couldn't help glancing back one more time at the devastation Bolt had left behind — police shouting into radios, medics hauling stretchers, a skyline cut open by the battle's scars. Then she looked at Jason.

He was calm. A little too calm. His stride was easy, his expression even, but every so often his hand ghosted against his ribs like he was hiding something. There was a faint charge in the air around him too, though maybe that was just in her head.

Piper frowned, lips pressing thin. "...You're weird," she muttered.

Jason smiled faintly. "You've said that before."

She didn't argue. Just kept walking beside him, though her eyes lingered a little longer this time. Like something didn't quite add up.

…

The sky above San Francisco had deepened into indigo, stars faint and washed by the glow of the city. The chaos of the night was finally fading — sirens distant now, helicopters gone, the city already shifting into a new cycle of headlines he would never quite control. But from up here, the noise couldn't reach him.

Jason stood on the hilltop at Mount Davidson, hoodie pulled close against the breeze, his suit hidden beneath, the mask tucked away and forgotten. The massive concrete cross loomed behind him, weathered and silent, its shadow cutting long across the grass in the silver wash of moonlight.

Below him, the Bay stretched wide and glittering — neighborhoods glowing like constellations of their own, the black sweep of the Pacific pressing against the edge of the world, bridges spanning like lit arteries that kept the city alive. Downtown rose in towers of glass and light, every window a reminder of the millions who lived beneath his watch.

He breathed in slowly, then out, steady and deliberate. This city was no longer just a place to live. It was sewn into him, part of his skin and blood now. Every rooftop. Every street corner. Every voice that spoke his name tonight with relief rather than fear. Bolt.

He never asked for the title, never wanted to be anything more than a man. But standing here now, he knew he couldn't let it go. It wasn't a costume anymore. It was a promise.

His hands flexed at his sides, knuckles stiff and sore, sparks faintly trailing between them as if the fight still lived in his veins. His ribs ached. His legs were heavy. He bore bruises, cuts, and fatigue that would take days to fade — and yet none of it mattered. Because whatever came next — more creatures, more corporations like Fenris, more nights where the city teetered on the edge of ruin — he knew where he belonged.

Here. Watching. Waiting. Ready.

His gaze swept once more across the city below, a quiet vow in the stillness. "I've got you," he said softly, the words almost carried away on the breeze.

And he meant it.

…

Chiron Brunner's office was quiet, lit by the filtered daylight spilling through the tall window to his right and the pale glow of the monitor ahead. The space reflected the man himself — focused, efficient, stripped of clutter. A broad desk of brushed steel and walnut sat beneath framed documents on the wall: Bureau charter, internal commendations, and one photograph of a younger Chiron, shaking hands with the Secretary of Defense years ago. His coffee sat untouched and cold at the edge of the desk.

In front of him rested a manila folder. He flipped it open, scanning the summary page.

Subject #: 0197-BID
Name: JACKSON, PERCY
Confirmed Presence: New York – La Princesse Andromède Incident

He had already reviewed the accompanying footage. It had been enough. Chiron clicked his pen and wrote with deliberate care at the bottom of the final page: Metahuman Status - Confirmed. He closed the folder and slid it neatly aside.

The next file was thinner, lighter in hand. He pulled it forward.

Subject #: 0228-BID
Name: GRACE, JASON
Confirmed Presence: San Francisco – "Bolt" Public Engagement

This one was different. Instead of classified missions or intercepted communications, the folder contained fragments. Adoption papers confirming his placement in the Grace household, backed by airtight citizenship documents but no birth certificate of origin. School records, noting a gifted but inconsistent student. Police reports citing eyewitness accounts of a masked figure saving civilians in impossible ways — lightning, speed, strength. The downtown bank robbery file stood out most: officers noting multiple lives saved, and the perpetrator delivered in person to the precinct chief by a man in blue.

Chiron set the folder down, exhaling once through his nose. Then he turned to his monitor, where a string of flagged emails from his staff waited at the top of his inbox. He clicked the most recent.

Subject: Video Footage – Incident: Mission District (Lycan)

The message was short, a single line of context followed by a link. Chiron opened it, and a grainy video filled the screen. It wasn't drone surveillance or official feeds. These were scraps — shaky phones, storefront cameras, even a police dash cam — but stitched together, they told a story.

The first clip showed civilians sprinting across intersections while a massive, fur-covered figure tore through vehicles and barricades with inhuman force. The werewolf. The next caught the moment Bolt entered the fray: a streak of blue dropping from above, landing with seismic weight, and then erupting into motion. Punches cracked like thunderclaps, arcs of lightning lit up the screen, and the sheer velocity blurred the frame.

Chiron leaned forward in his chair, elbows pressed against the steel edge of the desk, eyes unblinking. The file had raised questions. The footage was delivering answers.

Chiron advanced the video. The battle unfolded in fragments, each angle captured by whatever camera had survived long enough to record. A corner store's CCTV feed showed Jason slamming the creature into a lamppost, only to be hurled through a windshield seconds later. A municipal traffic cam picked up his lightning-charged sprint across the asphalt, followed by the staggering moment he redirected a car midair and sent it crashing harmlessly aside. Another feed — this one from the side of a city bus — caught a blur of fists and claws colliding in front of a shattered sandwich shop, the sheer violence of the exchange rattling the frame.

Then the body cam footage took over. The unsteady lens of an officer, breathing ragged from adrenaline, tracked the descent into the fractured basement. Sparks fell from severed wires overhead while concrete dust swirled through beams of flashlight glare. At the center of the shot stood Bolt, his form outlined against a cratered floor blackened by soot, while the hulking shape at his feet twitched and spasmed. The werewolf was already breaking down, shifting painfully back into something human. The officers hesitated at the sight, weapons raised but uncertain. Bolt did not.

He didn't speak much. He didn't grandstand. He simply remained still, watching the transformation with a tense, unreadable posture, before kneeling beside the man who lay on the ground shaking, bleeding, and terrified. Chiron paused the video there. The freeze-frame held Bolt in profile, his mask cracked at the corner, shoulders taut from the fight, but his hands empty and open. His stance wasn't the stance of a soldier finishing a kill. It was guarded, yes, but protective — more sentinel than executioner.

Chiron lowered his gaze to the file and picked up his pen. With careful precision, he inscribed the words at the bottom of the final page: Metahuman status - Confirmed. He capped the pen, leaned back, and let the silence of his office settle around him while the muted continuation of the footage flickered in the corner of his screen. Officers' voices crackled through radios, sirens wailed in the distance, and static fuzzed across the audio feed, but Chiron was no longer listening. His eyes were fixed on the folder, the name printed clean across the tab, his voice emerging low but certain.

"Definitely one to watch."

Chapter Text

Chapter 11: Leo I

As a child, Leo Valdez had always been a tech wizard.

Not the kind of kid who just liked toys — Leo dismantled them. He didn't see gadgets as finished products, but puzzles waiting to be understood. Cords, motors, springs, tiny plastic gears — all of it fascinated him. Where other five-year-olds were learning their ABCs, Leo was already fluent in the language of screws, wires, and circuits.

By the time most kids were mastering tricycles, Leo had pulled apart the family television. Completely. His mother, Esperanza, had panicked when she found the TV in pieces — casing off, circuit boards exposed, coaxial cable snipped clean. But her panic had turned to stunned silence when, twenty minutes later, Leo had put it back together, exactly as it was. The picture was clearer, somehow.

Then came the remote-controlled car. Built from spare parts scavenged from junk drawers, an old cordless phone, and a garage door opener, Leo's invention zipped around the living room like it had come off a factory line. It wasn't just a toy — it had headlights, multiple speeds, and even a reverse gear. He entered it in the local science fair and walked away with first prize. The judges asked which kit he used. Leo shrugged and said, "I didn't."

The next week, when the washing machine in their apartment started making a horrible screeching noise and refusing to drain, Esperanza had reached for the phone to call a repairman. Leo stopped her. He dragged a step stool into the laundry nook, unscrewed the back panel with a butter knife, and poked around until he found the problem — a loose belt and a jammed drain pipe. He tightened, cleaned, and ran a test cycle. The machine worked perfectly.

"I saved you eighty bucks," he'd said proudly, arms covered in lint.

From that moment on, Esperanza stopped doubting. She didn't always understand Leo, but she believed in him. Her boy wasn't normal — but maybe he wasn't meant to be.

Yet despite being a complete genius with technology, he was also a bit… disturbed.

Not in a dangerous way. Not at the time anyways. But something about Leo Valdez didn't sit entirely still. His teachers called it extreme hyperactivity. His mom called it having ants in his brain. He couldn't stay seated. Couldn't stop tapping his foot. Couldn't focus on one thought for more than five seconds unless it involved gears, metal, or motion. His mind bounced around like a pinball machine running on overdrive.

Only two things ever calmed him down. One was building things. The other was fire.

Not to burn things. Not to hurt anyone. He didn't even fully understand it himself. There was just something about fire — the movement, the color, the quiet sound it made when it breathed — that could hold his attention in a way nothing else could.

He kept matchbooks hidden in his pockets and struck them just to watch. Just to see that brief flicker of life before the flame curled up and consumed the wood. If he found a lighter left unattended on a table, he couldn't help himself. He'd flick it several times. Not setting anything ablaze — just watching that flame appear, hover, vanish. Like magic under his thumb. He'd sneak candles from drawers around the apartment and light them in his bedroom at night. Not for scent. Not for mood. Just to watch them dance. The way the flame leaned when he exhaled nearby — that fascinated him. He'd blow gently, not enough to extinguish the fire, just enough to make it sway. It made him feel like he was communicating with it. And the stove — oh, the stove. The sharp clicking of the ignition. The instant blaze of blue flame. He could stare at that ring of fire for minutes on end until his mom caught him.

"Leo!" she'd shout from the other room. "¡Apaga eso! You're going to burn your eyebrows off!"

He'd sigh, turn it off, and walk away. But inside, he missed it already.

He even scared other parents. One time while at his best friend's house, while the other kids ran around shooting Nerf guns and fighting over snacks, Leo would sit disturbingly still in front of the fireplace, sitting cross-legged and being completely silent. Staring into the flames like he was in a trance. No movement, no twitching. Just complete stillness.

Mrs. Ramirez once pulled Esperanza aside and whispered, "I've never seen a child that still before. It's… unsettling."

But for Leo, it was peace. Even when he wasn't near a flame, he thought about it. He'd sketch twisting fire patterns in his notebooks. Trace the shape of a matchbox with his thumb while he sat through class. And though he never admitted it, sometimes… he felt like there was a flicker inside him. And he never told anyone that sometimes, when he was alone… he didn't need a match to see the flame. It would burn in his mind.

By the time Leo turned seven, his world had expanded beyond the walls of their cramped Houston apartment. School wasn't much of a challenge — multiplication tables and spelling lists couldn't hold his attention for long. What fascinated him were the mechanics of the world: how the classroom lights flicked on with a soft hum, how the projector's fan kicked in after a few seconds, how the school bell rang every forty-five minutes like clockwork.

So, naturally, Leo decided to break the clock. One Monday morning in second grade, the entire school was thrown into confusion when the bell system simply… didn't work. No start bell. No recess bell. No lunch bell. Teachers looked around helplessly, unsure whether to dismiss their classes or hold them in place. It took the district's IT tech an entire day to figure out that someone — using nothing but a paperclip, a stolen access keycard, and a few lines of code written in Spanish — had temporarily rerouted the bell system's programming.

Leo never admitted it. He didn't have to. The principal took one look at him after school that day — all wide-eyed and innocent, with a screwdriver sticking out of his pocket — and sighed. She couldn't prove it, however. So he got away with a warning.

That same year, Leo built a working AM radio out of a busted cassette deck, some wire coat hangers, and an old cereal box he wrapped in aluminum foil "for better reception." He'd stay up late in bed turning the dial, listening to Houston Astros games and trucker chatter from the Mexican border, a crackling symphony that only he could tune into.

Nothing topped the flamethrower, however. It started with a science project on chemical reactions. One minute Leo was demonstrating how gas expansion could push a piston, and the next he was blasting a foot-long arc of fire across the blacktop behind the gym. He'd cobbled it together from PVC pipe, a disposable lighter, and his mother's hairspray. It wasn't malicious by any means. It was mostly just his curiosity gone nuclear. He still got suspended for three days for it, though. Esperanza grounded him for three weeks. But deep down, Leo could tell even she was impressed.

"Mi cielo," she muttered, shaking her head while she tossed the melted plastic into the trash. "You're going to build something that'll either change the world… or blow it up."

Leo grinned and replied, "Why not both?"

By the time Leo hit nine, his mind was moving faster than his hands could keep up. He no longer just repaired things — he built them. From scratch. Out of rusted parts, discarded appliances, and whatever forgotten tech he could drag home from junk piles. His bedroom looked less like a child's room and more like a miniature workshop: wires hanging from the ceiling, screwdrivers jammed into cups, the faint buzz of something always charging.

His proudest creation that year was a robotic arm, cobbled together from toy servos, the rotary motor from an old sewing machine, and strips of aluminum cut from soda cans. The fingers could open and close via joystick, and though it couldn't do much more than grip a soda can or press a button, Leo had made it move. It responded.

"Just wait till I teach it to wave," he would tell Esperanza, eyes gleaming behind safety goggles three sizes too big.

Leo never shied away from pushing his limits. Later that year, he got his hands on a beat-up electric scooter — a birthday gift from a neighbor who was ready to toss it. Leo took one look at the underpowered battery and muttered, "Challenge accepted." Within a week, he had rewired the drive system and replaced the speed limiter with a custom override switch. The thing launched like a bullet... until he crashed it within three blocks. His broken collarbone hurt a ton. The scooter flying thirty feet into someone's yard was worse. But the rush of getting it to work, that's what made it worth it.

At ten, Leo entered the Houston Middle School Engineering Fair. He was the youngest participant there, a full two years below the age bracket. His project: a programmable circuit board he built entirely from scavenged components. No kit. No instructions. He even coded a basic interface that allowed it to run LED sequences and logic operations. The judges stared at his board like it had fallen from the future. He won first place. The applause embarrassed him more than the interview afterward.

"That was amazing," a local engineer said. "Where'd you learn to do all this?"

Leo scratched his neck. "I dunno. I just… see it."

And it was true. Circuits. Engines. Pressure valves. Code. It all clicked into place in his brain like puzzle pieces that were always meant to fit. He didn't think of himself as gifted or talented. He thought of himself as built this way.

Leo's fascination with fire was just one part of him. The rest — the complicated, messy, human part — was shaped by his home. His mother, Esperanza Valdez, was a mechanic. Not the fancy kind with her name on the building, but the kind who worked long shifts at greasy auto shops, who came home with oil-stained fingers and muscles sore from hours bent over busted engines. She was sharp, stubborn, and the only person Leo feared when she raised her voice — which, thankfully, wasn't often.

He adored her. They lived in a small two-bedroom apartment in southeast Houston, cramped but alive — full of tools, half-finished repairs, engine belts on the kitchen table, and the faint smell of motor oil lingering in the walls. Esperanza made it work. She always had. But his father? Not so much.

Leo didn't know him very well. Just a name on a birth certificate and an occasional phone call every few months. The man worked maintenance at a nuclear power plant outside the city. Made good money, supposedly. But he and Esperanza had never been married, and after Leo was born, he vanished from their lives more often than not.

He'd show up sometimes — once a blue moon. Drop off a gift. Promise to "do better." Then disappear again, leaving Leo with questions he didn't bother asking anymore. Esperanza had given up expecting anything from him a long time ago. What she did expect — and rely on — was the child support check. The one that was always late.

...

On one particular Thursday evening, Leo was sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, pieces of metal and wires scattered around him like treasure. He was working on a motorized gear track — a new trick he'd thought up while sketching during class. The air buzzed with concentration as he carefully soldered a small capacitor into place, his tongue sticking out the side of his mouth in focus.

Esperanza stood by the kitchen counter, flipping through the mail. There, was the electric bill, some junk, a coupon flyer, more junk and after that... nothing else. No child support. He missed it again.

She slapped the last envelope onto the counter with a loud smack and let out a breath through her nose, short and angry. "¿En serio, Héctor?" she muttered, her voice low and tight. "Every damn month with this."

Leo barely looked up. "No child support again?"

"Like clockwork," she snapped, tossing the pile into a drawer she didn't bother closing. She rubbed the back of her neck, her shoulders stiff.

Leo didn't say anything. He knew that look. He'd seen it before — the way her jaw clenched when money got tight, or when she had to work double shifts just to cover rent. Sometimes he wished his dad would just disappear completely, so they didn't have to expect anything from him ever again.

"Wanna help me change the brakes on the Civic later?" she asked after a moment, already softening.

Leo looked up with a grin. "You just want me to get under the car 'cause I'm small."

She smirked. "Damn right."

Their laughter filled the room — light, real — but the envelope drawer stayed open, and the air still carried the weight of what was missing.

...

The next morning, the mood in the apartment was taut and unspoken. The kind of silence that felt like it had teeth.

Leo noticed it right away — in the way his mom banged the cabinets a little harder than usual while getting breakfast ready, in how she didn't hum to the radio like she normally did. She sipped her coffee with her jaw clenched, her eyes flicking constantly to the digital clock on the microwave. Leo sat at the table with a screwdriver in one hand and a circuit board in the other, quietly installing a relay switch he'd scavenged from an old remote-control helicopter. He didn't ask what was wrong. He already knew.

By mid-morning, Esperanza made her decision.

"That's it," she muttered, ripping off her work gloves and tossing them on the counter. "Ten days late. No calls. No texts. No check. I'm not sitting around waiting anymore."

Leo looked up from his project, eyebrows raised. "What're you gonna do?"

She grabbed her keys, pulled on a light jacket, and snatched her phone from the charger. "I'm going to see your father."

Leo blinked. "You mean… go go?"

"I mean drive to his job, march through that damn facility, and let him know exactly what I think of his parenting skills," she said. "And since I'm not paying for a babysitter just to yell at a deadbeat, you're coming with me."

Leo opened his mouth to protest, but closed it again. He'd learned over the years when his mom had that look — the one that meant there was no talking her down.

He sighed. "Can I bring my tool kit?"

Esperanza arched an eyebrow. "Seriously?"

Leo shrugged. "Long drive. Might get bored."

She shook her head, biting back a smile. "Fine. Grab it. Let's go."

Fifteen minutes later, they were in the Civic, rumbling through the industrial edges of Houston. Gray warehouses passed by in a blur. Power lines buzzed overhead. Leo sat in the passenger seat, toolbox wedged between his knees, fingers twitching as he mentally dismantled the car's dashboard just to pass the time. Esperanza didn't speak much during the drive. Her focus was ironclad. It was clear this visit had been simmering for a long time — and now that she'd finally made up her mind, nothing was going to stop her. Not the traffic, not the security guard and certainly not the man waiting at the other end.

The nuclear power plant loomed ahead like a gray giant, squatting over the Houston skyline with its smokestacks and humming fences. A massive sign read GULFSTAR ENERGY — AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. The Civic pulled into the front lot with a squeal of worn tires, and Esperanza slammed the door before the engine had fully died.

Leo stepped out slowly, blinking up at the scale of the place. Rows of tall chain-link fencing buzzed faintly with electricity. White utility trucks lined the perimeter. Massive pipes snaked along the outside of the buildings, like arteries feeding something alive and mechanical. The place reeked of asphalt, metal, and overheated wires. Esperanza marched straight to the security checkpoint, her face a portrait of pure thunder.

The guard inside, a pudgy guy in his fifties with thick glasses and a half-eaten bagel, barely looked up. "Ma'am, this is restricted property—"

"I'm looking for Héctor Reyes," Esperanza snapped, pulling her ID from her wallet and slapping it on the glass. "He works maintenance on Unit Four. Tell him Esperanza Valdez is here to speak with him. Now."

The guard blinked. "Is he expecting you?"

"Oh, he's about to be."

There must've been something in her voice — something dangerous and direct — because the man picked up his phone without another word. He spoke into the receiver in hushed tones, then gestured toward the main gate. "Go ahead. You'll need an escort to get through secondary security."

"I'm not here to tour the place," she said. "Just point me in his direction."

Moments later, she was led across the concrete yard by a younger employee in a hard hat who looked too nervous to ask questions. Leo followed close behind, clutching his little toolbox under one arm and trying to keep up. They passed shipping bays and turbines, the deep thrum of energy echoing from every direction. Leo could feel it in his chest — the whole place pulsing with unseen power. Somewhere in the back of his head, his curiosity flared. He wanted to stop and look. Wanted to open something. Wanted to see how it all worked. But his mom had that walk — the angry, mission-oriented walk — so he stayed close. For now.

Finally, they turned a corner and came upon Héctor Reyes, kneeling by a generator conduit with a wrench in hand. Mid-forties, grease-smudged uniform, a day's worth of stubble. He looked up and froze when he saw her.

"Oh… mierda," he muttered.

Esperanza didn't give him a second to run. "Ten days late, Héctor," she said, voice low and lethal. "Ten. Once again, you're late on the child support."

"Espe, I was gonna send it—"

"Don't Espe me," she barked. "We've had this conversation a hundred times. You think just because you're working in this tin can you get to ignore your son?"

Leo winced, lowering his gaze.

Héctor stood up, lifting both hands like she was pointing a loaded gun at him. "I've been pulling doubles. I just haven't had time to—"

"No. You've had time. You just don't care. You never have."

As their voices rose, Leo's ADHD kicked in like a switch had been flipped. The conversation blurred into background noise. The walls, the machinery, the blinking panels — those were calling him. So many buttons. So many switches. So much he didn't understand. He glanced around. No one was looking. With Esperanza locked in a full-blown tirade and Héctor scrambling for excuses, Leo quietly drifted away, his curiosity getting the best of him. Just a quick look, he told himself. He'd be right back.

But the moment his foot crossed the threshold, Leo Valdez's life would never be the same again.

...

BREAKING NEWS

LIVE | KHOU 11 – HOUSTON'S OWN

"We interrupt your regularly scheduled programming for breaking news out of southeast Houston, where reports are coming in of a massive explosion at Gulfstar Energy, a nuclear power facility just outside the city limits."

The screen flickered to aerial footage from a local news chopper, struggling to stabilize against the blast shockwaves still rippling through the area. A black column of smoke billowed into the sky like a storm cloud, rising high above the complex. Emergency vehicles swarmed the scene — flashing red and blue, sirens blaring.

"Initial reports suggest the explosion occurred just minutes ago in one of the plant's lower service wings. The cause remains unknown, but witnesses describe a sudden surge of light, followed by a concussive blast that shook windows as far as five miles away."

"Multiple employees were working on the plant at the time. No official word yet on injuries or casualties, though sources are confirming that both plant personnel and civilians were on-site at the time of the incident, so the estimated number could be high."

The footage cut to a stunned local reporter standing several blocks from the blast radius, wind pushing smoke behind her.

"We're still waiting on statements from Gulfstar officials and emergency responders. We've also been told the plant is initiating emergency shutdown protocols. Residents in the area have been advised to shelter in place until further notice. Again, we're reporting a large-scale explosion at Gulfstar Energy — a nuclear facility here in southeast Houston — with significant damage and ongoing emergency efforts."

"We will continue to bring you updates as this story develops."

...

An hour after the explosion, the sounds of sirens blared around the sight. The lights of fire trucks, ambulances and police cruisers flashed throughout the area.

Leo Valdez sat alone on a weather-worn park bench, maybe half a mile from the still-smoking ruins of Gulfstar Energy. His small frame was wrapped in a scratchy red blanket, the kind paramedics handed out at disaster scenes. His legs didn't quite reach the ground. His feet just dangled. Swinging slightly. Pointlessly. His face was pale. His dark curls hung limp over his eyes. Ash was streaked down the sides of his cheeks like war paint. His hands, still trembling, were blackened with soot and something darker. His eyes — wide, empty — stared down at the concrete.

He didn't blink much. He'd been traumatized by what happened.

A police officer crouched beside him, trying to get on his level. He had kind eyes. A little too kind, maybe. "Hey, bud." the officer said gently. "Is it okay if I ask you what happened?"

He didn't respond.

"Do you know your mom's name? Or your dad's?"

Leo's jaw tightened, refusing to answer. His fingers curled tighter around the edge of the blanket.

The officer hesitated, glancing at the first responder report in his hand. He rubbed the back of his neck and looked toward the chaos in the distance. The entire north wing of the facility had collapsed. The fire was finally under control, but the damage was staggering. Emergency crews were still recovering bodies. A few of them had been ID'd by now but two of them stood out. Esperanza Valdez and Héctor Reyes. Both were killed in the blast.

The officer turned back to Leo, still squatting beside him. "Look, I'm not trying to scare you, okay? I just… I just need to understand how you made it out. Everyone else in that sector—" he stopped himself. "It's just… the explosion reached every corner of that building."

Leo refused to even look at him. He didn't say a word.

The officer's voice dropped to a whisper. "You shouldn't be alive, kid."

Leo knew he was right. He shouldn't be alive. But he knew exactly how he survived. The memory burned behind his eyes — not like a nightmare, but like a brand, permanent and inescapable.

He had wandered just a little too far. The maintenance corridor had been unmarked, half-lit, wires dangling from open panels. It shouldn't have been open. The door had buzzed faintly when he touched it, then clicked open like it had been waiting for someone curious enough — or stupid enough — to enter. Leo had stepped inside, toolbox still in hand, the hallway narrowing to a dim chamber filled with humming equipment and thick pipes. In the corner stood a cluster of large blue industrial containers, stacked two high, each marked with a yellow radiation symbol and stenciled numbers Leo couldn't read fast enough. He didn't need to. They glowed. Faintly, but unmistakably.

Leo, ever the tinkerer, reached out toward the nearest one—just to see. Just to touch. But the moment his fingertips brushed the smooth metal, his elbow knocked loose a hanging power conduit, and the spark it gave off—small, harmless under normal circumstances—ignited a catastrophic chain reaction. The container shifted and tipped over, before crashing to the ground. Its reinforced seal cracked open with a hiss of heat and pressure, and in a split second, a thick stream of glowing liquid sprayed outward — splashing onto Leo's shirt, his hands, his face, his body completely soaked in some gooey liquid substance, which also coated the circuits of a nearby exposed generator.

The moment the radioactive fluid made contact with the live machinery, the entire room lit up. All Leo could remember was white light flashing in his eyes and pure heat consuming him. An unnatural pressure punched through the chamber as the generator sparked, overloaded, and then... the explosion followed.

It was unlike anything Leo had ever experienced. The explosion didn't throw him — it pulled him. Like a magnet reversing polarity, sucking the air out of his lungs, replacing it with fire. He remembered the sensation — not of burning, but of becoming something else. Something unstable, surging, alive in a way he couldn't describe. In the milliseconds before everything collapsed, Leo had screamed, but it was no human sound. It was a flash of heat that erupted from his chest, a burst of searing light that scorched the walls and somehow shielded his body from the full blast.

He shouldn't have survived. No normal ten-year-old would've. Forget a ten-year-old, no human should be surviving that. But he did. Somehow. And as he sat on that bench, wrapped in the scratchy blanket, hands still blackened, Leo couldn't stop seeing it, how it must have been before they died — his mom's face, mid-yell… his dad's stunned expression. The people working just yards away. The guards and the techs. The janitor with the radio playing classic rock. All of them were gone now. Because Leo Valdez got bored. His godforsaken ADHD triggered and he wandered off. He just had to see how everything worked.

It was all his fault. The explosion hadn't just taken his parents. It had taken something deeper — a piece of his childhood, ripped out and burned beyond recognition. And in its place, something else had settled. Something volatile. Something that hummed beneath his skin like an engine running too hot. He didn't know what it was.

But he knew this much: things were about to get very complicated for him.

Chapter Text

Chapter 12: Leo II

The next few days passed in a fog of paperwork, hushed voices, and unfamiliar buildings.

Leo didn't get to go home. No one asked if he wanted to. After the hospital cleared him—amazed, almost suspicious, at the lack of burns or radiation sickness—Leo was transferred into the care of Child Protective Services. The process was cold and mechanical, like watching gears turn inside a machine he couldn't stop. Everything happened around him, above him, without him. First came the questions. Names, dates, addresses. Did he have any family? Godparents? Legal guardians? Anyone? Obviously, he didn't have anyone.

A social worker—a woman named Ms. Kwan, who wore soft perfume and never stopped tapping on her tablet—explained what would happen next in slow, deliberate words, as if he were younger than ten. "You'll be placed in temporary state care, Leo. Until we can locate any next of kin or assign a guardian."

They tried to soften the language, but Leo wasn't stupid. "Temporary" was just another word for nowhere. What they meant was foster care.

He was sent to Family Court within a week. He sat on a hard bench outside the courtroom for hours, dressed in an oversized jacket someone had donated. His feet didn't touch the ground there, either. He watched lawyers and clerks pass by with files and coffee cups, not looking at him—just one more case number in the system.

