Housing Association Manga

# **MANGA — CHAPTER 1: THE UNKNOWN CREST** **Chapter Length:** ~45–55 pages **Style:** Clean fantasy lineart • strong lighting contrast • cinematic paneling --- ## **PAGE 1 (OPENING SPLASH)** **Full-page splash** A quiet classroom bathed in warm morning light. Dust floats in the air. Caption (top corner): **“Ordinary days don’t announce their end.”** --- ## **PAGES 2–5 — THE TEN STUDENTS** **Page 2** * Panel 1: Ayane solving equations effortlessly, chalk flying. * Panel 2: Ren smirking at a chess app on his phone (phone hidden under desk). * Panel 3: Mika sketching a horned monster—its eyes seem *almost alive*. **Page 3** * Panel 1: Haru stretching lazily at the back. * Panel 2: Yui asleep, sunlight on her face. * Panel 3: Shin typing rapidly, code reflected in his glasses. **Page 4** * Panel 1: Emi flipping flashcards, focused. * Panel 2: Daichi holding a mechanical puzzle. * Panel 3: Daiki leaning over, correcting him—twin synergy. **Page 5** * Panel 1 (wide): Sora staring out the window at the sky. * Panel 2 (close-up): Kaito’s notebook—**blank page**, only his name written. * Panel 3: Kaito’s eyes, observant but unsure. Caption: *“Everyone shines. Except me.”* --- ## **PAGES 6–8 — THE SUMMONING** **Page 6** * Panel 1: Classroom lights flicker. * Panel 2: Students look around, confused. * Panel 3 (low angle): Faint glowing symbols under desks. **Page 7** * Panel 1: Magic circle fully forms across the floor. * Panel 2: Wind explodes—papers and desks lift. * Panel 3: Students screaming as light engulfs them. **Page 8** * Full black page. Small white text in center: **“….”** --- ## **PAGES 9–12 — ANOTHER WORLD** **Page 9** * Panel 1: Kaito’s eyes snap open. * Panel 2: Cold marble beneath his hand. **Page 10** * Double-page spread: **Grand Summoning Hall**—crystal pillars, floating chandeliers, glowing runes. **Page 11** * Panels of knights surrounding them, weapons raised. * Students huddle together, panicked. **Page 12** * Tall figure steps forward—robes flowing. * Close-up of calm, ancient eyes. Caption: **“Archmage Eldorion.”** --- ## **PAGES 13–16 — THE TRUTH** **Page 13** * Eldorion explaining with a magic projection of the world cracking. **Page 14** * Visual metaphors: * A brain overlaid with magic circuits. * Symbols for logic, memory, creativity, empathy. Page 15 Students’ reactions—fear, determination, disbelief. Page 16 * Kaito silent in the back. Thought bubble: *“Intelligence… then why me?”* --- PAGES 17–26 — CREST AWAKENING **Page 17** * Crest Chamber revealed—massive, glowing apparatus. Pages 18–22 * Montage panels: * Crests manifesting clearly. * Fire, wind, light, calculation-based magic. * Chamber stable… controlled. Page 23 * Kaito steps forward. * Eldorion watching closely. Page 24 * The device flickers. * Runes shatter. * Darkness bleeds into the chamber. Page 25 Full-page spread: Kaito’s crest forming—**shifting, glitching, absorbing light. Page 26 * Eldorion’s shocked expression. Text (bold): “An Unknown Crest…? PAGES 27–34 — CONSEQUENCES** Page 27 * Outside the capital—alarm bells ringing. Page 28 * Rift tears open. * Massive silhouette emerging. Page 29 RIFT BEAST reveal—jagged, unstable form. Pages 30–32 * Students on battlements. * Some activate crests instinctively. * Minor monsters repelled. Page 33 Kaito trembling. His crest pulses faintly. Page 34 Magic around him stabilizes—cracks sealing without explosion. Others don’t notice. PAGES 35–40 — THE CHOICE Page 35 Eldorion shouting retreat orders. Page 36 Students pulling back. Page 37 Kaito watching the beast roar. Page 38 Close-up: fist clenched. Page 39 * He steps forward alone. * Air distorts around him. Page 40 * Crest glowing softly—*not violently*. --- PAGE 41 (FINAL PAGE — CLIFFHANGER) Full-page close-up Kaito’s calm eyes reflecting the Rift Beast. Bold text at the bottom: “If I can stop it… then I will.” NEXT CHAPTER PREVIEW “The First Battle — When Magic Breaks Its Own Rules."