Inside the courtroom, Leo said nothing. He didn't cry. He didn't speak. He just listened. He heard phrases like state-appointed custody, no extended family located, government liability given the location of the incident, and non-kinship placement pending. The words all blurred together—official, sterile, and impossibly far away from anything that felt real. Each one chipped away at the world he had known, until all that remained was a cold, legal outline of a life he no longer recognized.

The judge, a weary man with graying hair and a brown robe, glanced at Leo over his glasses. "Do you understand what's happening, son?"

Leo nodded once. But the truth was, he didn't really know.

That night, he was driven to a small group home on the edge of the city—a converted duplex that smelled like plastic, bleach, and microwave dinners. There were other kids there, older mostly, and quieter. No one said much. The TV was always on, showing shows nobody watched. They gave him a bed. Thin mattress. Thin blanket. No one asked about the nightmares. His room had a dresser, a window that stuck halfway open, and a closet filled with someone else's clothes. The silence was the loudest thing in the room. He was just a file now. A case. A kid who survived something no one else had. And no matter how many forms were signed or how many whispers passed between social workers, no one ever asked the question he dreaded most: How did you survive the explosion?

Because if they did… if he told them the truth… they wouldn't send him to another foster home. They'd maybe go as far as to send him to a lab. A government facility. Somewhere underground. Somewhere locked. Somewhere where he tested on like a lab rat.

So Leo kept quiet. He followed the rules. He didn't tell anyone about the fire that danced in his palms when he got angry, or the way the lights flickered when he walked by. He stayed under the radar, kept his head down, and said only what he had to. Because deep down, he knew the truth: if anyone ever saw what he could really do, they wouldn't call him gifted. They'd call him dangerous. And they'd lock him away forever.

He just waited. Waited for the next house. The next family. The next goodbye. Because that's what his life had become now—a long string of places he didn't belong.

...

It didn't take long for the first placement to come through. Barely a week after the explosion, Leo was packed into the back seat of another government car, staring out the window as suburban neighborhoods rolled past like slideshow frames — different houses, same shapes. The social worker in the front seat, a man named Mr. Garza, made small talk that Leo ignored.

"This family's got experience," Garza said over his shoulder, trying to sound cheerful. "They've fostered a few boys before. You'll have your own room, and they've got a big backyard. Real quiet area."

Leo didn't bother making any comment about that. The car pulled into a cul-de-sac lined with modest single-story homes. The lawn of number 2415 had yellow patches. A plastic flamingo leaned sideways by the porch. The house itself looked like it was trying to smile — white paint, red shutters, a welcome mat that said "Home Sweet Home" like it meant something. A woman opened the door before they even knocked. Mid-forties, thick glasses, hair in a messy bun. Her name was Mrs. Teresa Cranston, and she greeted Leo with a stiff smile and a pat on the back like he was a stray dog she wasn't quite ready to let into the house.

"We're just glad to help," she told Mr. Garza, ushering Leo inside. "We believe in second chances here."

The inside of the house smelled like dust and lemon cleaning spray. Everything was beige — the couch, the walls, even the dog curled up in the corner. Leo was shown to his room. Twin bed, thin dresser, bare walls. There were some stickers peeling on the side of the closet door — dinosaurs, faded from age. He figured they were from the last kid.

"Dinner's at six," Mrs. Cranston said. "We don't tolerate attitude in this house. Lights out at ten. We're not here to spoil you, Leo. You follow the rules, and we'll get along fine."

She left without waiting for a reply. Leo sat on the bed. The springs squeaked under his weight. He looked at the room like it was a waiting room, not a place to live. He didn't unpack — not that he had much, anyways. A grocery bag with a couple shirts. A comb. A pair of socks. He didn't speak much that week. The Cranstons didn't ask many questions. They were polite, structured, rigid. There were chores and schedules and grace before dinner. Leo kept his head down and followed every rule. He said "yes ma'am" and "no sir" and cleaned his plate. He smiled when expected. Laughed when prompted.

But every night, as he lay in the dark listening to the hum of the ceiling fan, he stared at his palms and remembered the fire. The blue light. The way the heat had welcomed him. He never lit anything in the house. Not even a match. Still, he caught Mrs. Cranston glancing at him sometimes like she knew something wasn't quite right.

On the twelfth day, the Cranstons told his caseworker that Leo "wasn't a good fit."

...

Leo didn't ask where they were going this time. He just climbed into the back of the car when Mr. Garza showed up again, didn't bother buckling his seatbelt, and stared out the window like the scenery might change if he stopped paying attention to it.

The next house was in a different part of Houston — older, flatter, more run-down. The street had potholes that never got filled and streetlights that flickered like they were giving up. This one wasn't a family home. It was a multi-child foster residence, run by a woman named Ms. Dolores Hart, who everyone just called Miss D. She wasn't unkind — just tired. Her eyes said she'd seen too much, and her voice always carried a sharp edge, even when she was being nice.

"You don't start fights," she told Leo on the front steps. "You don't steal food. You don't lock yourself in the bathroom. You do your homework. You make your bed. You follow my rules, and you'll survive."

The house held six other boys, all between the ages of ten and fourteen. Some had been there for years. Others were on their third or fourth stop, just like Leo. Nobody said welcome. They just stared when he walked in, then went back to their own business. One kid was building something with broken remote parts. Another was throwing a tennis ball at the wall, over and over and over. Leo got the top bunk in a shared room. The mattress was better than the last one, but not by much. He didn't mind the noise—TVs, arguments, someone always tapping their pencil or blasting music from an old speaker. The chaos made it easier to disappear.

Miss D didn't hover. She gave him space, but she watched everything from the kitchen doorway with her arms crossed.

At school, Leo sat in the back. He didn't raise his hand. Didn't turn in a single form with the correct emergency contact. He ate the free lunch and kept to himself. But even in that rundown house, the fire didn't stop.

One night, after a kid shoved him in the hallway and called him a freak, Leo slammed the door to the shared bedroom and clenched his fists so tight his knuckles cracked. The heat built in his palms until he had to press them to the cold metal bedframe just to cool down. He didn't light anything. But the room smelled like ozone for an hour.

No one said anything. But the next morning, his pillow was on the floor. Someone had scribbled burnout on the underside of the top bunk.

He didn't tell Miss D. What was the point?

After a month, she called the social worker herself.

"Smart kid," she said. "But he's got that look. He's not meant to stay long."

...

The third house didn't look like much from the outside — just another sun-bleached home on a quiet street, its siding a little cracked, the mailbox leaning slightly to one side. But the moment Leo stepped inside, he noticed something different.

It felt lived in. The walls had pictures. Real ones — not generic prints from a thrift store. Photos of people. A wedding. A boy with a bike. A graduation. There were backpacks tossed on the floor, the smell of stew from the kitchen, and a tired-looking man humming to himself as he stirred a pot on the stove.

This was the Martinez household. Julia and Marcos Martinez had two kids of their own — both teenagers — and had been fostering for over a decade. They took Leo in like he was just one more seat at the dinner table. Julia was a high school English teacher, sharp-eyed and no-nonsense, with a soft spot for kids who didn't say much. Marcos worked at a construction firm, came home every day covered in dust and concrete dust, and always made time to ask Leo how his day had gone. They didn't pry. They didn't press. But they noticed.

"You're a quiet one," Marcos said once, handing Leo a plate of rice and beans. "That's okay. Just means when you do talk, people better listen."

For the first time in weeks, Leo felt like he could breathe. He started doing homework again. Fixed the broken microwave without being asked. Even helped Marcos in the garage, pretending not to notice how the man was impressed when Leo rewired the busted drill in under ten minutes. There were moments of calm. Nights when Julia would ask him what book he wanted to read. Afternoons when he sat on the front porch drawing blueprints on napkins. The fire in his chest quieted for the first time since the plant. It didn't vanish. It never would. But in the Martinez house, he wasn't scared of it.

He had stayed nearly six months — long enough that the little guest room began to feel less like a place to crash and more like his own space. The posters on the wall weren't his, but the stack of blueprints and scrap parts on the desk were. Julia even signed him up for the school science fair, insisting he needed to "show people that brilliant brain of his." Marcos started hinting at something bigger, speaking in careful tones about "the paperwork." Adoption papers. The word burned in Leo's mind like a coal pressed against his thoughts — warm, impossible to ignore, and carrying with it the dangerous hope that maybe, just maybe, this could last.

But embers, if you're not careful, don't just glow. They catch.

The night it happened, it was nothing dramatic — just one of his prototypes failing, another idea collapsing in a hiss of smoke. He was frustrated, angry at himself, and he let the heat in his chest build unchecked. The hallway light flickered as he walked by, then blinked out. A moment later, a sharp crack from the kitchen — the toaster sparked, shuddered, and died. He hadn't even noticed the faint shimmer at his fingertips until Julia's quiet gasp froze him in place.

"What was that?" she asked, voice thin, uneasy.

"Static shock," Leo lied, forcing a shrug.

But Julia's eyes said she didn't believe him.

After that, things shifted. Not all at once, but little by little, in ways you could almost miss if you weren't watching for them. The conversations at dinner grew shorter. The warmth in Julia's voice cooled into something measured, careful. Marcos stopped asking about his sketches, stopped leaning over his shoulder to admire the scribbled inventions he dreamed up late at night. Julia began talking about "structure," as if it were a polite substitute for distance. The adoption papers were never mentioned again.

Two weeks later, the caseworker came back. The Martinez family explained it away — too many kids already, too much work, too much responsibility. They smiled the whole time, saying all the right things in all the right tones. But Leo could see past the words. He knew why.

So he packed up what little was his, the room already losing its warmth before he'd even left, and he didn't look back.

...

The fourth home came with smiles.

Dennis and Marla Granger were in their early fifties, the kind of couple who kept their lives neat and orderly. Their brick house had polished hardwood floors that gleamed under the lamps, bookshelves organized by color like museum displays, and a garden trimmed so perfectly it felt staged. They were church-going, dependable, practiced at politeness. The caseworker told Leo they had fostered "special cases" before—kids who carried too much anger, too much sadness, too much of the world on their shoulders. The Grangers had nodded knowingly, their smiles warm, their words gentle. When Leo arrived, Marla already had a casserole baking, its smell spilling through the kitchen like a promise, and Dennis showed him to a tidy bedroom with fresh sheets and a little model airplane waiting on the shelf as if it were some kind of welcome gift.

It wasn't perfect. It wasn't family. But it wasn't awful either. After everything else, that was enough. At least, for a while.

Leo made himself easy to keep. He stayed quiet, respectful, and careful. He fixed the leaky sink in the bathroom without being asked. He carried Marla's grocery bags without complaint. He kept his grades solid and never broke curfew. The Grangers liked that—they liked the boy who followed rules, who didn't slam doors or raise his voice. To them, he was a polite shadow that filled a chair at dinner and looked good in front of neighbors.

But they never looked deeper. They never asked what books he liked, or what nightmares kept him awake at night. They didn't notice the way his hands trembled when he clenched them too tightly, heat bleeding under the skin. They didn't see the restless hours he spent in the garage tinkering with broken radios and scraps of metal, because sleep never came easy. In public, they praised him. Behind closed doors, the air carried a quiet separation, an invisible wall of us and you.

It was never one big moment he could point to. Just a collection of small things—the pause in conversation when he entered a room, the way whispers ended when he passed by. The startled look in Marla's eyes when she accidentally brushed his wrist one day and flinched at the unnatural warmth in his skin.

By the time Leo turned thirteen, the tension was constant. The rituals remained, but they were hollow. Grace was still said at dinner, but no one's eyes met his when the words left their lips. They still took him school shopping, but everything came from the clearance rack, as if investing too much would be wasted effort. They still told him they were proud when he came home with certificates, but their voices rang false, their eyes sliding away before the words finished leaving their mouths.

Then came the comments—whispered at first, then more openly.

"He's a good kid, but… different."

"He's always in the garage. Who knows what he's doing in there?"

"I don't like the way the lights flicker when he walks past."

Different became strange. Strange became dangerous. And soon enough, freak was the word that lived silently between every line they spoke.

Leo didn't shout. He didn't argue. He just watched them—watched their smiles thin, watched the trust drain away, watched the wall between them grow brick by invisible brick. And inside him, resentment pressed harder and harder, building like steam inside a sealed pipe.

On the night he turned fourteen, he sat alone in the backyard. There was no cake waiting for him, no candles to blow out, no off-key singing from people trying their best. The house behind him was dark, its windows blank, its rooms silent. For the first time, it truly felt like he wasn't part of it at all.

At dawn, he shouldered a backpack filled with whatever scraps he could carry and the thirty dollars he had saved from leftover allowances. He slipped out the front door without a word, without a note, without calling his caseworker. He didn't care what records existed in some office or what paperwork said where he belonged.

Because if they were never going to treat him like family—then he was done pretending they were.

...

They never reported him missing.

That was the part that stayed with him the most. Not the cold nights that cut through his hoodie, or the way his stomach hollowed out after days of half-meals. Not even the ache in his legs from wandering aimlessly across the city, never daring to stop for too long. He could deal with hunger. He could deal with pain. Loneliness was nothing new. But to be forgotten—that hit different.

From the way the Grangers let him vanish, it was as if he had been nothing more than a misplaced object. Not a boy. Not a person. Just a responsibility they were quietly relieved to set down. And that realization burned worse than the hunger, worse than the cold. It was proof that leaving had been the only choice, because if they didn't care he was gone, they never cared he was there.

He managed six days on his own. Six nights spent folded into bus station benches, curled up behind dumpsters, or hidden in the corners of twenty-four-hour laundromats. He stretched his money as far as it could go — a few wrinkled bills, some loose change, a half-used vending card. By the fourth day it was gone. His fourteenth birthday "dinner" was a half-bag of stale chips and a bruised apple he'd pulled from a convenience store trash bin. He didn't complain. He didn't talk. He just kept moving, head down, a shadow passing through the city.

On the seventh morning, exhaustion finally won. His body gave out on a rusted park bench by a chain-link fence, backpack wedged under his head, hood drawn low. The sun hadn't even risen fully when a patrol car slowed beside the curb. Its engine idled, then cut off.

The officer who stepped out looked young—early thirties, maybe—with tired eyes but a calm voice. He kept his movements careful as he approached.

"You okay, kid?"

Leo didn't answer.

The man crouched beside the bench, voice steady but not unkind. "You been out here long?"

Again, silence. Not out of defiance. He just had nothing left to say.

The officer studied him for a long moment before sighing. "You don't look dangerous. You look tired."

When the man helped him up, Leo didn't resist. He climbed into the cruiser without protest, staring at the floor mats. He declined the offer of breakfast, voice barely audible when he finally spoke his name.

"Leo Valdez."

At the station, the system processed him the way it always did — ran the name, pulled up the file, checked the boxes. There was no missing persons report. No worried foster parents calling to check. Just an old digital note with the words "re-evaluation pending."

The officer flipped through the record, jaw tightening as he muttered, "Someone should've been looking for you."

But Leo already knew the truth. Nobody had. Nobody would.

If he wanted a future, he'd have to forge it himself. With his own two hands. Just like everything else in his life.

...

Leo's new caseworker wasn't like the ones before.

Her name was Marisol Vega, and from the first moment, he realized she didn't carry the same clipped tone or weary sympathy the others had. She didn't speak to him as if he were a problem to be managed, or worse, a file to be shuffled along until it landed on someone else's desk. Marisol had sharp, striking features, dark lipstick, and a way of watching that made it clear she missed nothing. During their first meeting, she flipped through his record without comment, her expression unreadable, then set the folder aside and looked directly at him.

"You're not a lost cause," she said flatly, as if daring him to disagree. "You're just smarter than most people know what to do with."

Leo didn't answer. But for the first time in a long while, he didn't look away either.

Over the following weeks, she kept showing up. Not just for check-ins, not just to tick boxes — but to actually ask him things. What he was working on in the garage. What he thought about school. What kind of projects he'd build if he had the right tools. She wrote notes in her leather-bound pad, not like she was cataloguing symptoms, but like she was planning something. She pushed for evaluations, though not the usual kind that ended with acronyms stamped on a page. Somehow, she got him in front of a private academic board, a favor pulled from somewhere he didn't understand.

They reviewed everything — his science fair scores, his aptitude tests, even the half-scorched blueprints and the toaster he'd taken apart and rebuilt with scraps. Instead of labeling him, they sent back a recommendation.

One evening, Marisol slid a manila envelope across the table toward him. Inside were official forms, acceptance letters, and a glossy brochure with a red-bricked campus printed on the cover. Students in pressed uniforms walked along shaded paths, dorm buildings rose beyond the trees, and in the corner was a bold title: Northwood Academy.

"Boarding school," she explained. "Outside Austin. Full academic scholarship. Room and board covered. They've seen your work, and they're willing to give you a real shot."

Leo stared at the pamphlet like it might vanish if he blinked too hard. A school where he wouldn't have to walk on eggshells around strangers. A place with labs, workshops, and teachers who cared about machines instead of whether the lights flickered when he walked by. A place where maybe, just maybe, he could stop drifting.

"It's not perfect," Marisol admitted. "But it's stable. You'll have your own room. Tools. Teachers who understand kids like you. And best of all—no foster families."

That last part sealed it.

Leo signed the papers with hands that trembled just slightly, not from fear, but from the weight of possibility. For the first time since the explosion that had torn his life apart, Leo Valdez had something resembling hope.

...

The boarding school sat tucked away on a stretch of wooded land just beyond Austin — quiet, leafy, and far enough from the city that the air smelled sharp with pine and rain. The place wasn't huge, but to Leo it felt vast, like space finally opening around him, air he could actually breathe. Old brick buildings stood side by side with sleek glass additions, their edges softened by gardens and sheds where students tinkered. The dormitories looked more like small college housing than the correctional-style residences he had half expected. The cafeteria smelled like real food, not reheated rations. And the tech lab—God, the tech lab—was stocked with tools he had only ever seen in glossy magazines.

He arrived just after sunrise, a battered suitcase in one hand, hoodie zipped all the way to his chin. At fourteen, he was still short for his age, wiry and restless, used to slipping into rooms and feeling eyes crawl over him, silently measuring how he didn't belong. But here, something different happened.

A junior named Malik spotted him lingering by the main hall and casually offered to walk him to the dorms. Another kid, Jamie, caught sight of the tiny gears dangling from his keychain and asked, "Yo, you build stuff?" — not mocking, not suspicious, but curious. Genuine. By the time Leo reached his room, a single with a view of the quad, he felt… not welcome, exactly, but not unwanted either. And that was already more than he'd ever had.

His first class was Intro to Mechanical Theory, taught by a wiry man named Mr. Ng whose sleeves were perpetually streaked with grease. He handed out blueprints like they were candy and barked instructions in a voice rough as a chainsaw. Their first assignment was to assemble a gearbox by hand. Most students hunched over their work, fumbling with pieces. Leo finished in twenty minutes flat. Not because he had rushed, but because his fingers just knew where each piece belonged.

Mr. Ng studied the completed project, raised one eyebrow, and gave the smallest approving nod. "Valdez, right? We're gonna get along."

The rest of the day carried the same rhythm. Circuit Design felt less like schoolwork and more like play. Advanced Math was tedious but effortless. In Creative Engineering, his group was given nothing but scrap metal, old motor parts, and one vague instruction: build something cool. Without hesitation, Leo suggested a drone that could hover and launch foam darts. His partners blinked at him for a heartbeat, then grinned wide and rolled up their sleeves. For once, no one dismissed his ideas. They wanted in.

By afternoon, he was cracking jokes, getting laughs, gesturing too much with his hands as his thoughts jumped faster than his mouth could keep up. And nobody told him to slow down. Nobody told him to sit still. Nobody told him to "be normal."

That night, lying on his bed in a room that smelled faintly of fresh paint and pine trees instead of bleach and borrowed detergent, Leo stared at the ceiling fan spinning lazily overhead.

For the first time in years, he didn't feel like a freak. He didn't feel like a file number stamped in some office. He just felt like himself.

And it was the best first day he had ever had.

...

The next four years passed not in a blur, but in moment after vivid moment, stitched together by progress, laughter, and the steady process of healing.

Leo didn't just survive at boarding school — he thrived.

By sophomore year, most students knew him by name — not because of pity, but because you couldn't forget him. He was the guy who could fix a snapped laptop hinge with a paperclip and a soldering iron. The one who built a vending machine that dispensed motivational quotes instead of snacks. The one who helped the cafeteria staff automate their dishwasher system because "it looked fun."

He wasn't the quiet, guarded boy the social worker had dropped off anymore. He was fast-talking, sharp-witted, and infectiously energetic. Teachers adored him, even when he tested their patience. He cracked jokes in the middle of physics problems, programmed his class presentation to be narrated by a robotic voice that sounded like a pirate, and made it impossible to stay mad at him for long. He wasn't just clever — he had charm, and for the first time in his life, it didn't feel like a mask.

He made real friends — people who stuck around even when his ideas got too wild, or when he stayed up three nights in a row building a hoverboard that never quite worked. His roommate junior year, a tall kid named Nolan who played guitar, once said, "Man, I don't know where your brain goes half the time, but I like the ride."

He even fell in love, or at least something close to it. Her name was Sierra, a bright-eyed robotics student who beat him at programming competitions and challenged him to actually think before he spoke. They dated for most of junior year, a whirlwind of late-night coding sessions, rooftop stargazing, and snarky banter that never stopped. It didn't last forever, but it didn't end badly either. They parted with respect — and a mutual understanding that their paths were meant to launch in different directions.

By senior year, Leo was the guy on campus. Not the most athletic, not the class president, but the one everyone went to when something broke, when a circuit refused to connect, when they needed a project partner who'd carry them across the finish line and make them laugh doing it.

He kept his grades high, not because anyone made him, but because he wanted to. He cared now. He had something to prove — to himself more than anyone else. That he could rise from what happened. That the fire that changed him didn't have to define him in tragedy alone.

At the beginning of senior year, the school counselor pulled him aside and said, "You ever think about MIT?"

Leo had laughed. "Only every day since I figured out what it was."

He applied in early October. Also applied to Caltech, Georgia Tech, and a few others, but his heart was set. MIT wasn't just a dream — it was the goal. He poured himself into the application, wrote and rewrote his essays, got glowing recommendations from half the staff, and included a digital portfolio with a time-lapse of him building a working robotic arm from salvaged printer parts. He hit submit and tried not to think about it every hour of every day.

Then came the waiting. Mid-January brought brisk mornings and late afternoons painted gold by the Texas sun. The trees had shed their leaves, and the wind carried just enough chill to make Leo zip his hoodie higher during his walks between classes. He kept himself busy — exams, club projects, tinkering with a solar-powered bike prototype for fun — but every day felt like a countdown to a clock he couldn't see. The waiting gnawed at him quietly, constantly.

One afternoon, as the sun dipped low and cast the dorm in a warm orange glow, a knock came at Leo's door. When it creaked open, Mr. Hayashi stepped inside. His Creative Engineering teacher had been a stern but steady presence since freshman year, a mentor who pushed without coddling. In his hand was an envelope — thick, white, its surface stamped with red lettering that seemed to burn against the fading light.

Leo froze at his desk, staring at the thing as though it might vanish if he moved too quickly. Mr. Hayashi didn't lecture or explain; he simply smiled, pride hidden beneath his usual reserve, and extended the envelope. Rising slowly, Leo took it with hands that had built drones from scrap, rewired scooters for fun, and once clung desperately to his mother's fingers the last day she was alive. Those hands had always been steady, but now they trembled.

He didn't open it right away. Sitting on the edge of his bed, Leo stared at the seal, the weight of it almost electric in his palms. This was everything he had worked toward, everything he had scraped together from broken pieces of his life, all condensed into a single folded letter. Part of him still expected it to be a cruel trick, another slammed door waiting to remind him where he came from. But it wasn't. It was real, solid, undeniable.

Drawing in a breath that stretched his chest tight, he tore the envelope and unfolded the paper inside. His eyes skipped to the bold red header — Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Office of Admissions — before landing on the words that mattered most. Dear Leo Valdez, Congratulations! It is with great pleasure that we offer you admission to the Massachusetts Institute of Technology as a member of the incoming class. For a moment he couldn't move, couldn't even breathe, his mind frozen between disbelief and joy.

Then the laugh broke loose. It started as a stunned exhale and turned into something wild, a bubbling joy that echoed against the walls of his small dorm room. The letter fluttered in his grip as he pressed it against his chest, collapsing back onto his mattress and staring at the ceiling fan overhead as if the sheer force of his relief and triumph might shatter it. He had done it — not because anyone pulled strings, not because someone pitied him, but because of his own hands, his own mind, his own relentless drive.

For the first time, Leo Valdez — orphan, foster kid, runaway, fire-starter — wasn't defined by what he'd lost. He was going to MIT. And the future no longer felt like a question mark waiting to trip him up. It felt like a promise.

Chapter Text

Chapter 13: Leo III

Boston, MA

The airplane wheels screeched against the runway as the jet touched down at Logan International, jolting Leo forward in his seat. He didn't mind. He was too wired to sit still anyway — had been tapping his foot the entire descent, chewing through the last of a plastic stir stick like it was beef jerky. Boston. He was actually here.

He slung his duffel bag over one shoulder as he stepped off the plane and into the terminal, instantly hit by the humid summer air and the unfamiliar rhythm of a city waking up. Logan wasn't like the airports in Texas — this one felt older, more compact, like it had seen things. And cold. Not in temperature — not yet — but in energy. People here didn't smile at strangers. They moved like they had somewhere to be, and if you didn't, you were in the way.

Leo kind of liked that. He grabbed his battered suitcase from baggage claim — still bearing the duct tape patch from that robotics trip back in junior year — and walked out into the late August morning. Cabs were lined up along the curb like yellow dominoes, their drivers leaning against hoods, smoking or scrolling their phones. Leo flagged one down, tossing his bags in the trunk with a thud and climbing into the backseat.

"MIT," he said, sliding on his aviator sunglasses. "Time to make some trouble."

The cabbie grunted and pulled out into traffic. The drive gave Leo his first real glimpse of Boston. Brick buildings that looked like they'd survived five centuries and refused to die. Narrow streets that curved like they were drawn by a drunk surveyor. Trees wedged into every spare corner. And students — everywhere. It was like someone had taken every overachiever on the East Coast and dropped them into this one grid of tightly packed intellect.

As they crossed the Charles River, Leo saw the domes and spires of campus coming into view. He leaned forward, forehead nearly touching the glass. It looked exactly like the photos, and yet — bigger. More real. As if the place itself had gravity.

The cab pulled up to his dorm building, Simmons Hall, a giant cube of metal and glass that looked like a stack of Tetris blocks gone wrong. Leo grinned. "I love it already."

He paid the driver, grabbed his bags, and stepped onto the sidewalk — a freshman at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.

A firestarter in the land of logic. The next chapter of his life had just begun. Leo adjusted the strap on his duffel and started the walk toward Simmons Hall, suitcase wheels clacking unevenly over the sidewalk. The cab had dropped him at the edge of Vassar Street, and everything around him looked like a tech dream and a fever hallucination rolled into one.

Students zipped by on skateboards and bikes. Laptops hung from backpacks like second spines. Someone was walking a robot dog — he swore. There were trees, yes, and benches, but even the benches looked engineered for maximum ergonomic support and solar-powered phone charging.

On his left, the Stata Center rose like some kind of science-fiction castle — all slanted walls, sharp angles, and warped aluminum that gleamed in the morning sun. He paused a moment to stare at it.

"Who designed this?" he muttered, half in awe, half in disbelief. "Dr. Seuss on caffeine?"

A nearby girl overheard him and chuckled. "That's Frank Gehry."

"Frank's got issues," Leo said with a grin, and kept moving.

Everywhere he looked, there was something happening. Groups were clustered on lawns with homemade drones, arguing about flight vectors. A whiteboard on a tree had an open riddle challenge with a QR code next to it. Students passed each other speaking in bursts of Python, C++, and Mandarin like it was all the same language. Leo had never felt more at home.

By the time he reached Simmons Hall, the strangeness of the building didn't even faze him. It looked like a cross between a concrete waffle and a high-tech honeycomb, but it had personality — and weirdly, Leo respected that.

Inside, the dorm lobby was buzzing with first-day energy. RA's were checking names, handing out keys, and directing confused freshmen to elevators that probably ran on a particle accelerator. Leo gave his name, got a room number — 318C — and took the elevator up to the third floor, where a long hallway stretched before him in bursts of color and asymmetrical chaos. Murals on the walls. String lights. Wires exposed and lovingly labeled. His kind of place.

He found the door to 318C and unlocked it. The room was small but not cramped. Two beds. Two desks. One mini-fridge that someone had already stocked with Red Bull and string cheese. A tower fan hummed in the corner. One of the beds was already made, and across it, a tall, lanky kid with thick glasses and shaggy brown hair looked up from unpacking a crate of mechanical parts.

"Hey," the guy said. "You Leo?"

"Depends," Leo replied, dropping his bag. "You the roommate who listens to screaming metal at 2 a.m., or the one who wakes up at dawn to do yoga in the common room?"

The guy snorted. "Neither. But I do build miniature railguns in my sleep."

Leo grinned and held out his hand. "Roomie of the year."

They shook.

“I'm Jake Mason," the guy said. "Course 6-2."

Leo blinked. "Course what-now?"

"Electrical engineering and computer science. You?"

“Leo Valdez. Mechanical engineering," Leo said, tossing his duffel onto his bed. "With a minor in blowing stuff up."

Jake raised an eyebrow. "You'll fit right in."

Leo glanced around the room, at the posters of circuitry blueprints and a whiteboard already filled with equations. For the first time in years, he felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

...

Leo woke up ten minutes before his alarm — not out of excitement, but because Jake’s 3D printer had started humming in the corner of the room.

"Dude," Leo mumbled, face buried in his pillow, "it's six in the morning. What could you possibly need to print this early?"

Jake, already dressed and sipping coffee from a mug shaped like a resistor, didn't look up. "A component for a quadcopter. It's time-sensitive."

Leo groaned. "You're time-sensitive."

Still, there was no going back to sleep. Leo dragged himself out of bed, scarfed down a protein bar, and got ready for his first day as an MIT student.

The moment he stepped outside Simmons Hall, it was like stepping into the bloodstream of a living, breathing machine. Students weaved through campus like electrons in a circuit — crossing quads, hopping on bikes, debating quantum field theory like it was small talk. Even the squirrels seemed smarter here, like they were halfway through a dissertation on structural engineering.

Leo checked the schedule on his phone. First up: 8:00 a.m. – Unified Engineering Lecture. Just the name sounded like it would punch him in the brain. He made his way toward the lecture hall, taking in more of the campus along the way — the Great Dome rising in the distance like a technological temple, the infinite corridor buzzing with life, posters advertising rocket-building clubs and AI ethics debates. Somewhere, someone played the Doctor Who theme on a cello. It was surreal. It was perfect.

He reached the lecture hall and slid into a seat near the back. The class was packed. Hundreds of students filled the room, all of them typing on laptops or scribbling in notebooks before the professor even walked in. Leo opened his own notebook — not because he needed it, but because he figured pretending to be prepared would make him feel less like an imposter.

Then the professor appeared, a sharp-eyed woman in her forties with a voice like clipped steel. She launched directly into thermodynamic principles with the kind of speed that made Leo wonder if she had a fast-forward button installed.

"Is she... speaking English?" he muttered to himself.

Next to him, a girl with neon pink glasses whispered, "Barely."

Leo glanced at the board — already covered in equations — and then at the syllabus on his phone. "This is day one?" he asked, half in horror, half in awe.

The girl snorted. "Welcome to MIT."

The rest of the day passed in a blur of classes — Differential Equations, Design Fundamentals, and Introduction to Mechatronics. Between lectures, Leo hustled across campus, dodging engineers on scooters and narrowly avoiding a full-body collision with a mobile lab cart.

By the time his last class ended, his brain felt like it had run a marathon and then been struck by lightning. Repeatedly.

He met back up with Jake in the dining hall that evening. "How was it?" Jake asked between bites of ramen.

Leo dropped his tray with a dramatic thud and slumped into his seat. "I think I learned a hundred things today, and I understood... maybe five."

"Nice. That's ahead of the curve."

But Leo wasn't discouraged. He was exhausted, overloaded, and little overwhelmed. But completely in love with it.

...

A week into his first semester, Leo had already settled into the chaos.

He still didn't understand half of what his Unified Engineering professor said, and he definitely hadn't cracked MIT's obsession with acronyms (what the hell was a "GRT" and why did they keep emailing him?). But he was surviving. Thriving, even. And more importantly — he was starting to get ideas. Dangerous ones. The kind that kept him up at night.

That first day he'd walked through the Infinite Corridor, Leo had spotted a flyer taped to the wall — wrinkled, half-torn, and mostly ignored. It said:

MITERS

MIT Electronic Research Society

Want to build stuff? Join the madness.

️Open Lab Access • Student Run • Tools Provided

The name stuck with him. He started hearing whispers of other spaces too — the Edgerton Center, MakerWorkshop, Beaver Works. These weren't normal classrooms. They were hacker spaces, student-run kingdoms where rules bent and innovation reigned. And they were open — at least to the brave.

Leo had spent the past few nights researching which ones had the best gear, watching videos of student-built exosuits, combat drones, flame-throwing cellos. MITERS, he decided, was exactly his brand of unhinged.

So on a Thursday afternoon, after his last lecture ended and his backpack felt like it had been stuffed with neutron stars, Leo cut across Vassar Street with a screwdriver sticking out of his hoodie pocket and fire in his eyes. He found the building tucked between two nondescript halls — gray, boxy, no sign out front. If he hadn't known where to look, he would've walked right past it. The inside was a different story.

He pushed open the heavy door and stepped into a wonderland of chaos. The room smelled like solder and ozone. Workbenches stretched wall to wall, cluttered with wires, circuit boards, half-assembled machines, and old pizza boxes. Tools hung from racks. Duct tape lined the windows. A CNC mill chugged along in the back, carving something into aluminum. There were plasma cutters. And lasers. And a table labeled "Junk. Touch at your own risk." It was perfect.

A tall girl in safety goggles looked up from a disemboweled drone. "You new?"

Leo nodded. "Leo Valdez. Freshman."

"You take the training?"

"Watched the whole safety video, passed the quiz, and didn't even blow anything up. Yet."

She grinned and tossed him a lanyard with a visitor badge. "You break it, you fix it. Rules are on the wall. Tools are fair game. Don't die."

"No promises.”

“And if you need anything, I’ve been Nysa Barrera,” she added.

Leo grinned. “Noted.”

Within minutes, Leo was in his element. He found an empty bench and started sketching. Ideas for a heat-dispersing harness. A layer of ceramic mesh that could withstand high temperatures. A synthetic cooling core powered by micro turbines. It was still rough, still theoretical — but for the first time, he wasn't just dreaming about it. He was building it.

A few students hovered nearby, watching him work. Someone offered him a better soldering iron. Another guy loaned him a thermal scanner. By the end of the night, Leo had only scratched the surface — a few burned fingertips and a singed hoodie sleeve to show for it — but he walked out of that lab grinning like he'd found the fountain of youth.

Because he wasn't just a student anymore. He was an inventor with a playground.

...

Leo had been practically living in MITERS for a week now — dropping by after classes, staying late, helping others debug their bots or realign servo motors just for the fun of it. He didn't ask for anything. Didn't flash his resume or talk about being some kind of prodigy. He just did. And people noticed.

By the third evening in a row, upperclassmen were asking him to take a look at their circuitry. On the fourth, he rewired a faulty welding arm that had been out of commission since last semester. On the fifth, he fixed a 3D printer with a paperclip and a sharpie cap. And now it was night six.

The fluorescent lights above buzzed softly. Only two people were left in the space — Leo, hunched over a mess of gears and copper coils, and Nyssa, the girl he’d met the first day. He was packing up his backpack, lingering by the door like he wasn't quite ready to leave.

"You know," Nyssa said, slinging the bag over one shoulder, "I think you've clocked more hours in this place than most of the senior project teams."

Leo didn't look up from his work. "That's because they don't know the thrill of coaxing a dead motor back to life using sheer willpower and spit."

Nyssa laughed, shook his head. "You always like this?"

"Pretty much."

There was a pause — the kind that meant something was coming.

"You want badge access?" Nyssa asked.

Leo's hands froze. He looked up slowly, not sure if he heard right. "Like… official? I get to come in whenever I want?"

Nyssa nodded. “Yeah. Within reason, of course. We keep track of who's in here, but it's mostly honor system. You've proven you won't burn the place down, so I'll vouch. You'll still need to fill out a form — MIT loves forms — but I can send it in tonight."

Leo blinked. "You're serious?"

"Absolutely. Most people spend half a semester just trying to not electrocute themselves. You? You're already fixing the machines we broke.” Nikhil nodded and turned toward the door. "Check your email tonight."

Leo stared at the soldering iron in his hand for a second, like it had suddenly transformed into a golden ticket. Access. Freedom. Silence.

The lab would soon be his.

...

The following night, the door buzzed open with a faint click as Leo swiped his ID.

For a moment, he didn't move — just stood there on the threshold of the empty maker space, his hand still resting on the handle. The place looked completely different without anyone in it. No voices, no clanging metal, no joking upperclassmen or distant hum of a 3D printer at work. The air was still, the only sound the low thrum of the building's ventilation system.

Leo stepped in slowly, letting the door close behind him. He'd never been anywhere in MIT that felt this quiet. It was amazing, in a way — like the whole lab was waiting for him and only him. But it was unnerving, too. All that silence. All that space.

He made his way over to his usual bench, fingers dragging across the edge of the table as he passed. When he sat, he didn't unpack immediately. Instead, he just leaned back in the chair and let the stillness settle around him.

He thought about that fateful day. It had been years since then — the explosion at Gulfstar, the fallout, the long silence that followed. But it was still with him, clinging to the edges of his mind like smoke. And ever since the day the radioactive isotope had splashed onto him, soaked into his skin, he'd been different.

He had pyrokinesis: the ability to control fire. Not very well, however, as evidenced by the incident in one of his foster homes. 

It would flicker at his fingertips when he got angry. He could summon it with concentration, coax the flames into shape. But he barely used it since that incident. Because every time he did, the heat got out of control — wild, unpredictable. Freshman year at the academy, just to test it out again, he’d nearly started a fire in his own dorm room. It had scared him. Not because he almost faced expulsion, but because… he couldn't stop it. Not until the smoke detector went off and he panicked, forcing it back down inside. That was a lot to explain.

Since then, he hadn't used it at all. Not once. The fear had settled deep in his bones — fear of losing control, of hurting someone, of watching the fire spiral beyond what he could contain. Even thinking about it too long made his palms sweat. He didn't need proof it was still there. He knew it was.

He took a breath and unzipped his backpack. From inside, he pulled out a small bundle wrapped in cloth. He unfolded it carefully on the table, revealing the beginnings of a gauntlet — rough, unfinished, its plating scorched in a few places. It wasn't for protection. Not exactly. It was for something else.

It was for management. The ability to properly handle his gift adequately.  He'd been working on it for weeks in secret — adding parts from old robotics kits, soldering circuits with the door locked, hiding it from anyone who might ask questions. It was nearly complete now. 

Leo stared at it, his fingers hovering just above the cold metal. Part of him wanted to pick it up and slide it on. The other part — the louder part — whispered that he shouldn't. That it was reckless. That it was dangerous. That it would only end one way.

This wasn't like building toy cars or soldering drone wings. This was him admitting something about himself he'd spent years trying to ignore. That the fire wasn't going away. That it might even be growing stronger. Would the gauntlet even work? What if he just made it worse? What if accidentally hurt someone?

His mind looped through every scenario — the scorched carpet of his dorm, a near-miss in the kitchen of one his foster homes, a burn mark on the bathroom tile he'd blamed on a hairdryer. He remembered the look in his foster parent’s eyes that night when the hallway lights had flickered and flared for no reason, that he had blamed on static shock.

He clenched his jaw, staring at the half-finished device. He was good at fixing things — machines, electronics, even school vending machines when they refused to take change. But this? This wasn't a thing. It was a part of him. A mutation, one could call it. And he didn't know if he was fixable.

Leo sat there for a long time, unmoving. The silence of the lab wrapped around him like a weighted blanket, dense and suffocating. He finally took a deep breath, long and steady. His pulse was pounding in his ears, and his throat felt dry, but he forced himself to move. Slowly, deliberately, he stood up from the bench and reached for the gauntlet.

The metal felt cool against his palm as he lifted it. The interior was lined with heat-resistant polymer — something he'd scavenged from a decommissioned aerospace project, a material used for high-temperature thruster containment. But the real magic — the key to the whole design — was a thin weave of graphene filament wrapped inside the core. It was experimental, cutting-edge, and Leo had barely understood the white paper he'd found buried in MIT's online archives. But he'd run with it anyway.

Theoretically, the filament could act as a fire tether — a reactive conductor that wouldn't just withstand flame, but absorb and stabilize the ambient energy around it, creating a sort of containment zone. In theory, anyways.

He slipped the gauntlet over his right hand. It clicked faintly into place over his wrist, snug but not tight, molded to fit him. Leo closed his eyes for a second, took a breath in… and then let the breath on. Then, he focused. Concentrated on that fire that he knew he had inside him.

For a long moment, nothing happened. But then, he felt a faint warmth — subtle, that then arose further. And then it sparked.

A curl of orange licked up from his palm, then caught, igniting into a full flame that enveloped his entire hand and forearm in a rush of heat and light. Leo gasped — not in pain, but in sheer disbelief. It didn't hurt. This was his first time letting fire envelop any part of himself. 

The fire clung to him like a second skin, dancing and flickering in sync with his breath. He could feel it — warm and wild, yes, but… contained. Controlled. It wasn't leaping onto the table or setting off the sprinklers. It wasn’t spreading. It was tethered to him, reined in by the gauntlet's graphene core, like a beast on a leash.

He held up his arm and stared at it, slack-jawed. His forearm was a torch, and yet nothing burned. He rotated his wrist slowly, watching the flame ripple in response. It moved with him, obedient, precise. Not like before — not chaotic and hungry. The gauntlet was working. He couldn’t believe it. It actually worked.

Leo waved his arm gently through the air, marveling as the flames bent and flowed but never strayed. The fire stayed close, curled tightly around the metal. No sparks. No flickers beyond the boundary. Just… flame, pure and steady.

His eyes were wide, stunned wonder etched into his face. For a moment, he just swayed his arm around. Then, the corners of his mouth began to lift. Not in fear. Not in worry. In awe. For the first time in years, the fire wasn't something to be afraid of. It was something he could control.

He let it burn for a few more seconds, watching how the fire swayed gently with the movement of his arm, how it pulsed slightly in sync with his heart. It was beautiful — wild, sure, but somehow elegant. And it listened to him. That alone made his chest tighten.

Then, slowly, Leo focused again. He curled his fingers inward, drew in a breath, and thought about turning the fire off. And it did. The flame receded. Not instantly, but smoothly — shrinking down to his palm, then curling into a tight ember that vanished with a faint hiss. Just like that, the fire was gone. Not even smoke lingered in the air.

Leo exhaled, the tension in his shoulders finally loosening. He slipped off the gauntlet and set it on the table, marveling at the piece of technology he just created. He glanced at his now-gloveless hand, fingers steady, skin unscorched. The metal gauntlet cooled quickly on the table, just as he'd designed it to. It hadn't melted, cracked, or overloaded.

A moment passed, quiet again. But it wasn't suffocating this time. He sat back down, slowly, his heart still thumping with aftershock — not from fear, but from the rush of possibility.

Then, almost involuntarily, a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Not a grin. Not a smug smirk. Just… a quiet, thoughtful smile. One that said: This can work. I can build from this. He hadn't fixed everything. Not even close. But he'd taken the first step.

And for Leo Valdez, that was everything.

...

For the next few weeks, Leo slipped into a rhythm — one that felt more like his life than anything ever had.

Days were for school. He woke early, made the walk across campus with earbuds in and a hoodie pulled low over his messy hair. His professors quickly learned that Leo Valdez wasn't just another freshman zoning out in the back row — he asked sharp questions, jotted formulas in the margins of his notebooks, and had a way of making classmates laugh in group work, even when the stress was high.

He turned in his assignments on time, sometimes ahead of schedule. His GPA was already solidifying. On the surface, he was just another student grinding his way through the semester.

But nights? Nights were his. After a late dinner or a casual hangout with a few dorm friends, Leo would quietly gather his things — notebooks, tools, salvaged parts — and slip out into the dark. The maker space was rarely occupied past 10, and by midnight, it was all his. He liked it that way. He’d flick on the lights, plug in his headphones, and start working.

The first gauntlet had been a proof of concept. A rough model. A prototype cobbled together from mismatched metals and heat shields he'd begged or borrowed from disassembled drone kits. It had done its job — but it was bulky, uncomfortable, and not something he could wear under a hoodie without looking like a medieval cosplayer.

So now, Leo was focused on refinement. Every night, he sat beneath flickering fluorescent lights, sketching blueprints in the margins of his textbooks, comparing material tolerances, researching everything from flame retardants to thermal conductivity rates. He dug into micro-weaves, advanced carbon fabrics, and temperature-reactive polymers. He even emailed one of his professors with a fake story about researching aerospace heat shielding just to get access to a digital paper locked behind a paywall.

The design improved steadily. Thinner, lighter, and more flexible. The tethering principle stayed the same — a filament mesh that stabilized the fire — but the housing began to shift from heavy metal casing to sleek composite layering. On paper, it looked like something pulled from the future. In the real world, it was beginning to feel like it.

He didn't test it every night. In fact, he was cautious — sometimes too cautious — double-checking every solder point, every millimeter of insulation. But there were moments, alone in that quiet lab, when he'd slide on the latest prototype, close his eyes, and let himself feel the heat just beneath his skin.

It was sometime past two in the morning, and the lab hummed with the low thrum of machinery on standby. Leo sat cross-legged on the floor, his tools splayed out beside him, tightening a screw into the inner socket of the latest gauntlet prototype. His fingers moved with confidence, the kind that came only after weeks of repetition and careful trial.

He reached for the soldering iron — but it wasn't where it should've been. With a grunt, Leo leaned sideways, brushing his hand across the floor in search of it. His elbow snagged a loose corner of one of the old rugs beneath his workstation — the kind thrown down more for insulation than aesthetics. He tugged it back to straighten it out… and paused.

There was metal. There was something underneath. He set the gauntlet aside, scooted forward, and peeled the rug back a few more inches. His brow furrowed. Set into the concrete beneath the rug was a square metal panel, about two feet wide, with scuff marks around the edges. A handle sat flush in the center — the kind you had to hook your fingers under to lift. It was quite clearly a hatch.

There were no labels. No "Authorized Access Only" warnings. No keypad or keycard slot. Just bare, slightly rusted metal and years of dust.

Leo blinked at it. "Well… that's definitely not on the floor plan,” he muttered to himself.

He looked around, as if someone might suddenly appear behind him, watching. But the lab was empty. It always was at this time. His heart thudded with cautious excitement. He probably shouldn't open it. So, of course, he did. Fingers slipping under the handle, he gave it a tug. The hatch groaned in protest — clearly unused for years — but it lifted, revealing a narrow, descending passage, steep and dim, with an old maintenance ladder bolted to the side wall.

Leo stared into the dark for a long second. "...Okay, now I really shouldn't go down there."

He grabbed his phone to use as a flashlight anyway. Curiosity had always been his favorite bad idea. Leo climbed down slowly, one hand on the cold metal rungs, the other holding his phone's flashlight ahead of him. The air was musty and still — the kind of stale that could only come from decades of neglect. Dust floated like ash in the narrow beam of light as he reached the bottom.

He landed on concrete, boots crunching against grit. The space was larger than he expected. Maybe the size of a small classroom. The walls were thick concrete, reinforced with old steel supports. Wires hung like vines from the ceiling, most of them dead, but some still faintly humming with residual power. Shelving units lined one side of the room, covered in tarps and cobwebs.

Leo swept his light around until it caught something on the far wall — a power box. Half rusted, half buried under grime.

He approached, flipped open the panel, and blinked in surprise. Still connected to the main building. "...No way."

He threw the switch. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, there was a buzzing sound, a clicking sound, and a faint hum as the lights switched on.

A low electric thrum buzzed through the floor as old overhead fluorescents flickered to life one by one, groaning under the strain of years without use. Some failed to ignite, sputtering and dying with a sad pop. But others flared to life, casting a sickly yellow-white glow across the bunker. Leo stepped forward, mouth slightly open. It was a time capsule.

Crumpled schematics, bulky CRT monitors, an old drafting table. Dust-covered filing cabinets labeled in faded marker. Oscilloscopes, analog switches, early circuit boards. Even a few untouched prototypes sat abandoned on a metal workbench — clunky, overbuilt, with more wires than sense. Most of it dated back to the 1980s and 90s, a graveyard of forgotten innovation. Whatever this place had been, it hadn't seen life in years.

Leo's eyes lit up as he took it all in. Not just with awe — but understanding. His brain was already running through every usable part, every salvageable material. The circuitry might be ancient, but the wiring was still sound. The old processors might be weak by modern standards, but there was power in them. Raw, analog precision.

And the best part? No one knew it was here. No cameras. No traffic. No one to ask questions. A private workspace. Leo's fingers twitched with possibility. He could build anything down here. And in that moment, the idea struck. He had the entire place to himself. He could freely work down here without worrying about burning anything.

Leo smirked as he looked around. This place would come in handy. He was about to turn his place into his personal forge, a place to freely express his inventive mind with ideas.

...

The months blurred into a rhythm — a kind of double life Leo had never imagined he'd be living.

By day, he was just another freshman at MIT. He woke to the sound of alarms and morning announcements, crossed the courtyard with a backpack slung over one shoulder, and slid into lecture halls surrounded by some of the brightest students in the country. He sat through physics, thermodynamics, materials science — scribbling notes, tapping his pencil, occasionally cracking jokes that made his professors roll their eyes but secretly smile.

He was popular in the way that mattered: easy to talk to, always helpful, never trying too hard. His dormmates liked him. The guys down the hall invited him to late-night Mario Kart tournaments. Professors started to recognize him not just by name, but by the insightful — if unconventional — questions he asked in class. Leo never let himself slip. Never let them see how much he was hiding.

Because by night, it was a different story. The hidden bunker beneath the engineering wing had become his second home. A private, dusty cathedral of invention. Every evening, once the dorm halls quieted and the world forgot he existed, Leo would slip away with his backpack over one shoulder and disappear underground.

Down there, time warped. The first few weeks were devoted entirely to refining the gauntlets. He experimented with new materials — flexible heat-resistant polymers, ceramic-fiber blends, carbon mesh weaves — anything that could conduct heat without compromising structure. He tested dozens of prototypes, learning how the material responded not just to fire, but to his fire. He discovered something fascinating: the flames that erupted from his body had a rhythm, a temperature signature, a sort of pulse. They weren't wild and chaotic by nature — they only became that way when he lost control.

So, he worked on that too. With each new gauntlet, he learned to shape the flame. No longer just bursts or globs of heat. Now, it was controlled fire blasts — short, tight bursts of energy, shot from his palms like concentrated jets. The gauntlets, now crafted from a soft graphite-silicone hybrid layered with interior flame-channeling fibers, didn't just tether the fire — they contained it.

But Leo wasn't satisfied. By the second month, the idea had begun to take root in his mind. A single gauntlet wasn't enough. He needed something bigger. Something full-body. Something that could allow him to truly step into his power without fear of incinerating the room.

So he started sketching. Blueprints filled three old chalkboards he'd dragged from upstairs. Schematics lined the bunker walls. Layers of armor. Heat vents. Reinforced temperature regulators along the arms and back. Every joint had to bend like muscle but hold like steel. It had to resist combustion, reflect thermal energy, and allow full movement without overheating.

Some nights, he barely slept. His brain stayed in overdrive, bouncing from concept to concept — voltage flow through heat-reactive wiring, localized cooling systems, internal sensors that could shut off power if his vitals spiked.

Leo would sit hunched over his drafting table, graphite smudged across his fingers, firelight flickering in the reflection of his goggles, lips moving silently as he thought through possibilities no one else had ever dared to imagine.

While the suit blueprints continued to evolve across the chalkboards and sketch pads in his bunker, Leo found himself obsessing over a particular component: movement. Not just any movement, but flight in particular.

The idea had started as a half-doodle in the margin of one of his suit designs, nothing more than a scribbled arrow and the words boot propulsion?. But like everything with Leo, once the seed was planted, it refused to stop growing. 

Jet-powered boots.

He couldn't shake it. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. His powers were volatile, unpredictable — still largely untested outside a controlled space. But movement? That he could control. That he could engineer. And if he was going to build something to withstand his powers, why not make it mobile? Why not give himself an edge?

So during the quieter nights, when his brain needed a break from suit insulation ratios and thermal conductors, Leo pivoted to the boots. He started with a repurposed pair of steel-toed construction boots, stripped them down to the soles, and built upward. He scavenged from old blowtorches, model aircraft kits, and a pair of busted leaf blowers someone had tossed behind the engineering annex. The design wasn't sleek — not yet. It was clunky, loud, and prone to overheating. But it worked. At least in theory.

He tested them in short bursts — first tethered to the floor with steel cables, then on a mounted rig that let him simulate hovering. He'd lock his legs into place, hit the ignition, and feel the force jolt through his calves as compressed ignition coils pushed heated air down and out. The first few tries nearly blew out his eardrums and melted the rig's baseplate. But he learned fast.

He integrated fire-resistant heat shields. Installed a dual-trigger mechanism — one in each heel — that activated only with precise pressure and weight distribution. He tweaked the angle of the nozzles, adjusted the fuel mix, and added a cooling system routed through the ankle housing to prevent second-degree burns. The result wasn't elegant. But it was his.

He wasn't flying. Not yet. But he was lifting — a few inches, then a few feet. Hovering in place, wobbling like a newborn deer before killing the power and landing with a heavy thud. Each time, he recorded what worked and what didn't. Each time, he got closer.

The boots weren't just a gimmick. They were the beginning of mobility. Of something that could change how he operated once the suit came together. And they were fun. Leo grinned every time he felt the kick of ignition beneath his feet. It reminded him that even in the middle of secrecy and pressure and fire, there was joy in creating something no one else could.

Once the final blueprint was done — carefully labeled, highlighted, and taped across three walls of the bunker — Leo knew what came next: materials.

The easy part came first. MIT's engineering departments had a treasure trove of spare parts and raw supplies tucked away in storage closets, scrap bins, and donation rooms. He scavenged what he could without raising too many eyebrows: sheets of carbon weave, high-grade wiring, ceramic insulation fragments, even some flexible heat-resistant polymers left over from a combustion engine project. He signed what needed signing, borrowed what he could, and — when necessary — sweet-talked his way past a lab assistant or two.

But not everything could be found on campus. Some components were far too specific. Specialized materials designed to withstand temperatures beyond 2000°F. Flame-channeling fiber mesh. Reactive polymer gel. Lightweight thermal shielding that could flex without cracking. These he had to order — carefully, quietly. Always in pieces. Never too much from one place. Leo had learned the game of not getting flagged.

He used a mix of online distributors, third-party engineering supply chains, and the occasional sketchy-but-fast eBay seller. The packages arrived slowly, over weeks, in plain brown boxes and bubble mailers stamped with UPS labels. Each time one arrived, Leo would wait until nightfall, haul it across campus on foot, and vanish through the door to his secret world underground.

Eventually, the floor of the bunker looked like the inside of a hardware store crossed with a sci-fi movie set. Stacks of composite sheeting leaned against old computer towers. Spools of insulated wire sat beside coils of tubing and crates of rivets, clamps, and miniature servos. The air reeked of solder, rubber, and anticipation. Leo checked everything twice, laid out his tools, and stood in front of the empty mannequin rig he'd built weeks ago.

It was time. He slid on his goggles, pulled back his hair, and lit the torch.

And then — surrounded by blueprints, glowing solder irons, and the heartbeat-hum of machines awakening — Leo Valdez began to build.

Chapter Text

Chapter 14: Leo IV

The suit took longer than anything Leo had ever attempted in his life.

It wasn't like the gauntlets or the boots—quick fixes thrown together out of necessity, instinct, or pure survival. Those had been band-aids over a problem he could barely admit to himself. This was different. This wasn't a trick, a patch, or a gamble. This was everything.

The work consumed him. What started as scattered notes and rough sketches on the back of homework assignments turned into stacks of blueprints tacked to every wall of the bunker. The montage of creation wasn't a week-long sprint of genius—it was months of obsession. Spring blurred into a relentless rhythm of testing alloys, recalibrating stress loads, and tossing failed prototypes into an ever-growing scrap heap. Summer came, and while most of the MIT student body scattered across internships or vacations, Leo stayed behind. Officially, he was working on an "independent project." Technically, he wasn't lying. The university just didn't know the scale of what their student mechanic was piecing together in the shadows.

By day, he punched his timecard and worked just enough hours on campus to keep his housing valid. By night, he vanished. The bunker became his sanctuary, a world of sparks and soldering fumes where time lost meaning. He lived off vending machine snacks and cold coffee, pushing himself through dawn after dawn with red-rimmed eyes and grease-stained hands. Circuits hissed beneath his soldering iron. Valves clattered as he tweaked the delicate balance of fuel intake. Fire-distribution nodes were adjusted, dismantled, rebuilt, tested again until they responded with perfect precision. He designed sensors that no commercial company even dreamed of, measuring heat thresholds in nanoseconds, feeding the data into a feedback loop that only he understood.

The boots, once clunky and dangerous, were reborn. The patchwork scrap was gone, replaced by sleek systems engineered with surgical attention. Retractable nozzles hissed softly as they extended. Internal cooling fans whispered to life, dispersing heat. Automated stabilizers kicked in without hesitation, shifting balance faster than Leo could think. They weren't boots anymore—they were flight.

At one point in July, his self-control snapped. He had to try.