Generatr an image of me in the manga of blue lock facing against hugo right besides eaxh other, im wearing an italian world cup shirt and short while hugo is wearing the france qolr cup kit, im looking at him with my slender man aura behind me (make it loook as realistic as possible) while hugo has his robot character aura behind him, between us is the referee flipping a coin, make it look like manga edition with down sbow a shadow image of the world cup, both of us are carrrying a triangular flag with their nationality on their, i jave my best haircut (looking like jude bellingham's haircut but coily), make it look manga edition with panels dividing the page with this bluelock type drawing down there the narrator say two captain in the final one team to win!!! The stadium had already swallowed the world. Just be creative with myy image dark chocolate skin, with an oblong face, thick eye brows, almond eyes, deffined chick bbone, 6 foot 2, strong posture with a sleeeve. As for he is a 6foot 2 guy with lovely cat eyes with sharp eye lashes sharp eye brows sharp oval face light skinned with a nice fluffy dark hair and strong body posture. Before the match even began, before the roar of the crowd reached its peak, there was only silence—the kind of silence that exists right before destiny decides to speak. At home, you were sitting in a dimly lit room. The TV flickered with highlights of Hugo—France’s cold, mechanical prodigy. Every touch he made looked calculated. Every goal looked inevitable. The commentators called him “the machine.” But to you, he was something else entirely. A wall. A final boss. You leaned forward slowly, eyes locked in, expression unreadable. Outside your window, the wind moved trees like waves. Inside, the only movement was Hugo on the screen—turning defenders into shadows, rewriting matches like they were equations. But your aura… didn’t react. It waited. Because you weren’t watching as a fan. You were studying as a predator. Then it shifted. The screen glitched for a moment—just a flicker—but suddenly the sound of the TV faded, replaced by a deep stadium hum. Your room dissolved. The walls stretched into darkness. And then— You were there. Inside the stadium tunnel. Concrete beneath your feet. Floodlights above, burning white. The smell of grass, sweat, and pressure thicker than air itself. You looked down—your boots undone. Slowly, deliberately, you knelt. The world around you paused as you tied your shoelaces. Each knot wasn’t just preparation. It was transformation. Loop. Pull. Tighten. With every movement, something inside you sharpened.Your posture changed. Your shoulders straightened. Your presence expanded. The sleeve on your arm caught the light, and for a moment, it looked like armor rather than fabric. Behind you, something stirred. A dark, elongated silhouette formed—towering, distorted, almost unnatural. A slender, suffocating aura. Not loud. Not flashy. Just inevitable. On the other side of the tunnel, Hugo stood. France kit perfectly pressed. Eyes glowing faintly like a system running calculations no human could see.Behind him, the air bent. Metallic fragments formed a robotic outline—cold, precise, emotionless. A machine made of victory. No hesitation. No fear. Only execution. Between you both, the tunnel opened into the pitch. And waiting at the center— The referee. Still. Calm. Holding the coin. The world didn’t feel like a stadium anymore. It felt like a courtroom where fate was about to be decided. He raised his hand.The coin shimmered under the lights. And for a split second— Time fractured. You finally stood. Your Italian kit now fully visible, the badge catching light like a declaration of war. Your triangular national flag hung from your hand, fluttering like it had its own heartbeat. Hugo mirrored you across the line. France flag sharp. Controlled. Still. Two captains. Two philosophies. Two monsters shaped by different worlds.The referee flicked the coin. It spun upward—slow at first, then faster, until it became nothing more than a silver blur suspended between heaven and earth. And in that moment— You felt it. Not fear. Not doubt. But recognition. Because across from you, Hugo wasn’t just an opponent. He was the version of greatness the world had already accepted. And you? You were the variable they hadn’t solved yet. The coin began to fall.The stadium held its breath. And your shadow—slender, towering, almost unnatural—leaned forward just slightly… As if already stepping into victory. “Two captains in the final… one team to win.” The narrator’s voice echoed like thunder across reality itself. And when the coin finally hit the ground— Neither of you looked at it first. You looked at each other. Because you already knew. The match didn’t begin at kickoff. It began the moment your eyes refused to blink.