It was well past midnight, Boston's sky draped in heavy cloud cover, the quad deserted beneath a damp blanket of summer heat. Leo slipped the boots on, stepped outside, and engaged the ignition. With a roar and a hiss, orange light flared beneath his heels, and suddenly he wasn't bound to the ground anymore. He rose—ten feet, then twenty—hovering above the grass, the hiss of exhaust echoing faintly across the campus. He drifted in slow circles over the empty lawn, the city muffled in the distance. He wasn't showing off. There was no audience. He just wanted to feel what it was like to float above the world. To breathe. For the first time, the fear of falling wasn't stronger than the thrill of flight.

By September, the start of sophomore year, the suit was nearly complete. Every piece refined, tested, sharpened into something more than a project. It was an extension of him.

And then came the night. The night it was done.

The bunker was silent except for the faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead. Leo stood frozen, his breath shallow, staring at the mannequin before him. For a long time, he didn't move. He just looked.

The figure before him bore no resemblance to the scribbles he had started with a year ago. Gone was the excess bulk, the ridiculous armor plates. This was something else—sleek, contoured, aerodynamic in a way that felt alive. The suit gleamed in the pale light, its dark charcoal fabric woven with flame-resistant polymers and a heat-reactive mesh that shimmered faintly when his fingers brushed near it.

Orange-gold trim pulsed like veins of fire, tracing lines down from the collarbone, wrapping the arms, and curling elegantly into the gauntlets. Those gauntlets—once crude prototypes—were now seamless extensions of his arms, etched with subtle hexagonal patterns and fitted with controls so intuitive they might as well have been wired to his nerves.

The boots stood like sentinels, darker than the suit itself, polished to a mirror finish. Thin exhaust ports lined the soles, almost invisible unless one knew where to look. A compact fuel core rested in the heel, its energy humming beneath layers of reinforced alloy. Every piece flowed into the next. No jagged edges. No dangling wires. It wasn't built. It was grown.

At the center of the chest lay the emblem. Not a flame. Not a lightning bolt. Just a circle, simple and deliberate, with a crosshatch through its center—a reactor core, quiet but unyielding. It didn't boast. It didn't scream. It burned.

Leo didn't reach for it. He didn't dare. He just stood there, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, hands braced on his hips as if anchoring himself against the rush of pride swelling in his chest. For the first time since he was ten years old—since the explosion, since the fire, since the day that changed everything—he didn't feel afraid of what he was.

He felt ready.

...

The night outside was quiet, a blanket of Boston fog muffling the city beyond the surface. Down in the bunker, the air was electric with anticipation. Leo stood before a cracked, full-length mirror propped against one of the concrete walls. He had taken his time slipping into the suit — every zipper, every seam fitting like a second skin. The fabric clung without constricting, moving with him like it had been tailored by instinct. No pinching, no stiffness. Comfortable, breathable, perfectly calibrated. He rolled his shoulders, feeling the suit flex along his back. The boots clicked into place around his calves with a solid metallic snap, and then came the gauntlets — heavier, familiar — locking over his forearms like they were finally home.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, reaching inward to the part of him he rarely touched — that humming ember that always lived just beneath his skin. It was the place where the fire waited, coiled and alive, impatient to be set free. His breath slowed as he gave it permission. The spark began at his fingertips, a flicker beneath the gauntlets, before spreading across his forearms in steady ribbons of flame. His chest ignited next, heat rushing outward in a golden-orange surge that rolled across his shoulders, down his legs, and along his spine. Within seconds, he was engulfed, standing in the center of the bunker as his entire body blazed like a torch.

And yet it didn't hurt. It didn't burn. It felt right. The suit glowed faintly but never melted, its specialized material tethering the flames and shaping them into an aura instead of a wildfire. The gauntlets hissed softly as hidden vents dispersed excess heat, while the boots held steady, their engines thrumming low as if waiting for the order to launch.

Leo opened his eyes and saw his reflection illuminated in the cracked mirror, his outline shimmering like a phoenix forged of living fire. The flames didn't lash outward or spiral into chaos. They clung to him, loyal and steady, as though they had always been his to command. He raised one arm slowly, watching fire trail up past his elbow like liquid light, and realized with awe that this was the first time he had truly released the full force of it. The sensation was surreal, each beat of his heart pulsing visibly through the blaze.

After a few more breaths, he willed the fire away. The flames obeyed at once, folding back into the suit's fibers until his skin was untouched and the material cool against his body. His reflection blinked back at him in stunned disbelief, wide-eyed and breathless at the calm that remained where fear should have been. For the first time, he knew he was in control.

Without another word, he climbed the narrow staircase and pushed open the hatch. October air struck his face like a cold welcome, sharp and bracing. Outside, the campus was hushed — walkways lit in scattered pools of lamplight, dorm windows glowing faintly in the distance, trees shifting softly in the breeze. The city's noise was only a faint murmur beneath the fog.

Leo stepped out onto the grass and looked down at his boots. He tapped the triggers at the sides, and a low whir hummed to life beneath him. Then came the burst, propulsion tearing through the silence as he shot upward like a cannonball. The ground dropped away in a rush, and he let out a startled whoop that was equal parts exhilaration and panic. The thrust nearly flipped him backward, and for a moment he flailed, arms spread like a tightrope walker fighting to stay upright.

The Boston skyline rose around him in glittering fragments. The Prudential Tower shimmered faintly in the fog, while the dorms below loomed closer than he liked. He jerked hard to avoid them, teeth clenched as he forced himself to focus on the systems he'd built. His ankles shifted, valves responded, stabilizers engaged, and the violent lurch of the ride evened out.

"Okay," he muttered under his breath, jaw tight. "Still a little rough."

Within moments, the chaos smoothed into clarity. He wasn't fighting anymore. He was flying.

Boston unfolded beneath him — the rooftops of the engineering halls, the glow of the athletic fields, the silver ribbon of the Charles slicing through the night. Wind tore across his face and through his curls as he leveled out, his body cutting cleanly through the air. Confidence swelled in his chest, and as instinct took hold, he ignited again.

Flames roared across his body, smooth and powerful, the suit channeling every spark into a focused blaze. He became a streak of orange light ripping through the sky, a meteor trailing fire over the city. From a bridge below, a lone pedestrian looked up, jaw slack in awe.

"Holy…" the man whispered, his voice lost to the night.

Leo never heard it. He was already gone, laughter spilling into the dark as he soared onward, a living blaze finally free.

...

The Boston docks lay cloaked in darkness, the harbor swallowed by fog that rolled in thick from the Atlantic. The water slapped softly against the piers, a steady rhythm almost lost beneath the groan of steel as cargo ships shifted in their berths. Pale orange floodlights buzzed faintly overhead, casting fractured halos of light across the container yard. Between the shadows, massive steel crates stood stacked like forgotten monoliths, their cold surfaces streaked with rust and sea spray, silent witnesses to the business carried out long after midnight. The air was heavy with the scent of salt and oil, layered with something fouler beneath — a sickly rot that clung to the lungs, the kind of stench that belonged to places no one wanted to look too closely.

Heavy boots thudded against the wet pavement, the sound sharp in the otherwise still night. A group of armed men moved briskly across the lot, rifles slung over their shoulders as casually as backpacks, their dark clothing blending into the shadows. Their movements were practiced, precise, as if this was a routine run rather than a crime worth hiding. One of them signaled toward the crane operator perched in his cabin, and with a mechanical groan the machinery stirred to life. Cables tightened, gears whined, and a massive shipping container was lowered slowly into place, its weight landing with a dull, metallic shudder that rattled through the ground.

The leader, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a shaved head and a half-lit cigarette clinging to the corner of his mouth, surveyed the scene with cool detachment. His eyes flicked over the yard like he was ticking off a checklist. When the container settled, he exhaled a plume of smoke and gave a curt nod to his crew. "Get it open," he ordered, his voice gravelly and clipped.

Two men moved quickly, producing a set of heavy bolt cutters. Metal screeched as they bit down on the rusted lock, the jaws snapping shut with a final crack. The lock clattered to the pavement, and the steel doors groaned on their hinges as they swung wide.

The stench that followed was sharper than the sea air. Inside, barely visible in the dim floodlight, were people. At least a dozen of them, huddled together in the gloom — women, children, their faces pale and hollow, wrists bound with shackles that rattled when they stirred. A few recoiled from the sudden light, shrinking back into the shadows as if trying to disappear. One girl pressed her palms over her ears, flinching at the clang of the bolt cutters as they hit the ground. Another boy squinted against the glow, his thin shoulders trembling as the armed men leaned forward to appraise their cargo.

What none of the men noticed — what they never even thought to check — was the sky above them. The container yard stretched wide and dark, its pools of light fractured by stacks of steel crates, yet not a single one of them bothered to look up.

A hundred feet overhead, suspended in silence against the haze of the night, a lone figure hovered. The faint glow from the floodlights didn't reach him; he was a shadow against the fog, his presence masked by the hiss of the harbor and the grind of the distant cranes.

Leo Valdez hung there with his arms crossed against his chest, watching the scene unfold through the faint tint of his mask's lenses. Subtle firelight flickered beneath the black gauntlets covering his forearms, pulsing in quiet rhythm with his heartbeat. He didn't speak — not out loud. The only words that passed were the raw thoughts cutting through his mind.

Disgusting. Cowards. Bottom-feeding, oxygen-wasting stains pretending to be men.

He had heard rumors before, whispers traded between forums and buried in the back corners of local blogs. People mentioned the Boston ports in half-statements, uneasy about where certain containers were headed or why security patrols looked the other way. Most had ignored it, too afraid to dig deeper or too indifferent to care. Leo hadn't wanted to believe it himself, had half-convinced himself the whispers were exaggerations. But seeing it now — the chains, the faces, the fear — turned his stomach in a way no headline ever could.

His gaze shifted slowly across the lot, scanning every corner of the dock. He counted seven men in total, all carrying rifles and moving like they'd done this a hundred times before. Two lingered near the open container, keeping their eyes on the captives inside. One had posted himself beside a stack of crates, using the shadows as cover while he adjusted the strap of his weapon. Another paced along the edge of the dock with a flashlight, its beam cutting weakly through the fog. The last three sat farther back in a blacked-out SUV parked near the gate, their silhouettes visible only when the ember of a cigarette flared inside the cab.

There were no patrol cars, no security guards, no civilian eyes anywhere near this stretch of harbor. Cameras that should have covered the yard were pointed away, their lenses tilted deliberately into blank space. The only witnesses here were the bound and shackled, and they had no voices the traffickers cared to hear.

Leo's mind didn't spiral into panic. It sharpened. Angles, timing, lines of entry — each option flickered across his thoughts in rapid succession. Every second would matter. Every movement would have to count.

Leo dropped silently behind the first two guards near the container, crouching low in the shadows. Their rifles hung ready at their sides, but their posture was lazy, the kind of false confidence that came from routine. They were comfortable in their cruelty, certain no one would ever challenge them. That comfort blinded them. They never saw him coming.

With a quick flick of his gauntlet, Leo unleashed a short burst of flame that struck the ground between them. It wasn't enough to burn — just a sudden whoosh of heat and light meant to rattle their nerves. The crackle lit their faces for an instant, wide-eyed and startled.

Both men spun in confusion, weapons half-raised, just in time for Leo to surge forward. He launched from the shadows and drove his shoulder into the back of the nearest guard. The impact sent the man stumbling hard into his partner, and the two of them collapsed together in a tangled heap of limbs and curses. Their rifles clattered uselessly across the pavement.

Before either could recover, Leo reached into the side of his boot and pulled free a small, modified spark emitter. He flung it toward the ground, and it detonated in a sharp flash of white light, flooding the space with a burst that seared into the eyes of anyone facing it. The guards swore louder, shielding their faces, blinking away the sting. In the confusion, Leo darted sideways, ducking behind the bulk of a forklift as the rest of the yard erupted with shouts.

The hostages — pale, shackled, huddled in the darkness of the container — flinched at the noise. They pressed close together, some covering their ears, others holding one another with trembling hands. The sight dug into Leo's chest. He grit his teeth, forcing the anger down. He couldn't afford rage, not now. He had to keep them safe.

From cover, he scanned the yard. Four more armed men closing in fast. The SUV engine still rumbling, headlights off, its doors cracked just enough for quick escape. And the leader — cigarette glowing faintly at his lips — was barking orders from beside it, shouting over the chaos with the calm authority of someone used to being obeyed.

Leo felt his heartbeat pounding in his ears, adrenaline coursing through every nerve. He clenched his jaw and whispered under his breath, a promise as much as a challenge. "Okay. Let's dance."

He burst from behind the forklift with his boots flaring low, thrust calibrated just enough to skim him inches above the pavement. A guard raised his rifle in panic, finger tightening on the trigger, but Leo struck first. A narrow fireburst lanced across the weapon itself, heat surging into the barrel until the metal glowed. The man yelped and dropped it with a scream, clutching his hands, but uninjured.

Another opened fire wildly, bullets rattling against the steel containers and sparking off the ground. Leo darted sideways, boots sparking as he shifted momentum. He spotted a broken water pipe jutting from the edge of a container, and a precise shot sent flame roaring against it. Steam hissed into the night, thick and blinding, a curtain that swallowed the shooter whole.

Leo swept in low, using the cover of vapor. He ducked beneath a wild swing and launched himself forward, shoulder crashing into the man's ribs with enough force to send him skidding across the pavement. Controlled. Non-lethal. Every move chosen with care. He had to stay sharp — the hostages couldn't afford recklessness.

Two more thugs went down in the chaos, their weapons useless in the smoke and fire. Not burned, not broken, but disarmed, dazed, and cursing as Leo streaked through the yard. He was everywhere at once — bursts of light, flashes of flame, a figure weaving through the dark like a phantom made of fire.

Then came the rev of the SUV's engine, sharp and urgent against the backdrop of chaos. Leo's eyes snapped toward the vehicle just as the leader threw himself inside and slammed the door shut. The tires shrieked against wet pavement, rubber burning as the car lurched forward. He was running.

Leo didn't hesitate. He kicked off the ground with a surge from his boots, heat roaring in a focused burst that sent him arcing high above the docks. From the air he angled downward, eyes locked on the SUV's path. A narrow stream of fire burst from his gauntlet, sweeping across the pavement in front of the vehicle. It wasn't meant to ignite. It was a warning — a wall of fire meant to spook.

The flames curled across the windshield, orange light exploding in the driver's vision. It worked. The leader panicked, jerking the wheel too hard. The SUV fishtailed wildly, rear tires screeching as the whole vehicle skidded sideways. With a metallic crunch it slammed into a stack of metal drums, the impact rattling across the yard. One of the back tires blew out with a sharp crack.

Smoke curled from the undercarriage as the vehicle came to a stop, its back end scorched where the fire had licked across the paint. Not engulfed. Not destroyed. But close enough.

Leo didn't give him time. He flared his boots to full thrust, angled low, and shot forward like a missile. The driver's door flew open. The leader scrambled out, trying to bolt, but he was far too slow. Leo smashed into him shoulder-first, ripping him clear of the SUV in the same instant that the leaking fuel found a spark.

The explosion thundered across the yard. BOOM.

The rear of the SUV erupted in a fireball, heat licking at Leo's back as he carried the man in tow. The shockwave rattled the crates and made the floodlights flicker. Leo grit his teeth, veering midair, twisting his body so the impact would land where he wanted. Gravity yanked them down fast. He angled toward the steel siding of a nearby shipping container and slammed the man's head against it with brutal efficiency.

The trafficker crumpled like a rag doll, unconscious before he even hit the ground.

Leo staggered on landing, his boots skidding against the pavement before he steadied himself. His chest heaved, lungs burning, the acrid smell of smoke thick in the air. He looked back at the SUV, flames climbing higher, black smoke curling into the night. Then he turned toward the container where the hostages waited, their wide eyes fixed on him. His pulse steadied as the thought settled in.

No one was dead. He hadn't crossed the line. He had done exactly what he set out to do.

Leo's boots hissed softly as he touched down in front of the container, the last sparks from the burning SUV flickering in the distance. The orange glow spilled across the open crate, painting the inside in pale, shifting light.

The hostages were pressed to the far end — women, teenagers, children — their bodies chained at the wrists and ankles. Their faces were hollow, eyes wide with terror, and every movement trembled with uncertainty. When they saw him step forward, firelight still licking faintly at his gauntlets, they flinched as though expecting another blow.

Leo's heart twisted. The fear rolling off them was thick enough to choke on, pressing into his chest like a weight he could hardly bear. He raised both gloved hands slowly, palms outward. "Hey, hey," he said, keeping his voice soft. "It's okay. I'm not here to hurt you."

No one moved. The silence was broken only by a ripple of whispers in Spanish — frantic, overlapping, filled with prayer and panic. Some sobbed, some clutched at one another, none daring to believe him yet.

Leo exhaled slowly. His fingers moved to the side of his belt, where a row of compact tools was clipped. He unhooked a rotary cutter, thumbing the switch, the blade whirring to life with a hum. "Okay," he murmured under his breath, then switched to Spanish, his tone quiet and deliberate.

"Está bien," he said gently. "No soy uno de ellos. Estoy aquí para ayudarlos."

The shift was immediate. Heads turned. Eyes locked on him with cautious hope.

Leo stepped inside the container, moving slowly, deliberately. As he entered, he pulled back his mask. The faint light fell across his face — brown eyes tired but steady, his expression earnest and unthreatening. He kept his voice calm. "Miren, tengo herramientas. Voy a cortar las cadenas, ¿sí? Están a salvo ahora."

Relief rippled through the group, fragile but growing. Some of the younger kids stared at him with wide, awe-struck eyes, as if they weren't sure whether he was real. For a fleeting moment, Leo felt the weight of that look — the expectation, the fragile hope that painted him as something larger than himself. He didn't want to be a symbol. He just wanted to be the one who set them free.

He crouched and began to work, the cutter spitting sparks as it bit through thick steel. He moved carefully, positioning the blade to keep it away from their skin, his hands steady despite the adrenaline still buzzing through him. One by one, shackles snapped and fell, clattering to the floor of the container. No one flinched anymore. They watched him with silent focus, trust blooming slowly with each lock he broke.

"¿Todos están bien? ¿Alguien está herido?" he asked between cuts, his voice carrying through the container.

Most shook their heads or muttered replies. Shaken, exhausted, bruised — but alive. A few bore rope burns across their wrists and ankles, dark marks where restraints had bitten too deep, but nothing looked life-threatening. Leo helped them down gently, guiding each of them out of the container and into the cool harbor air.

They clustered together near a stack of wooden crates, some clinging to each other, some breaking into tears of relief. A few stared back at Leo with tentative gratitude, eyes shining in the firelight.

Leo pulled out a phone from his belt — a burner, built to mask his location — and dialed the Boston PD. He didn't disguise his voice. His tone was steady, unshaken. "There's a group of trafficked women and children at Pier 17," he said clearly. "Send everything — police, fire, EMTs."

On the other end, the dispatcher's voice cracked in surprise, fumbling for questions. Leo didn't wait. He ended the call with a single press of his thumb.

He stayed with them for a while, keeping to the edge of the light, silent and careful not to crowd them. The children stole glances in his direction, their wide eyes still full of fear and awe. A few of them even lifted their hands in hesitant waves. Leo didn't wave back — he wasn't sure he could — but he offered a single, steady nod before stepping backward into the shadows. By the time the first wail of sirens cut through the night, he had already taken to the rooftops. From above, he watched everything unfold.

Police cruisers poured into the docks, their lights slicing through the fog in flashes of red and blue. Uniformed officers swarmed the yard, moving with practiced speed as they cuffed the remaining traffickers and dragged them out one by one. The leader — the man Leo had slammed against the container — was hauled onto a stretcher, his nose broken, his expression dazed and slack beneath the floodlights. Paramedics moved swiftly, wrapping blankets around the victims' shoulders, kneeling to meet their eyes, offering water and words of reassurance. The chaos that had filled the yard minutes earlier gave way to order, procedure, and safety.

Leo stood at the edge of a rooftop overlooking it all, his arms crossed, his figure caught between moonlight and the orange reflection of the still-burning wreck. He didn't move, didn't speak, just let the night wrap around him. What he felt was complicated — not pride, not joy, but something steadier. Purpose. He had done something right. He had saved lives. And for the first time in years, Leo didn't feel like a freak to be hidden away. He felt like someone who mattered.

What he hadn't expected was the aftermath. Not the grainy phone video someone had captured from the bridge. Not the hashtags that would start trending within hours. Not the news alerts that would ripple far beyond Boston, carried by headlines and speculation. That storm was still waiting on the horizon. For now, Leo Valdez remained a quiet shadow above the docks, a ghost in the firelight, watching the cleanup below.

No regrets. Only resolve.

...

A few weeks later…

Morning light filtered through the tall windows of Chiron Brunner's office, cutting across the space in angled beams that caught the dust motes drifting lazily in the air. The warmth of the sun contrasted with the sharp, orderly lines of the room — polished wood shelves stacked with binders, a corkboard layered with maps and photographs, the quiet hum of a desktop tower tucked beneath the desk. A half-drained cup of black coffee rested on the corner, long gone cold, next to a spread of files arranged in careful, deliberate order. The office was quiet, broken only by the low drone of the ceiling vent and the occasional click of Chiron's pen as he annotated margins.

He had just finished updating Jason Grace's profile. With a practiced hand, he wrote the words—Metahuman status confirmed—in the margin of the final page, then closed the folder and stacked it neatly with Percy's. A faint exhale slipped past his lips as he reached for the next in line.

Subject #: 0281-BID

Name: VALDEZ, LEO

Confirmed Presence: Boston – Boston Harbor Incident

Chiron adjusted his reading glasses and flipped the folder open.

The top sheet was a background summary — methodical, clinical. He skimmed the opening entries: childhood in Houston, Texas. Parents: Esperanza Valdez, mechanic; Hector Morales, nuclear plant technician. Unmarried. Both deceased in the Gulfstar Energy explosion when Leo was only ten years old. Official records stated the boy had been found miraculously unharmed amid the wreckage. Several casualties. Investigators had never determined a definitive cause.

Chiron turned the page. The next section chronicled years in the foster care system — frequent moves, behavioral notes, relocations scribbled like a roadmap of instability. Then the record shifted. Placement in a private boarding school at age fourteen. Academic performance listed as strong, even exceptional. Teacher recommendations glowing. Test scores marked consistently above standard. A trajectory changing course.

And then came MIT.

Chiron's brows rose ever so slightly. Admitted the previous September. Double major: electrical and mechanical engineering. Current GPA: 3.94. His pen tapped against the margin in quiet thought. He turned his attention to the email sent by one of his staff. Chiron leaned forward and clicked the new message. It was flagged as urgent and titled: "Boston Harbor Footage – Suspected Metahuman Activity."

The first video was pulled from a shaky phone camera. The quality was poor, but the content was unmistakable — a firelit figure dropping from the sky, controlled bursts of flame scattering armed men across the dockyard. A comet in human form. Chiron's expression didn't shift, though his eyes lingered on the image longer than the grainy clarity deserved.

The second clip came from a nearby convenience store's security system, its angle sharper, its detail crisp. It captured the figure streaking overhead, the trail of heat burning against the night sky, the echo of gunshots that followed. Screams. Silence. Order restored.

Then came the third file — different from the rest. Its metadata marked it as internal, sourced from the private network of cameras owned by the traffickers themselves. The resolution was immaculate. It showed the SUV explosion in brutal clarity, the mysterious figure dragging the leader away seconds before the blast consumed the vehicle. And then it showed more. The container doors open. The masked figure stepping inside to release the hostages. And finally — the moment of truth — the removal of the mask.

Chiron froze the frame. Zoomed in. His fingers tapped commands with the steady patience of someone who had done this countless times before. The facial recognition program worked quickly.

Match found.

Valdez, Leo.

Chiron leaned back in his chair, the quiet leather creak echoing in the room. His eyes settled on the name written across the top of the file, but his thoughts wandered deeper, weighing possibilities, risks, the inevitable consequences of exposure. He reached for the red pen once more and drew a single line beneath the subject number. In clean script, he wrote the same words he had just placed on Jason Grace's file: Metahuman status confirmed.

The folder closed with a muted thud against the desk, but Chiron's gaze lingered on it, his jaw set, his thoughts unreadable. After a long silence, he exhaled, the words slipping out as little more than a breath.

"Another one to watch."

Chapter Text

Chapter 15: Hazel I

New Orleans, 1940

The summer heat pressed against Hazel's skin like a damp wool blanket, heavy and unrelenting. Cicadas shrieked in the oaks above her head, their endless chorus filling the thick air, while the afternoon sun turned the front steps of her house into something closer to a griddle than a place to sit. Still, Hazel stayed there, knees pulled tight to her chest, her bare feet coated in a fine layer of dust from the packed-dirt yard. She toyed with a chipped marble in her hands, rolling it over her knuckles as if it were the only thing tethering her in place.

Through the wrought-iron gate, she watched the street with the intent focus of someone peering at a world they weren't allowed to join. Children tore past in a blur of laughter, their voices bright against the heavy afternoon air. They chased a dented tin can as though it were pirate gold, their shoes clapping against the concrete in a rhythm that Hazel had memorized but never shared in. She tracked them with wide, quiet eyes until they vanished down the block. None of them slowed. None of them looked her way. None of them ever did.

Everyone in the neighborhood knew who Hazel Levesque was, though not for anything she herself had done. Her name carried weight only because of her mother's. The whispers were never far. Witch-woman, muttered by grown men on porches when they thought no one was listening. Hoodoo lady, said by women in church hats, the words softened but still sharp enough to cut, often followed by a hurried sign of the cross when they walked past the house.

Yet some of those same people came anyway. They slipped in through the back door, clutching coins in sweaty palms and carrying the kind of worry that showed in their hunched shoulders. They left quickly, pressing satchels of herbs or tiny bottles of murky oil to their chests as if the glass might shatter under the weight of their hopes. Gratitude was always whispered, never spoken aloud, and never lingered on the threshold. Their children, Hazel noticed, never lingered at all.

Once, Hazel had tried. She had walked up to a group of kids jumping rope near the corner, her heart hammering with the fragile hope of belonging. The rope stilled the moment they noticed her. A girl leaned in to whisper, and then all eyes turned on Hazel. Silence spread like smoke. Without a word, the rope was coiled, the game dissolved, and the children drifted down the block as though she carried a sickness. That had been two weeks ago. Since then, Hazel had stayed on her steps, reduced to watching.

She couldn't help but wonder what it was about her mother that inspired such fear. To Hazel, there was nothing frightening about her. Yes, her mother lit candles and murmured to jars lined up on shelves, but she also made gumbo so rich and savory that Hazel swore the whole house smelled like heaven. She hummed old Creole songs as she stirred the pot, her voice soft and warm, and she always smelled of rosewater and smoked salt, never of anything sinister. Hazel could not understand how such things were enough to make neighbors cross the street and tug their children closer.

A sudden distraction fluttered into her world. A paper airplane, tossed from somewhere unseen, glided lazily through the air and landed against the gate with a soft crumple. Hazel leapt to her feet, dust scattering from her legs, and slipped her fingers through the bars to retrieve it. She smoothed its bent wings carefully, as if mending something delicate. For a heartbeat, she let herself imagine walking it back to its owner, holding it out like a peace offering. Maybe they would smile. Maybe they would thank her. Maybe they would let her stand beside them, if only for a moment—

"Hazel!" Her mother's voice cut through the day, sharp and ringing from inside the house. Hazel flinched. "Come now, bébé. We have a customer."

Hazel hesitated, her gaze lingering on the distant children who had moved farther down the block, their laughter faint but still out of reach. Slowly, she set the paper airplane on the gatepost, balancing it as though someone might return for it. She gave it one last look, a small, unspoken wish pressed into its folded creases.

Then she turned, shoulders tight but head held steady, and went inside.

The house swallowed her in cool shadow as soon as Hazel crossed the threshold, the heavy drapes keeping the outside sun at bay. She let the screen door creak shut behind her, the faint rattle echoing into the dim silence. The scent inside wrapped around her as it always did — thick, layered, and impossible to escape. Herbs steeped in jars, oil rubbed into wood, and a smoky undertone that clung to the air like incense. To Hazel it was familiar, almost comforting, though she knew other people found it unsettling.

The front room was part parlor, part altar, its every corner pressed into service. Candles glowed from nearly every surface, their flames stuttering in the faint drafts. Some stood tall in glass jars painted with saints, others huddled in saucers, melted down to crooked stubs. A low shelf beneath the curtained window displayed jars filled with strange things steeped in amber liquid — pale roots twisted into knots, coins dark with age, and what Hazel thought might be feathers or small bones. Each one, her mother had told her, had a purpose. What purpose, Hazel was not yet old enough to know.

Voices drifted forward, soft but urgent, and Hazel padded down the worn wooden floorboards without a sound. She stopped at the dining room doorway, curling her fingers into the frame, her body half-hidden in the shadows.

Her mother, Marie Levesque, stood tall behind the round table that had long ago shed its identity as dining furniture. A thick white cloth covered it now, embroidered with looping symbols Hazel couldn't yet decipher. At its center sat a jar of molasses, dark and glossy as tar, flanked by a tall black candle and a bundle of dried sage bound tightly with string. Across from Marie sat a woman Hazel had never seen before — older, her deep-set eyes ringed with exhaustion, her hands restless in her lap as though they couldn't bear to be still.

Marie's gaze flicked toward Hazel, a brief acknowledgment, her tone soft but firm.

"Stay there, bébé. Watch, but don't interrupt."

Hazel nodded once, pressing her cheek against the wood.

Marie's focus returned to her visitor. She gestured toward the table, her eyes steady. "You brought what I asked for?"

The woman gave a weary nod and reached into her purse, drawing out a small cloth bundle tied neatly with twine. Marie loosened the knot and unfolded the offering. Inside lay a photograph, its edges frayed from too much handling, and a lock of hair bound with red thread. Hazel leaned forward slightly, curiosity sparking, though she stayed silent.

"Your husband's name?" Marie asked.

"Eugene," the woman said quickly. Her voice wavered. "Eugene Mercer."

Marie gave a thoughtful hum. With practiced hands she placed the photo and the lock of hair into a small glass jar. From a side dish she added a pinch of pale powder, a sprig of rosemary, and several drops of some dark liquid sharp with the bite of vinegar. The jar was sealed, set beside the candle, and the wick was kindled with a long match.

The air shifted.

Hazel felt it ripple across her skin — a sudden pressure behind her ears, like the whole house had taken one deep, slow breath and was waiting to exhale. The candle flame leaned sideways as though caught in a wind, though the drapes were still.

Marie closed her eyes, her voice slipping into a murmur. It wasn't French, and it wasn't English. The syllables fell in a rhythm older than words, like a heartbeat made of sound, pulsing steady and strange. Her hands lifted, fingers weaving as if she were pulling at invisible threads. Hazel's own heartbeat stuttered as she watched, mesmerized, the flame on the black candle dancing in time with the chant.

Across the table, the woman clutched at the cross on her necklace, her lips shaping silent prayers.

Marie's voice swelled, the chant curling through the air like smoke made of sound. She dipped a silver spoon into the jar of molasses and drizzled it around the candle's base. The syrup spread unnaturally slow, crawling outward as if it knew where it was meant to go, completing the circle with stubborn precision.

Then, as abruptly as it had begun, the chant ended. The flame steadied. The air stilled. Silence wrapped the room.

Marie opened her eyes. "It's done."

The woman startled, her voice hushed but sharp. "That's it?"

Marie gave a small nod. "Keep the jar near your bed. Don't open it. Light a candle beside it each night for seven nights, and say his name softly each time. If his heart can be turned, it will turn. If not…" Her shoulders lifted in a light shrug.

The woman swallowed hard, her lips trembling as she whispered, "Will it hurt him?"

Marie hesitated only a moment before answering. "No. It ain't that kind of work. But it might hurt you, if you're holding on to something already gone."

The woman lowered her eyes. She said nothing else as she reached for her purse, pulled out a few folded bills, and pressed them into Marie's hand with a touch that was almost reverent. Her whisper barely reached Hazel's ears. "Thank you."

Marie never counted the money. She never had to. Instead she tucked the bills into the folds of her skirt without glancing down, as though the gesture itself mattered more than the sum, and guided the weary woman toward the door. Her hand rested gently on the woman's back, steady and reassuring, carrying her across the threshold as if she were sending a child back into the world.

Hazel remained in her place, silent as a shadow clinging to the doorframe. She barely moved as the screen door creaked open, groaned shut, and left the house steeped once again in candlelight and smoke.

Marie leaned her shoulder against the door with a sigh that seemed to empty something deep inside her. She brushed her palms together briskly, like someone shaking flour from their skin. "Love work," she muttered, half to herself, half to the air. "Always the messiest kind."

When she turned, her gaze found Hazel still watching her. For a moment neither spoke. The silence between them was its own kind of weight — not uncomfortable, not hostile, just filled with something Hazel couldn't name.

Then Marie lifted her chin toward the table. "Come here, bébé."

Hazel obeyed, her steps hesitant but eager, her wide eyes taking in every detail. The candle on the table still burned, though its flame was steady now, no longer pulled by unseen threads. The air had lost that heavy, breathless press, yet there was something left behind — a faint crackle, like the aftertaste of lightning in a summer storm.

Marie lowered herself into her chair, patting the seat beside her. Hazel climbed up, folding her legs carefully, her gaze never straying from the candle's glow.

"You see what I did?" Marie asked, her voice softer now, more like a teacher than a conjurer.

Hazel nodded, though uncertainty tugged at her words. "You… made her a jar."

"A honey jar," Marie corrected gently, her eyes glinting in the candlelight. "Sweetening work. Meant to soften a man's heart. Not to bind him, not to force him. Just to give love a little nudge."

Hazel frowned at the molasses ring circling the candle's base. "It moved funny."

That earned a smile from her mother — tired, yes, but touched with kindness. "Molasses always moves funny, bébé. That's why it's good for this kind of spell. Love takes time. It don't rush."

Hazel lifted her eyes, searching her mother's face. "Will it work?"

Marie's expression stilled, the weight of years pressing briefly into her features. "Sometimes it does," she said carefully. "Sometimes it don't. Magic ain't about guarantees. It's about influence."

Hazel didn't understand, not completely. But she nodded, as if the gesture itself could carry the weight of learning.

Marie's hand rose, brushing a loose curl from Hazel's forehead, her touch feather-light. "You watched real close," she murmured.

Hazel blinked, meeting her gaze. "I always watch."

Marie studied her daughter for a long, thoughtful beat. The sound that slipped from her throat was neither approval nor disapproval, only a hum filled with possibilities Hazel could not yet name. Then she pushed back from the chair and set to work clearing the table. She snuffed the candle with a soft hiss, folded the embroidered cloth, and wiped the surface clean, her lips moving with faint mutters Hazel could not catch.

Hazel stayed seated, her hands folded primly in her lap, her gaze still following the curl of smoke that rose from the extinguished wick.

She didn't have the words for what she had just witnessed. She didn't know why the air had changed, why it felt as though the house itself had leaned in to listen, or why her mother looked older and wearier when it was done. But she knew something lingered. Not just the smell of herbs and burnt wax, but a truth that pressed against her chest like a secret waiting to be spoken.

Even at eight years old, Hazel felt it: the world was larger than anyone had told her. There were things hidden in its corners, things people didn't talk about, things you could not see unless you knew how to look.

And Hazel was beginning to look.

...

1942

The house always smelled different depending on the day. Sometimes it was cinnamon and orange peel, sweet and warm like winter kitchens. Other days it was sharp with burnt sage and the coppery tang of red brick dust. Today, the air carried something harsher — rosemary mingled with vinegar, undercut by an earthy dampness that reminded Hazel of mushrooms after a storm. The scent lingered in her throat, heavy and strange, and she sat cross-legged on the parlor rug, her small fingers tracing the faded weave of its pattern as her mother moved slowly through the room.

Marie Levesque worked the way storms did — quiet at first, then filling every corner with presence. She rarely spoke while setting her tools, her silence thick enough to hush even Hazel's restless questions. Hazel no longer needed to be told to stay put. She simply watched, her body still but her eyes following every gesture, every object placed carefully on the table.

This table was not a place for ordinary tools. What Marie laid out belonged to some older rhythm of life. A jar of sulfur with a cracked label. Rose petals pressed flat inside a paper envelope. A candle gray as ash. A strand of beads that seemed to hum faintly, as though they held their own pulse. Hazel leaned forward, her curiosity stronger than her fear, and finally spoke.

"What's that one for?" she asked, pointing toward a pouch of fine white powder.

Marie glanced at it briefly. "Eggshells, crushed fine."

"What for?"

"Protection," Marie said as she continued her work. "Cleansing. I mix it with holy water sometimes. Or blow it across a doorstep if I feel something bad coming."

Hazel wrinkled her nose. "It smells weird."

Her mother laughed softly — not mocking, just amused. "That's because you don't know what it is yet."

Hazel tilted her head, her voice a little sharper with insistence. "Ain't you gonna teach me?"

Marie's hands stilled, her gaze settling on Hazel. "This kind of thing ain't taught like school, bébé. You learn by watching. By feeling. Like music — you don't learn a song just by reading it off a page. You listen. You hum it until it's in your bones."

Hazel turned that thought over, uncertain if she liked it, but still hungry for more. She pointed again, this time toward the bundle of herbs hanging to dry near the window. "What about that?"

"Rue," Marie said. "Keeps bad spirits out."

"And that jar?" Hazel's finger shifted to the shelf where a murky glass bottle rested in the shadows.

Marie's eyes lingered on it. "Graveyard dirt. From someone who died angry."

Hazel's breath caught. "Why would you keep something like that?"

Marie turned toward her with slow gravity. "Because anger has power. It's heavy. If you can carry it, you can use it. But if it carries you…" She let the unfinished warning hang in the room like smoke. "Then you best not be playing with it at all."

Hazel lowered her eyes to her lap. The house had always felt peculiar, filled with scents and symbols that marked it apart from others, but never unsafe — not when her mother stood in it. Yet now she was beginning to understand: everything had rules. Everything had weight. Everything came with a cost.

Marie moved to the counter and opened a small wooden box that clicked softly on its hinges. Inside lay scraps of parchment, tiny bones pale as toothpicks, and vials filled with oil that shimmered in the candlelight. Hazel rose from the rug and padded closer, peering in with reverence.

"This box," Marie said, her voice lowered, "is older than you. Older than me. It belonged to your grandmother. She kept the family's strongest curios in here."

Hazel's breath hitched. "So we've always done this?"

Marie nodded once. "It's in the blood. Not everyone keeps it, mind you. Some turn their backs on it, call it wicked, call it cursed." Her eyes met Hazel's, dark and unwavering. "But it's not. It's work. Real work. Healing and guarding and making things right when they go wrong." She closed the lid carefully, her hand lingering on the wood. "But that don't mean it's easy."

Hazel's gaze drifted back to the ash-colored candle on the table. "And that one?"

Marie struck a match and touched it to the wick. The flame sprang up blue before settling into a steady glow.

"Black candle," she said. "For binding. To stop something — or someone — from doing harm."

Hazel watched, eyes wide. "Could you stop a person from lying?"

Marie's lips curved faintly. "I could. But it wouldn't make 'em tell the truth."

The two stood side by side, their shadows long against the walls. Hazel let her gaze roam across the shelves, the jars, the bundles of herbs, the bones and powders and oils that both unsettled and fascinated her. It frightened her still — the weight of it, the mystery of it — but it pulled at her too, whispering like a secret just beyond reach.

"Do you ever get scared?" she asked suddenly.

Marie's hand paused above the table. She slid a silver ring onto her finger, the metal catching the candlelight, before lowering her gaze to Hazel. Pride warmed her eyes, but something heavier lived beneath it — something Hazel couldn't yet name.

"Every time I light a candle," she said quietly. "Because I know what I'm calling. And I know what might answer."

Hazel stared up at her mother, at the woman the neighborhood whispered about, the woman who could bless or bind or banish with nothing more than herbs and flame. She didn't look afraid. She looked rooted — as though her feet reached down into something deeper than wood and soil.

Hazel didn't understand all of it. Not yet. But she wanted to. And as the black candle flickered between them, painting the walls with restless shadows, she thought maybe — just maybe — one day she would.

...

The heat had broken with the first winds of October, and the city seemed to exhale. It wasn't quiet exactly — New Orleans was never quiet — but the noise softened, thinned out like a song played in a lower key. The evenings came earlier, the nights cooled enough to make the air feel gentle again, and inside the Levesque home the scents had shifted too. Less sharp vinegar and pungent herbs, more smoke, wax, and the faint sweetness of burning candles. Marie had taken to wearing darker shawls across her shoulders, her face shadowed by lamplight, her voice lower when she worked as though the air itself had learned to lean closer.

Hazel noticed it all. She always did.

Tonight the house felt different — not tense, not restless, but alert, as though it were waiting. Only a single candle burned on the table, its flame high and motionless, throwing long, steady shadows across the walls. Marie stood behind it, her hands folded neatly before her, her expression calm and unreadable.

Hazel sat opposite her mother. Her back was straight, her legs tucked beneath her in the old wooden chair. She did not fidget. She did not ask questions. Something in her bones told her she shouldn't. Tonight carried weight, and she could feel it pressing in on her.

Marie reached into a clay bowl and pinched a small handful of dried lavender. She let the brittle stems shift between her fingers before speaking. "I'm going to show you something," she said, her tone deliberate and even. "Something simple."

Hazel swallowed, her voice a whisper. "Okay."

"You remember what I told you about intention?"

Hazel nodded quickly. "You said it's like the heartbeat of a spell."

"Exactly." Marie held out the lavender. "Take this. Hold it in your hand. Don't crush it — just feel it."

Hazel cupped her palm, letting the dry sprigs settle against her skin. They crackled faintly, light as paper but oddly alive in her grip.

"Now," Marie said, sliding into the chair beside her, "breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Three times. With every breath, think about calm. Picture it. The way still water looks, the way the city feels before it wakes. Peace, like it's something you can touch."

Hazel closed her eyes. Her chest rose with one breath, fell with the next. Again. And again. Each inhale felt heavier than the one before, but each exhale loosened her shoulders until she felt herself sink into the chair.

"Good," Marie murmured. "Now say after me: This is peace, drawn to me. Let it settle, let it be."

Hazel whispered it carefully, her voice almost lost in the flicker of flame. "This is peace, drawn to me. Let it settle, let it be."

The lavender in her hand seemed to warm, the stems growing pliant as though holding the echo of her words.

Marie struck a match and lit a second candle, this one white, then placed a flat dish between them. "Drop the lavender in. Gently."

Hazel opened her hand. The brittle sprigs tumbled down with a faint rustle, settling into a small pile. Marie lowered the wick to them.

The herbs caught instantly. But instead of the quick, crackling flare Hazel expected, the flame burned low and slow, as if the lavender were melting rather than burning. A soft smoke, blue-gray and cool, curled upward in delicate ribbons and drifted across the table.

Hazel leaned forward, her eyes wide. The scent unfurled richer than before, no longer brittle and dry but warm, alive, as if the lavender had bloomed again just for her.

"Don't look away," Marie instructed. "Let it wash over you. Let it fill the room."

The smoke twisted and rolled, but it did not choke or sting. It soothed. The tension Hazel had been carrying — the stiffness in her shoulders, the knot in her chest — loosened without her realizing. Her breaths deepened, slower, steadier, until she felt wrapped in something soft and weightless. Peace had shape now, and it was draped around her like a blanket.

Marie gave a small nod, her voice quiet with certainty. "That's peace. You made that."

Hazel turned to her mother, her eyes bright and round. "I did?"

"You did," Marie said. "Because you believed it. That's the first rule, bébé. You gotta believe in it more than the world believes in noise."

Hazel looked back at the smoke as it curled toward the ceiling, a small smile touching her lips. Not a wide grin — just the careful, private kind that held something delicate inside it.

Marie blew out the candle, the wick hissing as the flame died, then laid a gentle hand on Hazel's head. "You did good. That was real."

Hazel said nothing. But she remained at the table long after the smoke had thinned to nothing, her fingers still tingling with warmth where the lavender had rested. She stared into the candle stub, at the wax pooling and hardening in its dish, and for the first time she felt it clearly — not just watching her mother's work, not just wondering.

She was doing it — not just watching, not just wondering, but making something real. Small, yes. Fragile, fleeting. Yet it had been hers.

...

1943

The rain had hammered the city all afternoon, leaving the streets glistening with puddles that caught and held the glow of the gas lamps. Thunder rolled now and then in the distance, a low growl that sounded like trouble chewing at the horizon. Inside, the Levesque house felt heavy and close, the kind of silence that listens back.

Hazel crouched cross-legged in the corner of the parlor, half-hidden behind a tall cabinet draped with beads and rosaries. She hadn't been told to stay out of sight — she simply knew. The moment her mother lit not one candle but three, and set a mirror facedown on the table, Hazel understood this wasn't like the lavender spell or the quiet lessons about peace. This was deeper.

Marie stood tall at the table, her shawl pulled tight over her shoulders, her eyes catching the candlelight with a sharp, reflective gleam. Across from her sat a man Hazel had never seen before — middle-aged, shoulders slumped with exhaustion, his muddy boots dripping onto the worn rug. He clutched a small envelope with both hands, the paper damp enough that Hazel couldn't tell if it was the rain or his sweat.

Marie's voice cut through the stillness, low and firm. "You sure you want this?"

The man's jaw worked. "I wouldn't be here if I wasn't."

She didn't reply right away. She took the envelope, opened it with care, and drew out its contents: a slip of receipt paper with a name scrawled in blunt ink and a photograph, creased and faded, of a young man with sharp features and no smile.

"Blood?" she asked, her tone flat, businesslike.

The customer hesitated before giving a single, heavy nod. "Dabbed it off his razor."

Marie accepted that with another small nod. "That'll do."

Hazel's breath caught in her throat. Blood magic. She didn't know all the rules, but she knew the word, and she knew enough to understand that it lived on the far side of the lines her mother usually drew. Too raw. Too dangerous. Too close to something the neighbors whispered about.

Marie placed the photo and the bloodstained scrap into a black bowl. She crushed three red peppers over it, sprinkled salt, and added something Hazel couldn't see from her corner. The paper flared the instant flame touched it, curling upward in smoke that glowed blue, unnatural and wrong.

"Speak your truth," Marie instructed.

The man leaned forward, his voice tight with anger. "He lied on me. Had me arrested. Beat me half to death when I got out. Took my job. Took my girl."

Marie's eyes never flickered. "And what do you want?"

"I want it to come back on him."

Marie stirred the ashes with a bone-handled knife, her jaw tight. "You want justice."

"I want him to hurt."

Her gaze hardened. "That's not the same thing."

The man didn't answer.

Marie lifted the mirror and placed it on the table face up. The candlelight spilled across it like oil. With slow precision she dipped her fingers into the bowl of ash and dragged three smears across the glass. Then she leaned in, whispering words Hazel couldn't understand — not even words, really. It was a sound made of breath and rust and thunder, old as the storm outside.

The candles guttered. The room tilted with a strange shift of light.

Hazel's pulse thundered in her ears as the surface of the mirror shimmered faintly. For the briefest moment she thought she saw a face there, distorted and writhing in pain. Then it was gone. Marie whispered one final word, soft and sharp, and the candles blew out at once.

Darkness swallowed the room. Only the rain tapping against the window and the rumble of thunder remained. Hazel hugged her knees tighter.

Then came the rasp of a match, and one candle flared back to life. Marie sat slumped in her chair, her hands trembling faintly in her lap, her eyes closed as though the act itself had pulled something out of her.

The man across from her looked stunned. "That's it?"

Marie opened her eyes slowly. "It's done. But you listen close. What's set in motion don't always land the way you expect. You wanted his pain — but pain spreads. You understand?"

The man swallowed, nodded once, and pushed too much money onto the table before leaving. His boots thudded down the hall, the front door opening and closing behind him. Marie didn't rise to walk him out.

Only when the silence returned did she speak again. "Come out, Hazel."

Hazel slipped from behind the cabinet, hesitant but obedient. Her mother didn't look surprised, or angry, just weary.

"You saw?"

Hazel nodded. "I think so."

Marie studied her for a long, steady moment. "Some work ain't clean," she said finally. "It's not about helping. It's about setting things in motion. That kind of magic don't feel good when it's done right."

Hazel bit her lip. "Did you hurt him?"

Marie shook her head. "I didn't touch him. I just opened the door. What walks through it… that's on him."

Hazel lowered her gaze. She didn't quite understand. Not fully.

Marie reached across and placed a hand on her daughter's shoulder. Her touch was colder than usual. "Remember this, bébé. Power is weight. You carry it, it don't go away. Not ever. Every spell you cast — every word, every candle, every name you speak over flame — it leaves a mark."

Hazel looked up. "On the person?"

Marie's eyes darkened. "On you."

...

Hazel stood barefoot in the center of the parlor, her hands hovering over a bowl of rainwater that glimmered in the candlelight. Shadows stretched and swayed across the bead-draped archways and faded wallpaper, every flicker of flame alive with quiet anticipation. The surface of the water rippled faintly though no wind touched it, as if stirred by nothing but her presence.

Marie sat nearby, arms folded across her chest, her shawl slipping loosely over her shoulders. She did not speak, did not instruct, but let the silence hold steady. Hazel could feel her mother's eyes on her, weighing, measuring, waiting.

She concentrated. This wasn't the gentle calm of lavender smoke or the stillness of white candles. This wasn't symbolic. This was direct. She breathed in, focused on the steady rhythm her mother had drilled into her.

The flame beside the bowl lifted, stretching upward like a reed straining for the sun. She breathed out. The ripples smoothed, the surface of the water going flat as glass.

Marie's voice came low and steady. "Now. Speak it."

Hazel nodded, steadying her hands above the bowl. "Let what's hidden come to light," she said carefully. "Clear the veil and sharpen sight."

Marie rose from her chair and circled to stand behind her, close enough that Hazel felt the weight of her presence but not her touch. "Now dip your fingers. Just the tips. Nothing more."

Hazel obeyed.

The instant her fingers broke the surface, the water froze into stillness, unnatural and sharp. Then, impossibly, it moved again — not with ripples, but with images. Shapes blurred into being, hazy as smoke in glass. A man's face appeared, unfamiliar, his features twisted in frustration. Behind him stood a boarded storefront window, fractured and dark. He was pacing, arguing with someone Hazel could not see. Though no sound reached her ears, she felt the tension in her chest — sharp, brittle, heavy with anger. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the vision unraveled.

The water was only water again.

Hazel looked up, startled. "Was that real?"

Marie circled back around, leaned down, and snuffed the candle with her fingers. "That was seeing," she said. "What you touched wasn't now, and it wasn't quite then either. Sometimes it's what's coming. Sometimes it's what's been. Either way, it ain't always truth — just potential."

Hazel's breath came shallow as she stared back into the bowl. "I didn't think I could do that."

Her mother's lips curved into the faintest smile. "You didn't just do it. You did it clean. No stuttering, no bleeding through. That's advanced work, bébé."

Hazel's chest tightened with a quiet, fragile pride, though she held herself still.

Marie reached down, brushed a curl behind her ear, her voice thoughtful. "You've got a current in you. Natural. Not forced, not pulled. It just flows."

She motioned for Hazel to sit. Hazel obeyed, brushing her damp fingertips against the hem of her skirt. Marie drew a small cedar box from the shelf and unwrapped a velvet bundle inside it. She laid five objects across the table with deliberate care: a key dulled by age, a coin polished by countless fingers, a rusted nail, a piece of sea glass, and a black feather.

"Each of these carries something," she explained. "Not just energy — meaning. They're used in spells not because they're magic by themselves, but because of what they call to. What they resist. What they remind us of." She tapped the key. "This opens paths." She touched the coin. "This invites luck." Her hand lingered over the nail. "This one binds or breaks — depending on how you wield it."

Hazel leaned closer, her eyes wide with fascination.

"You'll choose one," Marie continued. "I won't tell you which. Hold it in your palm and breathe on it. If the air turns cold, even just a little, that's the one meant for you tonight."

Hazel reached slowly, letting her hand hover over each object. The feather stirred as though alive in a draft, the glass caught a gleam of candlelight, but it was the nail her fingers closed around. She held it tightly, then exhaled. A chill kissed her skin.

Marie's eyes followed her every movement. "Good," she murmured. "Now I'll show you how to use it."

For the next hour, they worked side by side. This wasn't a lesson in curses or revenge. Marie kept her from that edge. Tonight was about anchors — how to bind fear so it could not follow you, how to hold ground steady when the world wanted to shake. Hazel wrapped the nail in black thread, dipped it in salt water, then whispered a name Marie had given her, one that belonged to no real person, a name created for the ritual alone.

When it was finished, she laid the nail inside a small box lined with sprigs of rosemary and sealed it shut.

"That box will stay buried under the floorboards for three nights," Marie said. "If it stays dry, the spell took. If it's wet, we start again."

Hazel frowned. "Why would it get wet?"

Her mother's smile was quiet, knowing. "Because spirits don't like being pinned down. Some'll fight back. That's why you bind with calm, not anger. Intention, not impulse."

Hazel nodded, tucking the words away.

Later, when the candles were extinguished and the floor swept clean, Hazel lay in bed staring at the ceiling. Her fingertips still tingled faintly where they had touched the nail. She didn't feel powerful — not exactly — but connected, as though invisible wires threaded through the world, and for the first time she had brushed one and felt it hum.

She didn't say it aloud. She didn't even whisper it in her head. But she knew the truth now, and it pulled at her like a tide. She wanted more.

...

1944

Midday light filtered through the lace curtains, scattering delicate patterns across the parlor walls as though the house itself wore embroidery. The air carried the layered scent of mugwort and sugar, a strange mix of ritual and comfort drifting in from the kitchen where something simmered low on the stove. Beyond the walls, the city kept its restless rhythm: the clang of a streetcar bell, a saxophone lilt rising and falling down the block, a child calling for his mother.

But inside the Levesque home, the world slowed to a hush.

Hazel stood at the round table, her hands folded neatly in front of her. She wore her best dress — pressed crisp with a blue sash tied firmly at the waist — and her hair had been braided smooth that morning. It was not a holiday, not a special occasion, but her mother had told her: When someone comes to you for help, you show up clean and ready. Like it matters. Because it does. Hazel had taken the words to heart.

Across from her sat a small, wiry woman with skin darkened by the sun and a scarf wound tightly around her head. Her hands knotted in her lap, her eyes restless but not fearful, only uncertain. Hazel felt that unease like a draft in the room, and she answered it the way she had seen her mother do so many times before — with a steady, reassuring smile.

Marie watched from the side, her shawl drawn close, arms folded across her chest. She did not speak. She did not step in. Not tonight.

Hazel cleared her throat, her voice quiet but steady. "You said your baby can't sleep through the night?"

The woman nodded, weariness etched into the corners of her mouth. "Three months old. Won't stop crying. I try rockin' her, singin' — nothin' works."

Hazel's fingers twitched on the table before she stilled them. "Sometimes little ones come into the world and get tangled in it. They can't rest 'cause everything's too loud."

She reached for the small bundle she had prepared earlier, the first she had crafted entirely by herself: a drawstring bag filled with chamomile, lavender, rose petals, and powdered eggshell. A tiny bell, no larger than a thimble, had been tied to the cord with red thread, gleaming faintly in the light. Hazel placed it carefully on the table between them.

"This is a sleep charm," she explained. "Hang it above her crib. The herbs will calm her, and the bell will guard the space. Just a little sound to keep the spirits from lingering."

The woman stared at the bundle as though it were made of gold. "You made this?"

Hazel nodded. "Myself."

She reached across the table, gently turning the woman's hand palm-up before laying the charm into her skin. Then she closed her own fingers over the woman's knuckles and spoke softly, letting the words fall like a lullaby.

"Soft be the night, still be the air. Let your little one rest, without worry or care."

The single candle on the table flickered, once, then steadied.

Marie's eyes narrowed, the smallest shift in her expression, but she said nothing.

The woman looked at the charm in her hand, then back at Hazel with tears brimming. "Thank you."

Hazel gave her another smile, gentler this time. "It should start working tonight. If not, come back, and we'll try something else."

The woman fumbled in her pocket and pressed a folded dollar bill into Hazel's hand. Hazel hesitated for the barest moment before placing it into the dish beside the candle. Her mother's teaching echoed in her mind: Never turn away payment, no matter how small. Energy has to be balanced.

The woman left soon after, the screen door squeaking shut behind her, leaving the house in its strange, heavy quiet again.

Hazel turned to face her mother. Marie's expression was unreadable, her stillness harder to bear than any scolding. Hazel's chest tightened. "Did I do something wrong?"

Marie stepped forward, reached out, and brushed Hazel's cheek with her thumb. "No," she said simply. "You did it right."

Hazel let out the breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

Her mother offered no further praise. She only began clearing the space, gathering the tablecloth, snuffing the candle, and putting the room back to order. Hazel lingered where she stood, her gaze fixed on the flame before it was pinched out. For a moment, it danced as if nodding to her, a small acknowledgment meant only for her to see.

For the first time, she had helped someone. Not from the sidelines. Not as a shadow at her mother's shoulder. But on her own.

And in that quiet moment of success, something shifted inside her. Something clicked into place.

Chapter Text

Chapter 16: Hazel II

1946

The years turned like pages in a well-worn book, each line darker, each margin crowded with more than what could be spoken aloud.

Hazel grew. Not only in height, though she stretched tall as a young sapling after heavy rain, her limbs lengthening, her features sharpening into quiet confidence. She grew in presence — in poise — in power. By twelve, she was tending candles herself, preparing altar spaces, blending oils with hands that no longer trembled. Every motion was deliberate, patient, and exact, because Marie had drilled it into her: nothing rushed, nothing careless. Magic, her mother often said, was like bread dough. Handle it wrong, and it never rose. Handle it right, and it could feed the whole house. Hazel listened and absorbed.

By thirteen, she was crafting charms without a guiding hand at her shoulder, tailoring them to the people who came to their door. For a mother with a colicky infant: a cedar sachet tied with a blue ribbon, hung under the full moon before it was given. For a shopkeeper plagued by theft: crushed eggshell scattered across the threshold with a chant of binding to seal the doorway. Hazel never improvised recklessly, never reached further than what she knew. Not yet.

Marie guided her still, but less than before. The words of instruction slowed. The silences lengthened. Sometimes her mother only watched; sometimes she left the room altogether, leaving Hazel to finish. And Hazel always did.

The neighborhood began to notice. The same people who once crossed the street now knocked on the Levesques' door and asked for Hazel directly. Is the girl home today? Can Hazel make it? She's got a gentler hand. Miss Levesque's girl cured my headaches. Gone like smoke. Their words carried into the parlor and lingered in Hazel's ears, not boastful, but steady as the rhythm of rain.

Marie said little about it. But Hazel saw the glances. The small, silent looks her mother gave her when a candle flared at her whisper or when seven herbs blended perfectly into a poultice without hesitation. Pride lived in those glances. But so did something else. Not anger. Not fear. A tightening. A flicker. Something brittle.

And then came the Thursday afternoon, rainy and gray, when Marie allowed Hazel to take a customer on her own — start to finish.

The woman who entered was barely twenty, pale and gaunt, her eyes swollen from too much crying. Her hands shook as she sat at the round table, a silver locket clutched so tightly it left marks on her palms. "He won't stop haunting me," she whispered. "My brother. He died two years ago — car wreck. But I see him. I hear him. I think…" Her voice cracked. "I think he's angry."

Marie stood behind Hazel, arms folded, her face unreadable. She did not move forward.

Hazel listened, her stillness steadying the room. Her voice, when it came, was calm, grounded. "Did you bury anything of his with guilt still on your heart?"

The woman blinked, startled. "I—what?"

"Any secrets? Regrets? Things unsaid?" Hazel clarified softly.

The woman broke into sobs. Hazel didn't flinch. She took the locket and laid it in a dish with dried marigold, rosemary, black salt, and a pinch of bone ash. Her chant was low and even, her finger drawing spirals in the air above the mixture before she struck a match. The herbs burned clean — no sputter, no black smoke, only pale, curling white.

Hazel mixed a small bowl of water with moonflower petals and passed it forward. "Breathe into it," she instructed. "Three times. Deep. Like you're exhaling his name."

When the breath was given, Hazel dipped her fingers into the water and touched them gently to the woman's temples, then her chest, then her palms. She spoke the closing phrase without looking away:

"Let the tether break. Let the heart be still. Let what lingers walk away, and not return."

The candle on the table flared bright. The locket cracked down the center with a metallic ping, sharp in the hush of the room. The woman gasped and then dissolved into tears, but the sound had changed. It was no longer grief strangling her. It was relief breaking loose.

Marie finally stepped forward. She said nothing. The woman left minutes later, the broken locket cradled in her hands as though it were holy. She did not look back.

Hazel moved to the window, watching the rain streak its crooked paths down the glass. Behind her, Marie's gaze lingered. At last she spoke. "Where'd you learn that closing phrase?"

Hazel turned, her chin lifted slightly. "You taught it to me. Last summer."

Marie was quiet. "Did I?"

Hazel nodded, sure.

Marie gave a low hum, her face unreadable, and leaned to snuff out the candle. "You did good," she said.

But her voice carried a strange distance, like a note played just out of tune.

Hazel didn't notice. She only felt the warmth in her chest — not pride alone, but clarity, the certainty that her hands were finally doing the work they were meant to do. For the first time, it wasn't the flame, or the herbs, or even the chant that gave her that sense.

It was knowing she no longer needed to ask for permission.

...

The rain had stopped sometime after dusk, leaving the streets damp and gleaming, but the Levesque house still smelled of wet earth and old brick. Hazel sat cross-legged on the parlor floor with the hoodoo grimoire spread open before her. Its cracked leather cover sagged with age, the pages yellowed and crowded with tight, slanted handwriting that felt more alive than ink had any right to be.

She wasn't supposed to be using it alone. Marie had told her more than once that the book was "for deeper work — meant for eyes that knew how to read between the lines." But Hazel believed she did know how. She had read it a dozen times in secret, snatching hours when her mother left to visit clients or run errands. With each reading, the words had grown clearer, as though the book wanted her to understand it. They didn't just instruct. They resonated, like someone had written them with her in mind.

Tonight she had been studying a passage on "spiritual agitation" — a technique meant to stir the dormant forces of a room and channel them toward a focus. Most spells like it ended with a blessing, a ward, some means of sealing what had been disturbed. But this one ended with silence.

Hazel whispered the incantation once. Twice. Nothing. But on the third try, her voice fell into a whisper so low it felt like the floor itself was listening. Her focus narrowed, her hand hovering above the ceramic dish she had prepared — sage and salt layered together in a shallow bowl. The porcelain trembled. Not a trick of her eyes. Not an accident. It shifted. Barely an inch, but it moved.

Her breath caught. She whispered again, her palm steady in the air. The bowl slid further — slow, deliberate — as though some invisible hand had taken hold of it. Hazel's heart hammered in her chest. Wonder tangled with fear, her lungs catching on each breath. The air pressed heavy against her skin, not in the measured way it did when her mother worked, but raw, unshaped, dangerous.

She didn't know how long she sat frozen, staring at the dish, before the front door creaked open.

Marie entered, a basket tucked under one arm, her shawl damp from the rain. She stopped just past the threshold, eyes narrowing at the sight of Hazel on the floor with the grimoire open before her.

"You're not reading that book, are you?"

Hazel stood quickly, her body tense, the pages still spread wide behind her. "I… I was just looking," she said. "Nothing dangerous."

Marie's gaze slid to the table, to the bowl that now sat askew on the cloth. "What happened here?"

Hazel hesitated, then said quietly, "I did something."

"What kind of something?"

"I moved it."

Marie's brow furrowed. "You mean you touched it?"

"No," Hazel answered, firmer now. "I didn't touch it. I said the words, and it moved. Twice. I made it move."

Marie stared at her in silence before giving a sharp, dismissive laugh. "Hazel, that's not how it works. You probably shifted it without realizing."

"I didn't," Hazel insisted.

"You're not ready for that kind of spell."

"I didn't force it," Hazel said, her voice rising with urgency. "It just happened. The air folded in on itself, like it got thicker. Please. Just watch."

Before Marie could stop her, Hazel turned back to the table. She steadied her breathing, lifted her hand, and whispered the words again — slow, careful, deliberate. At first there was nothing. Then the dish twitched, a small jerk against the wood. A moment later, it slid an inch across the cloth.

The room went utterly still. Marie's eyes widened. The basket slipped from her arm, hitting the floor with a dull thud. Hazel turned back, hopeful, waiting for recognition, for praise, for anything.

But Marie's face was unreadable — not fear, not pride, but something caught in between. Something knotted and cold. "That," she said at last, her voice flat, "is not magic I ever taught you."

"I know," Hazel admitted, her tone careful. "But I didn't hurt anything. It just moved."

Marie stepped forward, snapped the book shut, and pulled it away from the table, cradling it against her chest like it was something fragile. "This book isn't for you anymore."

Hazel blinked. "What?"

"You're playing with things you don't understand. That spell wasn't meant to move anything. Spirits twist when they're stirred too hard. You're inviting them in without asking what they want."

"But I controlled it," Hazel argued.

"No, bébé," Marie said, her voice heavy as stone. "You think you did." She shook her head, her grip tightening on the book. "Stick to the magic I've taught you. The normal magic. The kind that keeps you safe. Not this."

Hazel stared at her, silent, her fists curling at her sides. She did not argue. Not yet.

Marie turned and left the room, her shawl trailing behind her, leaving the candlelight to flicker alone. Hazel stood rooted in place, her breath still uneven, the image of the bowl sliding across the table repeating in her mind.

Stick to normal magic.

But Hazel knew, in her bones, that she was no longer normal. Not anymore.

...

Hazel no longer needed the book.

The words lived in her now — the chants, the sigils, the energies. She carried them the way she carried breath, as constant as heartbeat. Each night, when Marie was out visiting clients or wandering the swamp for herbs, Hazel lit three candles, drew the chalk spiral of protection on the parlor floor, and practiced.

Her telekinesis had grown sharper, stronger. At first, it had been a nudge — a spoon rattling faintly, a cloth twitching against the table. But now she could lift small things with ease: a candle, a doll, a scrap of paper. Twice she had pulled an object from across the room with nothing more than a flick of her eyes. It left her dizzy, but it worked. She told no one.

Marie watched her too closely now, though she never said as much. The grimoire stayed locked away in the cabinet, never brought out, never spoken of. Lessons doubled back to the basics — cleansing baths, charm bags, prayers for protection. Important work, yes, but work Hazel had already mastered. She felt it in her bones: she had gone beyond. And she suspected Marie knew it too, even if her mother would not admit it.

Then came the day that changed everything. It was early afternoon when the knock came — quick, uneven, erratic. Hazel was alone, kneeling on the parlor rug, grinding dried basil into a small bowl. She opened the door and found a woman leaning against the frame, blood running from a gash down her arm. Her dress was torn, her cheek swollen, her breath coming in sharp, shallow bursts.

"M-Miss Levesque?" the woman stammered.

Hazel darted forward, catching her before she could collapse. "She's not home," she said quickly. "But I can help you. Come in. Hurry."

The woman faltered. "You're… the daughter."

"Yes," Hazel insisted, guiding her inside. "But I know what I'm doing."

She cleared the table in a sweep, laid the woman's arm across the cloth, and lit three candles — white, red, and blue. She muttered a protection charm from habit, then filled a bowl of rainwater and laced it with rosemary, thyme, and a single drop of her own blood. The wound was deep and angry, hot to the touch, the skin swollen around the gash.

Hazel had never attempted this before. But she had read of it — spiritual restoration through energy redirection. The instructions had gaps, half-finished sentences, but Hazel had felt the missing pieces as if they were already waiting inside her.

She placed her hands above the wound and focused.

"Let what's torn be made whole. Let pain retreat, let flesh restore. By light, by will, by balance."

She whispered it again. And again. Her hands shook, not from fear, but from something gathering in her chest, a current pulling through her veins like water through stone. The wound began to close.

The woman gasped, eyes wide. "What—what are you—?"

Hazel's hands moved without thought now, circling, guiding invisible threads. The bleeding slowed. The torn skin knit itself. The swelling shrank until the flesh looked nearly unmarked. Then it was done.

Hazel staggered back, her breath ragged, sweat shining across her brow. The woman stared at her arm in stunned silence, flexing her fingers as though she did not believe the limb still belonged to her.

The screen door creaked. Marie stepped inside, arms full of fresh-cut bay leaves. She froze. Her eyes moved from the candles, all burning tall and strong, to the woman at the table, to Hazel standing at the head of it, her hands faintly glowing, her gaze locked on the wound that had been healed. The silence was immediate, and heavy.

The woman pushed back her chair, her voice unsteady. "Your girl—she healed me. I came bleeding. She fixed it. Just like that."

Marie's face didn't change. She laid the herbs down with slow precision.

"Thank you," the woman whispered, clutching her arm like it might split open again. "Thank you both." She slipped out quickly, leaving the door to creak shut behind her.

The house was quiet again. Hazel turned to her mother, her chest tight. "I had to. You weren't home. She was hurt."

Marie walked forward slowly, her eyes never leaving the table. "That wasn't hoodoo."

Hazel frowned. "No… but it was still magic. It worked. It was good."

Marie's voice dropped cold. "It was dangerous. You don't know what you were calling on."

"I didn't call on anything," Hazel argued. "I used myself. My energy. My focus."

"You think healing is just light and prayer?" Marie snapped. "You think you can mend a body without taking something from somewhere else?"

Hazel held her ground. "Nothing took. She healed. That's all."

Marie stared at her daughter, lips parting before closing again. Then she turned to the cabinet, unlocked it, and drew out the grimoire. She clutched it to her chest as though it were a child, or a weapon.

"This ends now."

Hazel froze. "What?"

"No more practicing alone. No more pages you're not meant to understand. You're not ready. And this—" she lifted the book slightly— "this will ruin you."

Hazel's voice trembled. "You're wrong."

Marie's gaze hardened. "Stick to the magic you've earned."

She turned and walked down the hall, the book pressed tight against her, a secret she no longer wanted to share.

Hazel remained in the parlor, the candles still flickering, the air still thick with the echo of her spell. She did not cry. But something inside her shifted, dimming in a way she could not name. Not her magic nor her certainty, but her trust.

...

Marie couldn't sleep. She sat by the window in the dark, the stub of a candle flickering low on the sill. Hazel had gone to bed hours ago, her door closed, her lamp snuffed out, but Marie knew better than to believe that meant she was sleeping. The house carried too much charge. The air itself vibrated faintly, a hum beneath the silence.

Hazel's power. It lingered everywhere — saturating the walls like perfume, soaking the floorboards, clinging to the curtains. It had grown a rhythm Marie could neither trace nor match. Her daughter's magic wasn't just stronger now. It was different.

Marie had been born into the craft. Raised among herbs and hymns, taught by women who brewed tea to ease the dying and whispered to bones before they laid them down. She had lived a life of measured work — every charm, every chant, every ritual step practiced and earned with time. But Hazel simply did things. She healed a woman with her hands. She moved objects with her mind. And she was only fourteen.

Marie's own candles and oils and songs felt suddenly small beside what Hazel could conjure without effort. She did not hate her daughter. But she feared her. And worse than fear — she envied her.

Once, Marie Levesque had believed she carried something greater inside her, some power sleeping beneath her skin, waiting for the right key to turn. She had thought she might be the one to change the world, to wield a kind of magic no one else could claim. But that magic had chosen Hazel instead. And Marie was done pretending it didn't burn.

The library she visited wasn't in any catalog. It lay hidden behind an old apothecary shop, wedged between a voodoo museum and a barbershop that hadn't seen a customer in weeks. She paid for entry in cash and lies, claiming research for a book on Creole rituals. The man at the counter didn't care; he simply handed her a key and warned her to keep her voice low.

The library was a single underground room lit by flickering gas lamps, thick with dust, the air heavy with sulfur, parchment, and old tobacco. Marie read everything she could reach. She started with familiar texts — hoodoo collections, French-Creole rites from the 1800s, older grimoires she had once studied in her youth — searching for something she had overlooked. A spell of containment, a ritual of reversal, a way to unbind talent. But Hazel's gift wasn't bound. It overflowed.

She moved on. African rootwork. Caribbean Obeah. Haitian Vodou. Even ancient European tomes she didn't trust. None of them held an answer. None explained what Hazel was becoming. Until she found the green book. Its leather was cracked, its pages written in a looping, difficult hand, the title in no language Marie recognized. She turned the pages anyway, skimming through until she reached the center, where jagged script scrawled in red ink caught her eye. A name.

Hecate.

The goddess of magic. Not folk magic, not ancestral craft, but raw, primal sorcery older than any lineage Marie knew. Her breath faltered as she read the list of titles: Keeper of Keys. Guardian of the Crossroads. She Who Knows the Way Between Worlds. And beneath it, a passage that made her blood run cold.

A mortal may offer the gifted in sacrifice. The blood of one blessed by Hecate can open the door to greater power — for one who dares.

Marie sat very still. Her hands trembled, but her eyes didn't move from the page. It couldn't be coincidence. Hazel's abilities had never been hoodoo, never matched anything Marie had seen. What if the girl had been chosen? What if Hecate had marked her from birth?

Marie closed the book with deliberate care. For a long time she did not move. Then, as if some current had gripped her, she gathered parchment and began to write. Notes. Instructions. The beginnings of a ritual.

It was not rage that moved her hand, but reason. Marie could not stop Hazel. She could not teach her. And if she could not control her, then she would become her. She would claim the power the universe had unfairly given to a child. She would take it back — through blood if she had to.

When Marie left the library, dawn had begun to rise. The green book was tucked beneath her shawl. Her steps echoed on the wet streets as she whispered one phrase again and again, each repetition hardening into conviction.

"She wouldn't have gotten this far without me."

...

Hazel no longer moved for what she wanted. Not really. If she needed something from across the room — a quill, a sprig of thyme, a folded cloth — her hand would twitch faintly in the air, her fingers curling with soft, precise rhythm, and the object would rise as if obeying its rightful master. There were no chants, no candles, no altar. Just her will, focused and unshaken.

By now, she could lift a full pitcher of water and pour it without spilling a drop. She could shuffle tarot cards in midair, let them roll into a perfect fan, and drift back down like autumn leaves across the carpet. Hazel never boasted, never flaunted, but she no longer bothered to hide. Her power had woven itself so tightly into her life that it felt no different than breathing or blinking.

Marie noticed. Of course she noticed. She tried not to. She forced herself to stay busy — blending oils for warding, sewing charms with precise stitches, preparing floor washes for customers — but her gaze betrayed her. No matter the task, her eyes drifted back to Hazel, and each time she looked, she felt the distance widen. Hazel's effortless mastery grew sharper with every day, while Marie's own work seemed to sink further into the shadows.

Late afternoon light spilled through the parlor shutters, striping the floor in gold. Hazel sat curled on the loveseat with a schoolbook open across her lap, humming absently to herself — not a tune, just a rhythm of thought. She turned the page with a flick of her finger, the parchment gliding down as though moved by an unseen breeze. Beside her, an empty glass waited on the side table. Without lifting her eyes from the book, Hazel raised her left hand and made a small circling gesture.

From the kitchen, the water pitcher rose from the counter. It floated down the hallway, humming faintly through the air like a dragonfly, and entered the room. Hazel never looked up. The pitcher tipped, pouring water into the waiting glass with perfect steadiness, not a single drop falling astray. When it was full, Hazel extended her hand casually, the glass sliding gently into her palm. She took a sip, her eyes still on the page, her expression calm.

Marie stood just beyond the doorway, frozen. She had come to ask Hazel what she wanted for dinner, nothing more, but the words stuck like ash in her throat. Her chest tightened as she watched the pitcher settle back onto the counter. Hazel still hadn't looked away from her book. She smiled faintly at the shifting light on the wall, turned another page, and hummed again. There had been no chant, no whispered phrase, nothing but the barest twitch of her fingers.

Marie stepped back into the hallway, heart pounding. This has gone too far. Her hand clutched at her shawl until her knuckles blanched, her breathing shallow and uneven. The house felt wrong beneath her feet, foreign in its own silence. Not hers. Not anymore. Hazel's magic wasn't simply growing. It was changing, evolving into something Marie could no longer name — and she did not know if it would ever stop.

That thought broke something in her.

She walked straight to the locked cabinet, opened the hidden drawer, and drew out the cracked green book she had sworn Hazel would never see again. Her fingers traced the name written on the page in jagged red ink: Hecate. Her hands trembled, but her resolve did not. This was no longer about guidance or discipline, no longer about keeping Hazel safe or steering her craft into measured channels. This was survival.

Marie's whisper shook with both grief and conviction as she pressed the book to her chest: "I gave her everything. Now I'll take it back."

...

The book lay open on Marie's desk, lit by a single candle burning low in a shallow bowl of salt. The flame threw restless shadows across the cracked green leather, making the inked lines shiver as though the words themselves were breathing. Marie traced the sigils with her fingertip, slowly, again and again, until they seemed to etch themselves into her skin. This was no charm, no common conjure or binding. The language was older than anything she had practiced, its symbols sharp and alien. It felt foreign. It felt terrifying.

The chapter had no title, only a single line written in red across the top of the page: To take from the gifted what the gods have given.

Marie read the ritual once. Then again. And again. She had spent days deciphering its symbols, pulling out half a dozen other grimoires to cross-reference the references, scouring each margin for some familiar pattern of gods or offerings or planetary alignments. The instructions were not about sacrifice alone. They spoke of transfer. Power pulled from one vessel and delivered into another.

The spell demanded a vessel of potential — a subject marked by prophecy or touched by divine magic — and required that the one casting it share blood with the gifted. Its list of ingredients was exacting: obsidian ground to dust, honey harvested from a red hive, iron nails soaked in moonwater, and a lock of the gifted's hair. The work had to be done under the black sky of a new moon, in a place where three natural paths crossed. The setting was as critical as the words.

But the requirement that hollowed Marie's breath was written in the clearest script of all: The subject must walk willingly into the ritual. There could be no force, no trick of binding or struggle. The one marked had to enter of their own choice, trusting the caster with open hands.

Marie stared at that line for nearly an hour, her fingertip pressed to the parchment. Willing. It was the word that nearly undid her, the word that almost made her close the book and shove it back into the drawer forever. Almost.

But later that same day, Hazel drifted through the kitchen laughing at a passage in her schoolbook while a full tray of tea floated after her, untouched by human hands. The cups did not tremble. The steam did not waver. Hazel didn't even notice that she was doing it. And in that effortless moment, something inside Marie snapped.

She could not live forever in the shadow of a child who had already surpassed her. She could not bear to watch Hazel step into powers she herself had never touched, could never hope to understand. And so, with a steadiness that chilled her even as it steadied her hands, Marie began to prepare. Quietly. Secretly.

Two days later, the trap was ready to be set. She found Hazel on the back porch in the morning sun, trimming herbs for drying. The girl's hands moved with ease, her motions sure, her face bright with the kind of focus that made Marie's throat ache. For a moment, Marie simply stood and watched her daughter work. Then she composed herself, arranged her smile, and stepped outside.

"Bébé," she said gently. "There's something I want to show you."

Hazel glanced up, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. "Yeah?"

Marie kept her movements unhurried as she came to stand beside her. "It's a place I used to go when I was younger. Out past the bayou. There's a clearing, where three dirt paths meet. Your grandmother always said spirits walked there."

Hazel tilted her head, curious. "A crossroads?"

Marie smiled and nodded. "That's right. I thought maybe… now that you're older, we could go together. Just you and me. It's a good place for centering work. For releasing energy into the world."

Hazel's expression lit with interest. "Like a cleansing?"

"Something like that," Marie said, her smile soft and steady.

Hazel stood, wiping her hands against her apron. "When?"

"Tonight," Marie answered. "The new moon's coming. It'll be quiet."

Hazel hesitated only briefly before nodding. "I'd like that."

Marie reached up to touch her daughter's cheek, her hand tender, her voice calm. "Wear white. Bring the red candle. I'll carry the rest."

Hazel smiled, humming as she returned to her herbs, and the sound carried lightly into the air as if nothing in the world were amiss.

Marie turned away, her smile vanishing the instant Hazel could no longer see it. Her fingers tightened around the folded paper in her pocket — the list she had rewritten again and again to ensure not a single item was missing. Obsidian dust. Iron nails. Hazel's hair. Every piece gathered. Every step prepared.

She had already crossed the threshold. She had done the unthinkable. Now she would see it through.

...

The night was hushed, as if the world itself were holding its breath. Hazel and Marie had walked in silence for nearly half an hour — Hazel dressed in white, the red candle glowing steady in her hand, Marie in deep green with her shawl pulled tight against her shoulders. The moon was absent, swallowed entirely by the black sky, and the only light was the candle's flicker, throwing long, restless shadows across the moss-covered path.

When they reached the crossroads — the place where three dirt trails met beneath a circle of twisted oaks — Marie did not speak right away. She moved with the measured grace Hazel had seen a hundred times before, her motions practiced and precise, her humming soft and rhythmic. She drew careful sigils into the earth with red chalk, arranged four iron nails at the cardinal points, and sprinkled obsidian dust in a circle so even it could not have been casual. The steps felt familiar, almost comforting, as though they were preparing a blessing.

Hazel waited at the center, patient and curious. "You never told me this ritual before," she said quietly.

Marie smiled, though her eyes did not linger long on Hazel's. "It's old," she answered. "Meant for transitions. For centering yourself when you've grown too fast."

Hazel nodded, the explanation easing her. She trusted her mother. She always had. She stepped fully into the circle, and the flame in her red candle flared, a steady glow that seemed like approval.

Marie set a silver bowl at the base of the northern tree. She filled it with water laced with honey and myrrh, then pressed a small lock of Hazel's hair beneath it, covering the act so smoothly that Hazel never noticed. When the preparations were complete, Marie's voice rose into the chant.

At first, the sound was as familiar as any prayer Hazel had ever heard, the rhythm steady, the tone calm. But as the words took shape, something shifted. The air grew heavy, not protective but suffocating. The flame of the red candle wavered unnaturally and deepened into violet. Hazel's skin prickled as though touched by unseen hands.

She opened her eyes. Marie's arms were lifted, her voice stronger now, carrying syllables Hazel did not recognize. It was not French. It was not Creole. The words were sharp and foreign, their weight vibrating through the circle: Per sanguinem et donum… per lineam et voluntatem…

Hazel's heart lurched. She took a step back. "Mama?"

Marie's eyes stayed closed, her chant growing louder, her voice cutting through the trees. "I claim what the gods have given still."

The obsidian dust ignited — not with fire but with force, spiraling upward in black smoke. The earth beneath Hazel's feet pulsed, the nails sinking into the soil as though pulled by invisible chains. Her muscles seized. Her body locked in place. She tried to step out of the circle and found she could not move.

"Mama?" she cried again, her voice cracking. "What is this?"

Marie's eyes opened, glowing faintly gold as if reflecting light from somewhere far beyond. Her palms spread toward Hazel. And then Hazel saw it — the hidden hair, the obsidian ring, the bowl at the tree, the candle's placement. Recognition hit like a knife. She had read of this once in a book her mother never allowed her to finish.

Her stomach dropped. She tried to scream, to run, to claw her way free, but it was too late. The sigils flared beneath her feet, blazing red. Pain tore through her — not flesh, not bone, but deeper, like her very self was being ripped apart. She arched, gasping as something unmade her from within. The candle burst in her hand, scattering embers across the dirt.

Marie staggered as the surge of power flooded into her. It filled her veins like molten light, warm and electric, a tide too immense to contain. Her eyes fluttered, her mouth opened in awe. Hazel's power became hers, a river bursting through a broken dam, raw and overwhelming.

Hazel crumpled to her knees. Her breath came shallow, her hands trembling in the dirt. She managed only a broken whisper, her voice soft as ash. "Why?"

Marie stood above her, radiant with stolen magic. Her arms lowered, her face unreadable. "You weren't meant to carry this," she said quietly. "It would have ruined you."

Hazel tried to lift her head, her fingers twitching weakly. "I… trusted you…"

Her strength gave out. She slumped forward, her face against the earth, her body still. Empty.

Marie knelt slowly, reverently, brushing a curl from her daughter's pale cheek. Her hand lingered there as she whispered, "You were a gift. And now… so am I."

The forest around them fell silent again. The ritual was complete. And the most powerful magic in the world no longer belonged to Hazel Levesque.

Chapter Text

Chapter 17: Hazel III

Far beyond mortal sight, in the liminal space where thresholds blur and time folds back on itself, Hecate stirred. She resided not in Olympus nor in any celestial court, but in the shadows between — the forgotten edges of the world where choices converge and paths diverge. Her realm was built of crossroads abandoned to dust, of candlelit altars glowing in secret, of the low hum of magic running through the bones of the earth. Few called her name anymore, not in the old way. The offerings left for her were crude, the invocations broken, diluted by centuries of forgetting. But tonight something sharp brushed across the veil, deliberate and undeniable — a ripple of ancient power that reached her like a blade through still water.

She heard her name. Not butchered in desperation or mangled in half-learned Latin, but spoken in Greek. True Greek. The syllables were rough, the voice untrained, but the word was clear: Hekátē. It was not reverent. It was not supplication. It was invocation with intent, her name pulled into the air with purpose.

Her attention narrowed to a single point in the mortal world. She did not walk; she folded the distance, bending the veil around her until the scene revealed itself beneath a moonless sky. Three dirt paths met at the foot of twisted oaks. A crude circle had been drawn in the earth — obsidian dust, iron nails, red thread marking its boundary. It was one of her rituals, its shape unmistakable, but corrupted. Perverted. Performed without her sanction.

At the center stood a girl dressed in white, her candle burning violet in the thick air. Fourteen years old, no more. Hecate recognized her at once. Hazel Levesque. Even from afar, the child glowed with raw potential — not the brittle learning of spellcraft, not the careful layering of herbs and chants, but something deeper, elemental, instinctive. For years, Hecate had watched her from the edges, sensing the quiet thread of destiny winding tightly around her soul. Hazel was not only a witch's daughter. She was a spark. A flame that might one day set the world alight or hold it back from ruin.

And now that spark was being snuffed out.

Hecate's gaze shifted to the woman chanting with hands raised, the one who dared speak her name. Marie Levesque. The mother. She moved with polished precision, marking sigils, pouring her voice into syllables she barely understood. She had unearthed a ritual older than Rome, older than the graves of empires — a rite not of bloodletting but of essence, a theft masked as sacrifice. It demanded kinship. It demanded trust. Above all, it demanded betrayal.

Hazel did not understand at first. She followed her mother's instructions with the trust of a child who had never known her world without that guiding hand. Only as the air thickened and the circle flared beneath her feet did recognition bloom, late and terrible. She knew the symbols. She knew the pull in her chest. She knew what was being taken. And her scream tore through both worlds at once.

The ritual cut through her like light through glass. Her essence ripped free, her connection to the divine unraveling thread by thread, siphoned into the waiting arms of the woman she called Mama. Hecate watched as Hazel collapsed, her soul dimming even as Marie gasped in ecstasy, her body shuddering beneath the flood of stolen power. A glow lit her face, false and hollow, a crown of brilliance she had never earned. When it was done, Hazel lay motionless, her eyes wide and glassy.

Marie buried her daughter without word or mourning. No prayers. No guilt. Just silence.

Hecate stood still, her torches dim at her sides. No thunder split the sky, no storm answered the crime — only the wind whispering through the trees, brushing across a circle desecrated by greed. She had not been summoned, but she had been called. Her name had been bent toward theft. Her gift had been torn from a child marked by her path.

That would not stand.

Without speaking, Hecate crossed the veil. The crossroads trembled in answer, as if the world itself braced for what was coming. Marie Levesque had invoked her name. And Marie Levesque would pay.

...

The candles in the Levesque parlor burned lower than usual that night. Their flames bent strangely, not as though touched by wind but by something deeper, something restless that refused to settle. The shadows along the walls stretched unnaturally long, clinging to corners as if reluctant to let the room return to stillness. Marie sat hunched at the kitchen table, her fingers wrapped so tightly around a ceramic mug that the glaze creaked beneath the strain. She had forgotten to fill it. Her breath was shallow, every rise and fall of her chest carrying the echo of the power she had claimed.

Hazel's power. It lived inside her now, a presence dense and electric, coiled behind her ribs like a storm waiting for release. For one blinding moment in the clearing, she had stood taller than herself, her lungs fuller, her veins burning with a fire that felt eternal. She had thought it divine, more intoxicating than any candle or oil, any root or prayer. It was not craft, not ritual. It was pure. And for the first time in her life she had tasted what it meant to be chosen. But now it was different. Wrong.

When she stretched out her hand toward a candle across the room, the wick flared and immediately sputtered out. Frowning, she tried again, summoning the energy she could feel crawling in her chest. It rushed forward like a tide, but the moment it touched her fingertips it fractured — like water striking broken glass. Pain lanced through her skull, sharp and merciless, and she staggered backward with a cry, one hand clawing at her temple. The candle remained unlit.

Her breaths quickened. She refused to relent. A smaller trick, she thought. A spoon, nothing more. Hazel had done it without effort, a flick of her wrist, a careless thought. Marie focused, her jaw clenched. The spoon twitched faintly. Her vision swam. Another spike of pain tore through her mind, hot and needling, threading itself behind her eyes until she nearly screamed. She dropped her hands at last, gasping, her brow wet with sweat as she stumbled into the chair. The energy inside her writhed like spoiled milk curdling in her veins, rancid and unclean. It did not flow. It resisted.

Her stomach lurched. The taste of copper coated her tongue. This wasn't a gift. This was rot.

Every attempt to command the magic left her weaker, her body trembling, her heartbeat thundering against her ribs. It scraped against her from within, clawing like an animal trapped in the wrong cage. Her own blood rejected it, as if announcing to her that she was not, and had never been, meant to wield what she had stolen. She whispered grounding chants until her lips went numb. She burned sage until the air choked. She circled herself in salt until her hands shook too badly to finish the line. None of it mattered. The power did not listen. It was not hers and it knew it.

Marie collapsed to her knees beside the hearth, gripping the brick with white knuckles, her breath coming in shallow, ragged bursts. Her skin had gone pale and her lips trembled with dryness. Hazel had carried this same force as if it had been braided into her veins since birth, her body moving with it as naturally as breath. Marie's body, by contrast, burned simply from trying to hold it still. Every pulse of her heart widened the tear, unraveling her stitch by stitch.

She pressed her forehead to the cold brick, eyes squeezed shut, sweat cooling on her skin. The truth broke over her in silence: she had taken a divine thread and tried to sew it into corrupted flesh. And now the thread was unspooling.

Marie sat hunched on the floor beside the hearth, her body aching, her mind unraveling from the strain of trying to wield stolen power. Her shawl had slipped from her shoulders. Her hands trembled.

And then… the temperature dropped. The flame in every candle turned blue and froze mid-flicker, like time itself had drawn in a breath. Shadows recoiled from the corners. The floorboards groaned. The front door burst open without touch, and the goddess stepped inside — not in silence, but in judgment, her presence slamming into the room with the weight of a storm that had been waiting years to break.

Hecate's cloak billowed without wind, woven of fog and starlight, her eyes burning with silver flame. Twin torches hovered at her sides, casting light that danced and warped the walls. Her presence filled the space instantly — not just physically, but spiritually. The air itself bent around her. The mortal world seemed too small to contain her.

Marie looked up, dazed, and gasped. "You—" Her voice faltered. "I—I didn't expect—"

She tried to rise, tried to bow, but her knees buckled.

"I did it for her," Marie lied. "I was protecting her from herself. Her power was—"

"Be silent."

The voice was not a shout. But it didn't have to be. It echoed through the apartment like thunder inside bone, reverberating through the walls, through the floor, through Marie's chest. Outside, the entire block lit up. Neighbors who had already been awoken by the strange flickering light pouring from the Levesque windows now stumbled onto their porches, shielding their eyes from a brightness that pulsed like lightning from within.

Hecate stepped forward. Each movement was slow, deliberate, final.

"You dared invoke my name," the goddess said, voice low but shaking the very foundation. "You uttered sacred words passed down before empires. You drew power from my path — and dared steal from the girl I watched, the one I marked."

Marie's mouth worked soundlessly. Her pulse pounded in her ears.

"She was to be guided," Hecate continued, fire trailing her footsteps. "She was to be taught. She was chosen. And you, who knew the old ways — you sacrificed her to feed your envy."

"No," Marie whispered, voice breaking. "No, I didn't mean— I just— I couldn't—"

"You could have bowed. You could have shared. You could have stood beside her and watched her rise. And instead, you buried her beneath your feet."

Hecate raised one arm. A storm gathered behind her — invisible to the eye, but felt in the marrow. The pressure in the room became unbearable. Light poured from every wall, every window. Outside, people clutched their heads and fell to their knees, unable to hear the words but feeling the judgment.

Marie began to sob, crumpling to the ground. "Please. I didn't know. I didn't know she was yours!"

"She was not mine in blood," Hecate said, stepping closer. "She was mine in destiny. And you severed it. You spilled potential into the soil for your own selfish hunger."

A crack split the floor beneath Marie's knees. The apartment shuddered. From the darkness below, sulfuric smoke rose, red and heavy — the stench of judgment made manifest.

"I am Queen of Magic," Hecate declared, her voice no longer merely thunder, but law etched into the bones of the world. "And by my will, you are undone. I banish you to the Fields of Punishment."

The floor beneath Marie cracked with a deafening snap, splitting open like a wound torn through the fabric of reality. From the rift surged a wave of choking smoke and red-hot air, the scent of sulfur and scorched earth thick in the room. The light from Hecate's torches turned deep and cold.

Marie shrieked as the ground crumbled beneath her. She scrambled backward, but there was nowhere left to go. Her hands slipped on the tiles, her nails scraping futilely at the edge of the widening pit.

"No—no, please—goddess, I'm sorry! I didn't know—please!"

But the judgment had already fallen. The goddess's eyes did not waver. With a final rush of searing air, the hole yawned wide and Marie Levesque was pulled screaming into the darkness. Her voice echoed as she plunged into the depths, swallowed by the pit of divine justice — a place from which no soul ever returned.

Then, silence. The rift sealed with a bone-chilling hiss, leaving only scorch marks behind. The apartment dimmed. The walls stopped shaking. Hecate lowered her torches, the fury still humming faintly around her like a storm slowly retreating. Justice had been served.

The apartment was still, the air thick with scorched remnants of divine wrath. But Hecate did not linger. Her judgment had been passed. Her fury had been spent. Now came the purpose.

Hazel Levesque was not meant to die like that — not young, not alone, and not at the hands of the very woman who should've guarded her rise. Hecate had watched many souls pass through the mortal coil, but rarely had she marked one with so much untapped potential. Hazel's magic had not been inherited — it had awakened in her like a second heartbeat, something ancient remembering itself through a modern girl. She could have become a living conduit between worlds — spirit and shadow, life and death, mortal and divine. And that made what happened to her unacceptable.

Hecate raised one hand and opened a tear in the air — a soft ripple, barely visible, like moonlight bending against water. Through it, she stepped out of the apartment, bypassing streets and distance in a single breath.

She arrived at the crossroads clearing in an instant. The dirt had not yet settled. The earth still bore the impression of Hazel's small form, the grave shallow and hurried, as if Marie hadn't been able to look at what she'd done. Above the soil, wildflowers had not grown. No peace lingered here.

Hecate knelt in the quiet. She reached down, fingers ghosting over the spot where Hazel had been buried. The ground moved without resistance. The dirt shifted aside in ribbons, gentle and precise, until the girl's body was revealed — pale, limp, her white linen dress still damp with dew. She looked asleep. Peaceful. But Hecate could feel the absence. The soul was gone, displaced. And if too much time passed, it would be lost entirely.

Hecate leaned down, one hand hovering just above Hazel's brow. Her expression, for once, softened — not in pity, but in quiet reverence. She had seen heroes burn themselves out, had witnessed kings fall and sorcerers lose their minds to ambition. But Hazel had been none of those things. She was simply true. And she had been taken far too soon.

"This will not be your end," the goddess whispered.

The torches at her back flared silently. With a flick of her wrist, she summoned a gate — one of her own making, a portal ringed in runes that no mortal could name. At its center glowed the threshold to a hidden sanctuary — a place where life waited to resume its course. A sacred realm untouched by time, where bodies could rest safely until the soul returned to meet them.

Hecate cradled Hazel gently in her arms and stepped through. The sanctuary was bathed in a cool twilight — a realm of pale grasses, silver mist, and trees that hummed softly with magic. At the center lay a marble altar carved with protective sigils, its edges lit by candles that never melted. The air was warm and still, sacred in its silence.

Hecate laid Hazel on the altar with great care. She circled the slab three times, whispering words of preservation in Old Greek. Ribbons of magic wrapped around Hazel's body — soft, protective, unbreakable. Her form shimmered faintly as the spell took hold. The body was safe now. But it was only the first step.

The soul was out there — adrift, wandering, perhaps unaware of what had happened. And reclaiming it would not be so simple. Souls rarely returned to places of trauma. They scattered. They hid. They protected themselves.

Hecate stood at the foot of the altar, torches burning low beside her, her jaw set with cold determination.

"I will find you, child," she said, voice steady. "I will call you back. You are not finished yet."

The wind stirred around her, as if in agreement.

The sanctuary was sealed. Hazel's body, wrapped in divine preservation, now rested beyond the reach of decay and time. But without her soul, it was only a vessel — perfect but empty. The true spark of Hazel Levesque drifted elsewhere, scattered in the quiet folds of death.

Hecate stood at the edge of the sanctuary's veil, cloaked in shadows and silence. The torches at her back were snuffed now, replaced by a single, soft-burning flame in her palm — a subtle beacon, one not even the other gods could trace. She could not afford to be seen. Not for this.

Hades would never approve. To raise a mortal from death without his leave was no small defiance. He had dominion over souls, and his laws were ironbound. Even she, a goddess of thresholds and paths, had once been bound by those laws. But not tonight. Not for Hazel. Hecate had seen too much taken in silence, too many bright things snuffed out before they could shine. She would not allow Hazel Levesque to become just another whisper in the dark. And so, she crossed the veil.

The Underworld greeted her like an old memory — heavy air thick with stillness, the scent of ash and cold stone. Her feet made no sound as she walked the long corridor of souls, slipping unseen past sentries, gliding through the gates unnoticed. She wore her power like a second skin, muted and folded inward, impossible to detect unless you knew where to look.

She passed the Judges, their dais empty for the hour. She bypassed the shimmering gates of Elysium, pausing only briefly to peer beyond them. Hazel was not there. Of course she wasn't.

The worthy were welcomed here — warriors, poets, philosophers. Those who had lived full lives or died noble deaths. Hazel had known betrayal, not honor. She had died at the hands of someone she loved, confused and powerless.

She hadn't been judged unworthy — just… uncategorized. So she had been sent to the Fields of Asphodel. Hecate turned away from Elysium and descended deeper. The Fields stretched endlessly — a grey sea of muted grass, pale trees, and countless drifting figures. Ghosts wandered in quiet stupor, their faces blurred, their memories fading with each passing cycle. This was where most souls went. Not punished. Not rewarded. Just forgotten.

Even with divine senses, the Fields were overwhelming. There were billions of souls here. And time did not pass the same.

What felt like a moment above could stretch to centuries below. A single turn of the head, a single footstep through the grey haze could push Hecate further from the present than she realized. But it didn't matter. Time meant nothing. Not when purpose guided her.

She walked the Fields alone, her flame still glowing faintly in her palm. She whispered Hazel's name into the dark — once, twice, a hundred times — and when no answer came, she kept walking, her voice steady as the flame in her palm. Step by step, day by day, year by year, she pressed on through the endless grey. If it took a thousand years, so be it. Hazel Levesque was not going to be left here — alone, unnamed, and unfinished. Not while Hecate still drew breath.

...

The Fields of Asphodel stretched on like a breathless memory, muted in tone and sound, filled with a soft grey mist that clung to every figure wandering its endless expanse. Hecate had walked them for what may have been decades — or centuries — depending on the plane one measured by. Time in the Underworld was fluid, indifferent to mortal clocks. The goddess of crossroads had whispered Hazel's name into the haze again and again, hoping it would stir something deep inside a soul meant for so much more than this quiet limbo. Most souls here had already begun to fade, their edges blurred, their identities slipping away with each passing moment. But she believed Hazel would not fade easily. She had never been the type to let go. Her magic, even stolen, would anchor her to herself. And at last, that faith was rewarded.

There, among the drifting silhouettes of the lost, Hecate found her. A girl no longer vibrant, no longer fully aware, but still standing. Her posture had collapsed over time, her steps slow and aimless like the others, but her body remained intact. Her soul had not disintegrated. Even in this endless twilight of apathy, something in Hazel still held on. Her face, though slack and unfocused, remained unmarred by the blur that had claimed so many others. Her presence hummed faintly in the fabric of the realm — quiet, yes, but undeniably present.

Hecate approached without a word. Her robes swept the ground in near silence, her eyes locked on the girl she had spent a lifetime seeking. As she drew close, Hazel slowed and turned. Her gaze met Hecate's, empty at first, then flickering with something deeper. Recognition wasn't complete, but it stirred. Something ancient and instinctual passed between them — not through language, but through presence. A thread, severed so long ago, trembled with the memory of connection. Hecate extended her hand. Hazel, after the smallest hesitation, lifted her own and placed it in the goddess's palm.

Without another moment lost, they vanished from the Fields, slipping between realms like a shadow behind a veil.

The sanctuary welcomed them back as if no time had passed — still cloaked in soft twilight, its stone floor warmed by sacred flame, its air still tinged with lavender and crushed myrrh. The protective runes carved into the altar pulsed gently with golden light, waiting patiently for the soul that had finally returned. Hecate moved with great care, lowering Hazel's spirit onto the preserved body she had guarded all this time. The linen dress still shone clean and untouched, her features exactly as they had been the night she died. There was no decay, no withering. Hecate had seen to that herself.

With whispered words, older than the Olympians and carved into the bedrock of the world, Hecate wove the soul back into the body. Threads of golden magic slipped into Hazel's skin, curling into her chest, winding around her spine, sealing cracks that should never have formed. The soul resisted at first — dazed, uncertain — but the body remembered. Slowly, steadily, they rejoined. Flesh and spirit became one once more. Her chest did not yet rise. Her fingers did not yet twitch. But the light inside her was returning.

When the spell was complete, Hecate stepped back from the altar, her expression calm but unreadable. The torches resting at her sides flickered gently, their work done for now. The sanctuary stood still, a temple untouched by time, the only place in the world where this could have happened. But when Hecate turned her gaze upward, through the circular opening in the stone ceiling, she saw that the stars above were no longer the same.

The world had changed.

The constellations had shifted. The hum of technology now blanketed the earth above. Cities had grown, wars had ended and begun again, the rhythm of human life had marched on without Hazel in it. Decades had passed in the mortal realm since that night in 1946. The world she once knew — the music, the language, the way people dressed and lived and believed — had faded into the past. But Hazel Levesque, dead and buried, had been saved from that march of time. She would awaken to something completely foreign, unfamiliar… but she would awaken.

Hecate sat beside the altar, her torches dimming, her expression softer now than it had been in ages. For the first time since the ritual, she allowed herself to exhale. Her task was not finished, but her promise had been kept. Hazel's body was whole. Her soul was returned. Now, she simply had to wait for the girl to open her eyes.

...

For a long time Hazel drifted in silence — not darkness exactly, but a place beyond sensation where breath and heartbeat felt paused. At first she thought it might be a dream, until a warmth brushed her skin like sunlight filtered through water and a faint, foreign scent teased at her memory. A sound followed: faint, like bees around a hive. Her fingers twitched. Slowly, her chest rose. Her eyes opened.

Above her, the ceiling was stone carved into a perfect circle that framed a night sky thicker with stars than she remembered; unfamiliar constellations blinked gently beyond the rim. The air smelled of lavender and beeswax and something older, electric and sweet. Hazel sat up with limbs stiff but whole and looked down at herself: the same white dress, the same hands, no blood, no wounds — just her, impossibly alive.

A figure moved from the shadows and approached, tall and composed in a cloak of black and grey, her movements smooth and certain. Twin torches floated behind her, throwing flickering light that made the sanctuary walls breathe with shadow. Her eyes shimmered like silver caught in candlelight. "Welcome back, Hazel Levesque," the woman said, voice low and calm. "You have slept long."

Hazel's heart hammered. The words tumbled out of her in a stunned whisper. "I… what—who…?"

"I am Hecate," the woman answered gently. "Goddess of magic. Guardian of thresholds. Keeper of lost paths." The name landed like an old, terrible song. Hazel had seen it in texts and heard it whispered among the older practitioners—Marie had never spoken of her outright—but now the goddess stood before her in flesh and flame.

Instinct made Hazel bow, humbled and trembling. "I—I don't understand. I was… I died."

"Yes," Hecate said. "You did. Betrayed by blood, taken before your time. But you were not forgotten." She stepped closer, her gaze steady and neither cruel nor indulgent. "When your mother invoked rites beyond her right and called my name for selfish ends, I intervened. I preserved your body; your soul was scattered to the Fields of Asphodel. I searched, called, and I found what had been lost."

Hazel's face crumpled at the words. "I was there," she said. "I remember… being alone."

"For decades you drifted," Hecate answered. "The world above changed. The year is no longer 1946. But you are not lost. I retrieved you and brought you to this place of preservation." She watched Hazel's hands tremble, absorbing the impossible truth. "You are whole again."

Hazel swallowed, voice thin. "Why me? Why would you do this for me?"

"Because you were not meant to fade," Hecate said simply. "What you touched was only the beginning of something far older. You acted on instinct, and instinct showed me your shape: raw will, purity of intent, an unshaped brilliance. With guidance and discipline, you could become what the world has not seen in a thousand years." Her words held both promise and a quiet weight.

Hazel stared, barely believing. "You believe that?"

"I have seen it," Hecate replied. "You carry a spark that could one day bind worlds — spirit and shadow, life and death. You were born to walk the boundary between them." The goddess's voice was even, certain.

Hazel let the truth wash over her and, when she could speak, asked the only question that mattered now. "What happens next?"

Hecate allowed something like approval to crease her mouth. "Now you begin again. Not as a daughter learning from shadows, nor as a girl held back by envy, but as an apprentice who will be taught properly. From this moment forward I will be your teacher." She turned toward the outer circle of the altar as if to mark the line between what had been and what would be.

Hazel squared her shoulders and met that austere promise. "Good," she said. "Because I don't want to be what I was."

"No," Hecate agreed, voice like a lock clicking closed. "You will become what you were always meant to be."

Chapter Text

Chapter 18: Hazel IV

Energy Manipulation

The sanctuary had no clocks, no calendars, no days of the week. Time moved in slow, fluid spirals, marked only by the phases of the moon above and the steady rhythm of Hazel's breath as she trained.

The first lesson began with energy. Not fire. Not wind. Not light. Just energy. Raw and formless, drawn from the living current of the world around her — the ley lines beneath the earth, the pulses in the sky, the heartbeat of things unseen. Hecate described it as "life before form," the sacred spark from which all magic was born. Hazel was not to summon it from outside objects, but to feel it — tap into the current and let it flow through her.

At first, she couldn't even sense it. Her fingers tingled when she concentrated too hard. Her vision blurred when she tried to focus on the space between thoughts. For days — weeks, maybe — all she managed was a faint warmth in her palms and the frustration of failure.

But Hecate was patient. And relentless.

"You are not here to borrow power," she told Hazel one evening as the torches cast long shadows on the sanctuary walls. "You are here to become it."

Hazel meditated for hours at a time. She sat cross-legged beneath the moonlight, palms up, eyes closed, heart open. She visualized still water. She imagined threads of silver running through her veins. She breathed until her chest hurt and silence became a physical thing.

And then, one night, it happened. She felt it. It wasn't loud. It wasn't dramatic. But it was there. A subtle vibration beneath her skin — a warmth that bloomed in her core and pushed outward in a steady, deliberate pulse. It moved up her spine, down her arms, humming in her fingertips like a second pulse.

Her eyes opened. The world shimmered. Without speaking, Hazel raised her hand and let the energy move with her — just a ripple in the air, barely visible. But it followed. Not like telekinesis. Not like lifting or throwing. This was shaping. She wasn't commanding the world around her; she was reaching into its bloodstream and stirring it.

The torches flared as she moved her hand in a slow circle. The grass beneath her feet bowed, though there was no wind. Her heartbeat echoed in her ears, matching the rhythm of the power around her.

From the shadows, Hecate watched with a quiet nod. "You've found it."

Hazel's voice shook. "This… this is me?"

"It always was," Hecate said. "You just hadn't learned how to listen."

The next few lessons was spent doing nothing but refining that control. Hecate forbade her from using words or gestures. No chants. No sigils. Only intention. Hazel learned to wrap energy around objects, to snuff out flame with a thought, to press force outward like a wave. She could feel it now — the threads of power in the trees, the stone, even in herself. At times, it overwhelmed her. The world buzzed with it. It was like discovering a new sense she'd never known existed. And with each passing day, the movements became easier.

She learned to condense energy into her hands, shaping it like clay. Sometimes it glowed. Sometimes it shimmered like heat rising off asphalt. One morning, she formed a perfect sphere of crackling red light in her palm — not fire, not heat, just force. It floated for several seconds before pulsing outward and knocking a pile of stones off their pedestal.

Hazel gasped. "I didn't mean to do that!"

Hecate only raised an eyebrow. "Good."

Hazel blinked. "Good? I lost control—"

"No," Hecate said. "You pushed. For the first time, you didn't hold back."

Hazel stared at her hand, the skin still tingling.

"I didn't even think," she murmured.

"Exactly," Hecate said. "You trusted yourself. That's the beginning of real power."

...

Flight

The first time Hazel even thought about flying, it came as a joke.

"I could probably throw myself across the sanctuary if I really wanted," she muttered one afternoon, arms folded as she stared up at the wide circular opening in the stone ceiling. The sky was clear, and the clouds drifted by lazily above. "Just… push hard enough and hope I land soft."

From across the courtyard, Hecate didn't laugh. "Then why don't you?"

Hazel blinked, halfway through sipping from a cup of cooled tea. "Because I like my bones where they are?"

"Your body is not a sack of meat to be hurled around," Hecate said, walking over. "It is a vessel for power. Yours, specifically. You have already moved objects heavier than yourself. You've shaped energy and controlled its force. Why, then, should gravity still be your master?"

Hazel hesitated. "You mean… actually fly?"

Hecate gave a small, satisfied smile. "If you're ready."

It began that evening, just as the sun dipped below the tree line. The sanctuary's stone floor had been cleared of all objects. No distractions. No excuses. Hazel stood in the center barefoot, palms flexing at her sides, trying to steady her breath.

Flying wasn't just a matter of lifting, Hecate had explained. That was telekinesis — crude and external. Anyone with raw force could levitate. But to fly — truly fly — one had to harmonize their body with their own energy field. The current had to become an extension of her will.

Hazel closed her eyes. She felt the ground beneath her. Solid, comforting, but no longer necessary. She reached inward, touching the reservoir of energy that now lived just beneath her skin. She let it fill her limbs, flow through her core, swirl like vapor around her shoulders. At the same time, she reached outward with her telekinesis, not to grasp the earth, but to let go of it.

And she pushed. Her body lifted six inches off the ground — uneven, shaky, but off. Her breath caught, and her left foot dipped, nearly crashing her sideways. She fell. It wasn't hard, just enough to rattle her knees and her pride.

Hecate remained silent, watching from the edge of the courtyard.

Hazel stood, brushing dust from her dress. "That was a warm-up."

"Try again," was all Hecate said.

Hazel threw herself into the practice with the following lessons. She learned to start with telekinesis — anchoring the lift — and then ease into energy manipulation to balance and steer. It was clumsy at first. She hovered, tilted, spun in midair like a crooked compass needle. She accidentally blasted herself ten feet across the courtyard once, landing in a heap against a tree trunk. But each failure taught her something.

Eventually, she was gliding. Not soaring — gliding. A few feet off the ground, controlled, graceful. She could circle the sanctuary in wide, slow loops, her hands guiding the energy around her like invisible wings. Her hair whipped behind her. Her eyes gleamed. She wasn't just floating. She was free.

The first time she lifted herself fully into the sky, breaking the sanctuary's boundary and rising above the treetops, she nearly cried. The wind rushed past her face, cool and alive. The moon hung massive on the horizon. Below her, the earth was small, slow, quiet. But she? She was a force in motion. She spun in midair, letting the current swirl around her body, holding herself steady with a single breath. And when she descended again, her feet touched down with barely a sound.

Hecate approached from the steps, her expression calm but proud. "You're beginning to understand what it means to command your own reality."

Hazel smiled, breathless but steady. "Then I'm ready to learn more."

...

Transmutation

Transmutation came slowly.

It wasn't like flight or force or fire — no burst of power, no dramatic wave of energy to throw. This was deeper. More delicate. It required understanding an object before reshaping it — its form, its purpose, the threads of magic or matter that held it together. It was one thing to lift a stone. It was another entirely to redefine it.

On her first attempt, Hazel sat cross-legged before a simple clay bowl. It was nothing special: cracked, dull, handmade. Hecate stood behind her, arms folded, watching in silence.

"Change it," she said.

Hazel raised an eyebrow. "To what?"

"That's your choice. Just change it."

She stared at the bowl for a long time, fingers resting on her knees. It felt… wrong, somehow. To force something to be something else. She could move things, sure. But altering them? That wasn't control — it was rewriting.

Still, she closed her eyes. Reached inward. Then outward. She didn't push. She listened. She tried to feel what made the bowl a bowl. It was made of clay. It held water. It had weight, texture, flaws. She focused on that — the raw substance. The material. And then, with a steady breath, she pulled on the form.

The bowl cracked in half. Hazel jumped. Hecate said nothing.

The following attempts were filled with frustration. Hazel tried transmuting sticks into candles, leaves into coins, cloth into fireproof silk. Most of the time, the items either broke, melted, or fizzled into ash. She wasn't strong enough yet — not magically. But more importantly, she wasn't precise enough. Transmutation didn't care how much power she had. It only cared about intent. And Hazel was still learning how to be clear with hers.

Hecate gave her exercises: reshape one item per day. Only one. No second tries. It taught Hazel to slow down. To visualize. To study the object's essence before acting. She stopped trying to will change and instead began to invite it.

And then, one morning, something worked. Hazel sat in front of a small brass key, worn and rusted. She breathed in and out, fingers gently hovering over it. No spell. No chant. Just clarity. She imagined it becoming a silver coin — round, solid, imprinted with an eagle's head. She pictured the shine, the weight, the sound it would make if it hit stone.

She whispered, "Change."

The key trembled, shimmered… and then melted into something new. When she opened her eyes, a silver coin sat on the altar. Not crude. Not deformed. Perfect. Hazel let out a breathless laugh and held it up to the light.

Hecate, from the far end of the chamber, raised her eyebrows. "Good. Now do it again — but this time, back into a key."

Hazel groaned. "Seriously?"

"Mastery means reversibility."

Over the next few courses, her skill flourished. She transformed pebbles into glass beads, wilted flowers into fresh bouquets, ink into water, copper into gold (though briefly — it reverted a few hours later). The more she learned, the more intuitive it became. She no longer needed to stare at something for minutes on end — a passing glance was sometimes enough. She even began experimenting with partial transmutation: altering only a part of an object, like reshaping the tip of a stick into a blade while leaving the handle intact.

One afternoon, Hazel stood in the clearing behind the sanctuary, a chunk of granite hovering between her palms. She closed her eyes, envisioned the shape of a bird — wings outstretched, beak poised mid-screech. The stone glowed faintly.

With a whisper, the block rippled and reformed, piece by piece, until the sculpture floated in the air: a perfect falcon carved from living stone. She grinned. Magic was no longer just a force to be wielded. It was a language. And she was getting really fluent in it.

...

Teleportation

The first step to teleportations was learning to feel locations.

Not just remember where they were, but imprint them — their vibration, their magical density, the way the space felt against her energy field. Hazel spent a lot of time moving around the sanctuary and the surrounding forest, marking key spots and meditating at each. She pressed the anchor stone to the earth, whispered a single word, and committed the location to memory.

It was like building a map — not of roads, but of sensations.

Then came the real challenge: leaving one place, and arriving at another.

At first, she only teleported objects. A leaf. A pebble. A folded handkerchief. Each one shimmered, vibrated, and vanished from one marked spot, reappearing in another. She could only do it across short distances — a few feet — and every successful attempt left her sweating and dizzy.

Still, she improved. Hecate set up targets. Marked stones. Lit braziers. Hazel had to teleport between them — blindfolded, under pressure, while multitasking with other spells. It was about more than just blinking from point A to B. She had to know where she was going, not just see it. She had to anchor herself to the destination, then push her essence ahead of her body.

Eventually, she tried it with herself. The first time, it didn't go well. She vanished in a shimmer of crimson light — and reappeared five feet away… upside down and backward. She landed hard on her shoulder.

Hecate watched her groan from the grass. "Next time," she said calmly, "don't hesitate mid-jump."

Hazel spat out a blade of grass. "Easy for you to say. You don't land."

Hazel refined the technique with the next several attempts. She teleported between points with smooth elegance now — no more dizziness, no more missed anchors. She could blink from the courtyard to the high cliff above the sanctuary with a breath, then down into the subterranean chamber without delay. The only warning was a ripple of heat in the air and a faint pulse of red light.

One afternoon, she asked Hecate, "How far can I go?"

"As far as your memory is true," the goddess replied. "But if your focus wavers? You could scatter yourself between planes. Be patient. Expand slowly."

Hazel obeyed — mostly. She teleported across longer distances when no one was watching, just to test the limits. From the sanctuary to the edge of a river. From the treetops to a sunlit meadow. She learned how to tether herself to landmarks, use the energy lines in the earth as guides. And when she got very good — very good — she stopped using the anchor stone. She didn't need it anymore. She had become her own anchor.

One night, after hours of meditation, Hazel stood in the center of the sanctuary's stone circle. She took a slow breath, eyes half-closed, and pictured the mountain ridge miles to the north. She felt its energy. Matched her own to it. Her body shimmered…

…and in a heartbeat, she was gone.

When she opened her eyes, she stood atop the mountain. Wind whipped around her. The world stretched below in every direction. She exhaled. Calm. Steady. Unshaken. Teleportation was no longer an experiment. It was instinct. A breath between thoughts.

...

Force Field

It happened on a day like any other.

Hazel had just returned from a morning teleportation drill, her body still humming from the rush of magic. The sanctuary was quiet, bathed in the pale midday light that filtered through the trees. Hecate was elsewhere, meditating in the lower chamber, leaving Hazel to her own devices — which was always a dangerous thing.

She didn't mean to try anything new. She'd sat down in the courtyard with a few floating stones orbiting lazily around her, brushing her fingers through the air like a painter through water. Thin strands of red energy followed her movements — a trick she had perfected during her earliest lessons with manipulation. But then she wondered — what if I didn't just move the energy? What if I held it in place?

She raised her hands in front of her, palms outward, and focused. She shaped the air between them like she would a sphere of raw energy — but instead of condensing it for projection or transmutation, she contained it. She layered her intent, not to push or lift, but to encase.

At first, nothing happened. Then the air between her palms began to shimmer faintly. A subtle bend in the light. A distortion — like heat rising off pavement.

Hazel blinked. "Wait…"

She expanded her hands slightly, the shimmer growing larger. She brought her focus inward — to her core — and fed the construct more energy. Slowly, the shimmer thickened, coalescing into a translucent membrane that pulsed gently with red light. A barrier. She tapped it with one finger. It didn't budge.

Over the next hour, Hazel forgot everything else.

She stood in the center of the courtyard, arms outstretched, conjuring another barrier — this time not between her hands, but around herself. She envisioned a shell of magic forming at the edge of her energy field, just above the skin. With a twist of her wrist and a silent command, the shimmering membrane unfolded around her like a second skin.

She snapped her fingers. A stone flew from across the courtyard, launched telekinetically — and bounced off the shield with a bright spark.

Hazel grinned. "Okay. That's new."

She extended the barrier. From personal shielding, she formed a full sphere around her — then began shaping different versions. Domes. Walls. Angled plates that hovered like magical armor. She shifted them with flicks of her hand, strengthened them by pouring more energy in. The stronger the barrier, the more solid the glow — crimson like sunset, shot through with flickers of gold.

Eventually, she called out to the air, "Hey, Hecate! You're going to want to see this!"

The goddess appeared moments later, gliding silently across the stone.

Hazel stood proudly behind a shimmering red wall of force, one hand on her hip. "I made a shield."

Hecate tilted her head. "Did you now?"

Hazel gestured. "I wasn't trying to. It just… happened. Like energy manipulation, but denser. Contained. Flexible, too. Watch this—"

She re-formed the barrier into a dome above her head, then snapped it into a narrow V-shape before letting it collapse harmlessly.

Hecate approached the center of the courtyard and pressed a finger to the residual energy in the air. Her lips curled, faintly impressed.

"Very few can control energy that precisely," she said. "Fewer still can make it hold its shape. This… is high sorcery, Hazel. Even by my standards."

Hazel beamed. "Then I guess I'm ahead of schedule?"

Hecate's eyes gleamed. "Or perhaps I underestimated just how far you'll go."

Hazel would later test the limits. She stood in the center of a firestorm she conjured herself, shielded by her force field. She blocked a barrage of flying blades hurled through the air with telekinesis.

She even created barriers around other people — or around targets — sealing off attacks before they struck. The effort exhausted her at first, but eventually, her shields were as much a reflex as blinking.

And now, when danger came near, her first instinct was no longer to dodge. It was to hold her ground.

...

Telepathy

It began with silence.

Not the kind of silence that filled the sanctuary at night — peaceful, natural. This was deeper. Still, like standing in the middle of a vast ocean with no waves, no wind, no sound but her own heartbeat.

Hazel sat in the meditation chamber, eyes closed, hands resting lightly on her knees. A single candle flickered before her, untouched by breeze or breath. Hecate stood behind her, her voice no louder than a whisper.

"Your mind is a door," she said. "Not a wall."

Hazel furrowed her brow. "A door to what?"

"To others."

She said nothing at first. She'd read about telepathy. Knew the basics. But knowing of something and feeling it were entirely different things. This wasn't casting a fireball or bending a coin. This was surrendering a part of herself.

"Focus on me," Hecate instructed. "But do not look. Do not speak. Reach."

Hazel took a deep breath. She sank deeper into stillness, not searching with her hands or even her senses — but with something less tangible. She pushed outward with a thread of consciousness, extending it like a feeler into the open void. At first, there was nothing.

Then — a whisper. A flicker. Something brushing against her mind like a feather's edge.

—There. Feel it?—

Hazel gasped and opened her eyes. Hecate hadn't moved. Her lips were sealed. But the voice — that voice had been inside her skull.

"That was you," Hazel said, sitting up straight. "You spoke in my head."

"I didn't speak," Hecate replied softly. "You heard. There's a difference."

Hazel trained to make contact with the following attempts.

It wasn't like other powers. She couldn't see it, or gesture her way into success. She had to quiet herself. Still her emotions. Listen more than act. She failed more times than she could count. Sometimes the signal was too weak. Other times, her thoughts spilled into Hecate's mind unfiltered — memories, feelings, raw fragments of sensation.

"You must learn discipline," Hecate warned. "If you leave the door open, anything inside you can walk out."

Hazel practiced alone after that. She'd sit for hours in silence, focusing on birds perched high in the trees, or small animals passing near the edge of the sanctuary. She wasn't trying to speak to them — not yet — but to feel them. To sense the shape of their minds. The twitch of fear. The pause of curiosity. The simplicity of thought.

When she could do that without effort, she began practicing on people.

She started with Hecate — brushing her mind gently, respectfully. Eventually, she could slip her thoughts in like notes passed under a door.

Can you hear me?

Yes.

This feels weird.

Then you're doing it right.

But the breakthrough came when she reached out to more than one person at once.

Hecate had invited three minor spirits to the sanctuary — incorporeal beings of memory and thought. They hovered at the edge of the clearing, flickering like heat waves, barely visible. Hazel stood at the center, trying to extend her mind outward in multiple directions. It was like balancing plates on invisible sticks — each thread of thought delicate, easily broken.

Who are you? she asked the first.

Memory, came the answer.

What do you want? she asked the second.

To be seen.

And the third? It said nothing — but flooded her mind with color. Orange. Blue. The scent of burnt matches. The feeling of wind against skin.

Hazel pulled back, breathless. When she opened her eyes, all three spirits had bowed. She could do it now. Speak in minds. Receive emotions. Filter thoughts like music through a dial, blocking noise, amplifying clarity.

She learned to push ideas — not commands — into others gently. Make them think they had thought of something first. Suggest paths. Ease fear. Soothe pain. She never overreached. Never forced. Hecate made sure of that.

And one day, without even realizing it, Hazel stood on the edge of the sanctuary, eyes closed, speaking to a fox deep in the woods with nothing but a smile and a quiet whisper in her mind:

It's safe. You can pass.

And the fox did.

...

Advanced Witchcraft

It started with the scrolls.

Ancient, brittle, written in ink that shimmered like blood under moonlight. Hecate laid them before Hazel in the sanctuary's study chamber — texts from lands Hazel had never seen, in alphabets she couldn't begin to read.

"This," Hecate said, "is where true mastery begins."

Hazel looked at the spread: Sanskrit manuscripts etched on palm leaves. Egyptian papyri wrapped in layers of preservation cloth. A West African grimoire inked in a blend of red ochre and river mud. A Japanese onmyōji binding scroll made of washi paper. Even a leather-bound Celtic codex filled with spiral glyphs.

Hazel blinked. "Are these… all yours?"

"They are the world's," Hecate replied. "They belong to no one and everyone. I am merely the caretaker. And now—" she gestured to Hazel "—so are you."

The first attempts were slow.

Hazel didn't cast. She read. She translated, copied, took notes by hand. She studied incantation structures in Nahuatl. Compared warding symbols from Norse runes and Mongolian spirit dances. She learned about the rhythm of language — how some cultures sang their spells, others drummed them, others breathed them into ritual objects.

She didn't rush it. This wasn't combat magic. It was ancestral.

She lit candles in the morning and read until dusk. She chanted softly under her breath, testing pronunciation. When her tongue stumbled, she started again. She brewed teas with herbs from Thai forest scrolls. Carved Icelandic sigils into wax. Whispers of old magic moved through her hands as she learned — not to overpower, but to ask.

One spell she mastered early came from the Yoruba tradition — a grounding incantation to align body, spirit, and shadow. The first time she spoke it aloud, the sanctuary walls trembled softly. The candle flames leaned toward her, as if bowing.

Soon, the spells became more complex. She called wind using a prayer from the Andes, etching sigils into sand with her fingers. She blessed food with Romani protection charms. She constructed a barrier circle based on a hybrid of Sumerian and Jewish mystic geometry — her own fusion. She enchanted water with a Polynesian fisherman's chant, causing it to glow under moonlight.

But Hazel didn't stop there. She asked Hecate for permission to travel — not physically, but spiritually. To visit dreamscapes, ancestral planes, memory realms. And so, through guided trances, she walked among temples and burned forests and snowy plains where the old magics still whispered.

She met a spirit-witch who showed her how to trap nightmares inside clay dolls. She danced in firelight with a spectral woman from the Maasai, learning a flame-binding ritual that required no incantation — only breath and movement. She entered a sunken chapel and read spells written underwater in pure thought.

When she awoke, she remembered everything. Hazel began weaving the teachings together. She created her own hybrid spells — a Hellenic healing prayer spoken in Swahili cadence, powered by Peruvian coca leaves and a protective symbol traced from the Lakota. The result? A charm that pulled sickness from a person's body like poison from a wound, wrapping it in light and dispersing it with a whisper.

Hecate observed without interfering. Only once, after Hazel successfully performed a Tibetan mirror ritual and infused it with a Tagalog fire-summoning breath, did the goddess finally speak.

"You are no longer a witch of one path," she said quietly. "You are becoming a convergence."

Hazel didn't respond. She was too busy finishing the runic circle she'd started — one that shimmered with seven dialects of magic, bound together in harmony.

By the end of her fifth year of training under Hecate's watch, Hazel's spellbook was no longer just a grimoire. It was a library. One only she could read — because no other witch alive could follow the path she'd walked.

...

Reality Manipulation

The sky was overcast the day Hecate brought her to the edge of the sanctuary — a wide cliff overlooking a valley untouched by human hands. Far below, trees stirred in the wind. A river slithered through the land like a silver ribbon. The air was still, waiting.

Hazel stood beside her, older now at 19. Taller. Her gaze steady, though her heart beat fast.

"You've learned everything," Hecate said softly. "Every element. Every thread of the weave. Every shape magic can take."

Hazel said nothing.

"But now," Hecate continued, turning to her with a rare note of reverence, "you must learn how to change the weave itself. Not manipulate what is — but define what could be. This is reality-bending. And it is not a gift. It is a choice. Every time you use it, you will leave a mark on the world that cannot be undone."

Hazel looked out across the valley. "And if I mess up?"

"Then the world might not know it ever happened," Hecate said gravely. "Or worse — it may remember only what you created. This power rewrites. Rebuilds. It is the most sacred and most dangerous of all."

The training began with observation. Hazel was instructed not to act, not to bend, but to see. Hecate walked her through micro-realities layered within nature — a bee caught in a loop, repeating a single flower landing over and over. A dying vine that shouldn't have been dying. A cracked stone that healed itself when no one looked.

"These are fractures," Hecate explained. "Places where reality bends slightly to accommodate magic or intention. Your goal is not to break the world. Your goal is to understand where it's already broken — and learn how to shape the break without shattering it."

Hazel learned slowly. The first time she tried to bend reality, she focused on a dying flower. She didn't just want to heal it — she wanted it to have never died. Her magic rippled around it, hesitant. At first, nothing happened. Then, in a flicker of red light, the flower vanished. In its place stood a different bloom entirely — one she didn't recognize.

Hazel stepped back. "That's not what I meant to do."

"Intent isn't enough," Hecate warned. "Control your desire. Or desire will control the outcome."

She practiced more. Simple things, at first. Altering the color of the sky. Reversing gravity for a few seconds. Making it snow in the heat of summer — then undoing it without a trace. Some days, she could erase small objects from existence. Other days, she restored things that had never been part of the present timeline.

It was exhausting. Reality fought back. The world resisted being rewritten, like a living organism swatting away infection. Hazel bled from the nose after one session. Collapsed from a migraine in another. But she always got back up.

"I'm not giving up," she whispered once to herself. "I didn't come this far to fear my own potential."

The breakthrough came during an emotional rupture.

One night, Hazel dreamed of her mother — not as a villain, but as the woman she used to be. Loving. Proud. Full of warmth. She woke up with tears in her eyes, aching for what never was. She stood in the sanctuary alone and raised a hand. Just one hand. Reality bent.

The air shimmered. The floor cracked. And in the space before her, for one brief second, her mother stood there — alive, smiling, dressed in the apron she used to wear while cooking.

Hazel's knees buckled. The illusion didn't speak. It didn't last. But Hecate appeared beside her immediately.

"You brought forth a ghost from a path not taken," the goddess said softly. "A might-have-been. That is the true shape of your power."

Hazel said nothing. Her breathing was ragged. Her heart cracked wide open. But in that moment, she understood. Reality wasn't a wall to break. It was a mirror to reshape.

By the end of her training, Hazel Levesque no longer simply cast spells. She redefined possibility. A thought could become stone. A whisper could become fire. Time could bend if she asked gently enough.

And though she rarely used this final gift — and never casually — Hazel now carried within her the terrifying, awe-inspiring truth: If she willed it… the world would obey.

...

The sun was rising over the sanctuary, washing the trees in amber light. A gentle wind moved through the leaves, as if the world itself were offering a soft farewell. Hazel stood at the edge of the stone terrace, dressed not in robes or ceremonial garments, but in simple jeans, boots, and a fitted leather jacket. She looked... normal. Almost. But the air around her hummed faintly, like even reality knew she was something other. Hecate stood behind her, silent for a moment.

"You're leaving," she said finally.

Hazel turned. "You said I could."

"I did," Hecate said with a nod. "And you're ready. I just didn't expect the years to pass this quickly."

Hazel smiled faintly. "They didn't pass quickly. I just filled every second."

Hecate stepped forward, eyes scanning her student — now a young woman, no longer the frightened child she'd plucked from the grave. She saw the way Hazel held herself: her back straight, her shoulders squared, her gaze steady. She had grown into something extraordinary. And still… Hecate hesitated.

"There is no more I can teach you," she said softly. "You have mastered the elements. The arcane. The mind. The unseen. You have walked through cultures, channeled ancestors, bent the rules of nature without breaking them. But the world you're walking into now... it doesn't understand what you are."

Hazel looked out at the horizon. "Then it'll have to learn."

The goddess chuckled under her breath. "It will. Eventually."

They stood in silence for a while. The birds called from the trees. The wind curled around their ankles. And then, Hecate's expression sobered again.

"You'll be tested," she warned. "Not by magic — you've already mastered that. But by people. Power frightens them. Especially when it wears the face of a young Black woman with fire in her hands and truth in her heart."

Hazel didn't flinch. "Let them try."

Hecate smiled at that. Not smugly. Not with pride. But with respect.

"You were always meant for more," she said, stepping forward. "More than the life that was stolen from you. More than your mother ever understood. You rose from betrayal and death — and you turned it into something divine."

Hazel's voice softened. "I couldn't have done it without you."

"No," Hecate said. "You would have. You just would've had to learn the hard way."

They both laughed, quiet and brief. It wasn't sentimental. It wasn't dramatic. It was just... real. And then Hecate placed a hand gently on Hazel's cheek, the way a mother should have.

"Go," she whispered. "Go walk among them. Let the world see who you are."

Hazel nodded once. Then she turned to walk down the path that would lead her back into the world — the modern world, where glass towers replaced old brick streets, and cell phones replaced whispered charms.

But just before she vanished from sight, Hecate called after her.

"Oh — Hazel?"

She looked back. Hecate's eyes gleamed.

"Remember who you are... the most powerful sorceress in the world."

Hazel didn't smile. She didn't need to.

She simply turned back to the path... and kept walking.

...

A Few Months Later ...

It began with a smell — faint, acrid, unnatural. The scent hit Hazel just past midnight as she strolled through a quiet stretch of New Orleans, near the old docks where humidity clung to the skin like a second layer. She paused mid-step, nostrils flaring, eyes narrowing. It wasn't sulfur or decay. It wasn't even death. It was wrongness. Something twisted and ancient, bleeding through the folds of the world like a wound that refused to close.

Hazel knelt, brushing her fingers over the damp earth. A tremor of energy rippled through her palm, like threads fraying beneath the surface of reality. Something had torn a hole here — small, subtle, but unmistakable. Someone had reached into the spirit world not to ask, but to take. She muttered a detection incantation under her breath, watching as glowing green wisps bloomed before her like pollen caught in moonlight. The trail led east.

She didn't hesitate.

Over the next two days, she followed it. The signs were scattered and strange. In Montgomery, a woman sobbing in the street after waking from a dream where her dead husband spoke through her own mouth. In Birmingham, a teenager hospitalized with unexplained burns after opening a cursed charm sold by a man with no face in the mirror. By the time she reached Atlanta, the trail wasn't just pulsing — it was screaming.

Hazel stood beneath a skyline bristling with glass and steel, her hands clenched in her jacket pockets as the modern world buzzed around her. Car horns blared. Music drifted from open bars. Neon lights pulsed with artificial confidence. And underneath it all, buried in the static of city life, she felt it again — that wrongness. It crawled beneath her skin. Coiled at the base of her spine.

There was a storm building. Not in the sky — in the weave of reality itself.

She checked into a hotel under a fake name, then spent the next day walking the city, her senses extended like antennae. The source was close. She could feel it humming under the concrete, crackling between stoplights and sewer grates. The spirits in the area were restless. They didn't speak to her directly — not yet — but they whispered through static, flickering bulbs, cracked mirrors. He's coming. He's close. He's feeding.

That night, she made her way to Woodmere Square — a large, open plaza nestled between corporate buildings and boutiques. It was the kind of place where food trucks lined the edges and families sat on benches, where violinists played near fountains and street artists painted murals for tips. It was beautiful.

But Hazel felt none of that beauty. She stood on the edge of the square and closed her eyes. The magic here was bubbling, about to rupture. She could hear it under the rhythm of the city — a heartbeat too fast, too loud. Someone was going to use this place as a stage. As a gateway. And it would happen soon. Hazel turned and walked away before anyone could notice her. She would return tomorrow. Not as a wanderer. Not as a witch in hiding. But as a force the world was no longer ready to deny.

The next afternoon, the square was alive with noise. Vendors were rolling open their awnings. Children ran through the shallow splash fountains. Tourists posed beneath the mosaic arch at the north end. It was warm, bright, and unremarkable — until the air went still. Not quiet. Still. As if someone had pressed pause on the wind.

Hazel felt it before it happened. She was already there, seated quietly near a vendor cart with a bottled water in hand, eyes on a paperback but not reading. Her senses had been open since dawn. She'd barely slept. Her body was calm, but her magic trembled beneath her skin like a dam ready to crack.

And then — it broke. A pulse of magic shattered the stillness like a thunderclap. The arch at the far end of the square twisted unnaturally, warping inward like melting glass. A circle of corrupted energy exploded from its center, sending debris outward in a concussive wave. People screamed and scattered. Vendors fled their carts. Children cried. Phones whipped out as the sky above the square darkened — not with clouds, but with shadows, crawling like ink across the light.

And in the center of it all stood a man. He wore no robes, no dramatic sigils — just a long coat and bare feet. His face was angular and cruel, his mouth moving in a guttural tongue as his hands conjured dark spirits from beneath the fountain. They rose — oily, jagged things with mouths where their eyes should be, clawing their way out of the ground like nightmares born from tar.

Hazel stood slowly. Civilians were running in all directions, some stumbling, others paralyzed by the impossible. One woman knelt beside her child, shielding him, frozen in shock. Several teenagers filmed from behind the safety of a food truck, whispering curses and disbelief. Someone shouted that it was a terrorist attack. Another screamed that it was the end of the world.

Hazel stepped forward. Her jacket blew open as she raised her hand. A ripple of red energy surged from her fingertips and wrapped around the nearest spirit, yanking it backward with a whip-crack snap and slamming it into a concrete pillar. The spirit disintegrated in a wail of smoke and ash.

The sorcerer turned, eyes narrowing. "You."

Hazel didn't answer. Her palms glowed now, not just with energy, but with something older, something deeper. Her aura radiated heat and static, warping the space around her. Even the shadows hesitated.

"You shouldn't be here," the man spat, his voice echoing with unnatural depth. "This isn't your fight."

Hazel's voice was calm. "You brought corrupted spirits into a public square. You've made it my fight."

With a roar, the man thrust his hands toward her and unleashed a wave of black fire. Hazel countered with a wall of raw energy, her force field flaring to life in a sphere of violet and crimson. The fire splashed harmlessly against it, curling around the edges and evaporating with a hiss. She stepped forward again. And again.

The crowd was still scattering, but more people had stopped — watching from behind cars, filming with shaking hands, whispering in disbelief. The headlines were writing themselves in real time. A girl was walking through hellfire, untouched.

The sorcerer screamed in fury and summoned more spirits — four, five, six of them. They swirled around him like a hurricane of shrieking limbs and gnashing teeth. He hurled them forward in a spiral of motion and malice.

Hazel's eyes flared red. She flew. Not soared, not leapt — hovered upward as if the laws of gravity bowed to her. Her arms swept wide, and a cyclone of energy pulsed from her core, striking each spirit midair with surgical precision. They exploded in flashes of light and smoke, leaving only screams behind.

The sorcerer lunged at her then, teleporting forward in a burst of smoke, appearing inches from her face with a knife of bone raised high. Hazel caught his wrist mid-swing. Their eyes locked. His grin faltered.

"You're not just a witch," he whispered.

"No," Hazel said. "I am the witch."

She tightened her grip — and teleported, dragging him with her. They vanished from the square in a thunderclap and reappeared ten feet above the fountain. Hazel released him midair, and he crashed into the stone basin below, shattering tiles and sending water geysering upward. He tried to rise, coughing, soaked and sputtering — but Hazel descended calmly, walking across the surface of the water like it was glass.

With one final motion, she raised both hands and whispered a binding incantation — not from any one culture, but woven from many, layered with spells from traditions across continents, filtered through her own unique mastery. Runes burned in the air, surrounding the sorcerer like glowing chains. He convulsed once, then collapsed, unconscious.

Silence. Total silence. People stared. Some were still recording. Others had forgotten how to move.

Hazel turned without a word and vanished in a flicker of red light, leaving only ripples in the water where she'd walked — and a square full of questions no one could answer.

...

A Few Days Later...

Morning sunlight bled in through the tall windows of Chiron Brunner's office, slanting across his cluttered desk in golden sheets. The room still smelled faintly of coffee and old paper — two constants in the Bureau's upper floors. Chiron leaned back in his chair, exhaling as he gently placed Leo Valdez's file atop the two others already stacked before him: Percy Jackson. Jason Grace.

Three remarkable young people. Three confirmed metahumans. Metahumans weren't anything new, but these three... they were special, Chiron knew that as much. And all of them so far were operating entirely off-grid until recently. He pinched the bridge of his nose, then reached for the next file in the queue. This one had already drawn raised eyebrows in the briefing room when it crossed his desk.

Subject #: 004-BID

Name: LEVESQUE, HAZEL

Confirmed Presence: New Orleans – Witness Report: Atlanta Incident

Chiron opened the folder slowly, expecting another set of clean data points, another string of body cam footage, maybe a government redacted stamp or two. Instead, he found something else: a photocopied birth certificate dated 1932, an official record of death from 1946, and a grainy black-and-white photo of a young girl with braided hair, wide eyes, and a reserved smile. He blinked.

His fingers flipped through more papers — most of them decades old. No recent school records. No medical history. Just an attached sticky note from one of his staff with a short scrawl in blue ink:

"Chiron — Check the email I sent to you ASAP. We're not sure how, but she may have reappeared. — D."

He turned to the desktop on the corner of his desk, clicking the mouse to wake the screen after it had blacked out. There it was between the most recent ones sent to him — Subject: Field Observation – Levesque?

He opened it. Inside was a single line of text and a secure internal link.

"CCTV footage from Atlanta, Woodmere Square. You'll want to see this."

Chiron clicked. The video loaded in silence. He watched.

Angle after angle — pulled from streetlight cams, traffic poles, even a rooftop drone used for crowd monitoring. The resolution shifted between feeds, but the sequence was unmistakable. A dark figure standing in the middle of the square. Magic exploding like seismic charges. Spirits erupting from the ground. People screaming. Running.

And then — her. A young woman, maybe nineteen or twenty. She looked calm, focused. She walked through corrupted flame like it wasn't even there. Her hands sparked with red energy. Her voice — lip-read by software — matched recorded spell structures across three magical languages.

Chiron leaned forward, squinting as the video zoomed in on her face. One frame caught her in profile, wind rushing through her long dark curls, mouth open mid-incantation, eyes glowing red. The image froze, high-definition enhancement kicking in.

He reached for the photo in the file. Compared it. Same cheekbones. Same shape of the eyes. A decade's difference, her features had matured with the years but the outline of what she used to be was still there.

Chiron's brow furrowed as he voiced a single thought out loud, "How are you alive?"

He looked back at the screen as the footage continued — the spirits vanishing, the rogue sorcerer crashing into the fountain, the young woman walking across water like it was stone. And then the final flicker of red light as she disappeared into thin air.

No disguise. No fear. Whoever she was… she didn't seem to care who saw her. That made her only more intriguing in Chiron's eyes. He turned back to the file. He reached for his pen and — with the same firm hand that had written it twice already — scribbled at the bottom of the final page:

Metahuman status confirmed.

He set Hazel Levesque's file neatly beside Jason's, Leo's, and Percy's. That now made four young, powerful metahumans. All wildly different. All possibly connected by fate, coincidence — or something larger. Whatever the case, it was only building towards Chiron's goal.

And there were still three other files to look through.