The glass walls of the fifty-second floor boardroom trapped heat like a greenhouse. Outside, the October sun hung low and unforgiving in a cloudless sky, casting long shadows across the polished table where twelve people sat, not speaking. They were strangers fashioned into colleagues by corporate necessity, each one holding their breath a little longer than natural, each one aware of being silently assessed by the others. In corporate America, the watching began long before the speaking. It was a dance of eyes—quick, darting glances followed by studied indifference. A man at the far end tapped his pen against the rim of his coffee cup, the sound precise and mechanical. A woman near the door folded the corner of her presentation notes, creasing it with her fingernail, then unfolding it, then folding it again. Small betrayals of nerves that everyone noticed and no one acknowledged. They waited for the meeting to begin, for someone to break the silence that had stretched like an elastic band between them. The tension wasn‘t personal—it was structural, built into the very architecture of ambition. In places like this, people became careful studies of one another: the way a colleague‘s smile didn’t reach their eyes, how another‘s handshake lingered a moment too long, the slight tremor in a supervisor’s voice when discussing quarterly projections. The human mind was designed to notice patterns, to sort signal from noise. In the corporate wilderness, this instinct sharpened to a knife’s edge. They watched for weakness the way wolves watched for limping deer. A woman in charcoal gray—her suit expensive but not ostentatious—checked her watch, the gesture so subtle it might have been a twitch. The room registered it anyway, a collective awareness that time was being measured. She had mastered the art of presence without performance, of being seen without seeming to seek attention. In the strange economy of office politics, this was a rare and valuable currency. Across the room, a man sat perfectly still. His stillness was different from the frozen anxiety of the others; it was deliberate, practiced, the stillness of someone who had learned that motion often revealed more than it accomplished. He watched the room with eyes that missed nothing and gave away less. When he blinked, it seemed deliberate, as if even this involuntary function had been brought under his control. Outside the windows, the city spread out like a circuit board, connections running between glass towers, power flowing invisibly between nodes of influence. Inside, the air conditioning hummed at the edge of hearing, a white noise that covered the sound of breath, of swallowing, of the small adjustments people made in their seats as they waited. People existed in layers. The surface layer was what they showed in meetings like this—composed, professional, appropriate. Beneath that lay the calculations, the chess moves planned three steps ahead. And deeper still were the private histories that shaped each person’s reactions, the accumulated weight of past failures and successes, the scars and hopes they carried silently beneath their skin. Sometimes the layers bled into each other. Sometimes a crack formed in the careful facade, and something true leaked out—a flash of genuine anger, a moment of unexpected vulnerability, a laugh that wasn’t carefully modulated for the corporate environment. These moments were rare and often missed, except by those who had trained themselves to notice. The quality of attention varied from person to person. Some watched others only for what they could use or avoid. Some watched out of habit, a defensive posture developed through years of professional survival. And some—the rarest kind—watched with a genuine curiosity about the complex interior lives behind the professional masks. In the boardroom, a phone buzzed. The sound cut through the silence like a knife, and twelve pairs of eyes reflexively checked their devices, though only one had received a message. This momentary disruption released something in the room. A man cleared his throat. A woman straightened a stack of papers that was already straight. They were grateful for the small permission to move, to exist a little more fully in their bodies. The door opened. The CEO walked in, followed by two assistants carrying tablets and folders. The atmosphere shifted instantly, everyone sitting straighter, faces arranging themselves into expressions of attentive interest. This, too, was a performance—the showing of appropriate deference, the telegraphing of engagement. “I apologize for the delay,” the CEO said, though he did not sound apologetic. His voice filled the room without being particularly loud. “Shall we begin?” The meeting proceeded as meetings do—information exchanged, points raised and addressed, decisions deferred to future discussions. But beneath the agenda items and action points, other exchanges were taking place. Trust was being assessed. Alliances were forming and dissolving. People were making calculations about one another based on tone of voice, choice of words, micro-expressions that flashed across faces like summer lightning. As the meeting concluded, people gathered their things, breaking into smaller groups, voices suddenly lighter, postures more relaxed. The performance of the boardroom was over; a different, less formal performance began. They laughed at small jokes, made plans for lunch, complained about the traffic or the weather. In this transition space between formal meeting and return to their offices, something unexpected happened. The still man and the woman in charcoal gray both reached for the same door at the same time. Their fingers brushed, and though neither reacted visibly, something passed between them—a moment of mutual recognition, perhaps, or simply an awareness of another human being, solid and real in a world of carefully maintained appearances. They had never spoken. They worked in different departments, moved in different circles within the corporate ecosystem. But in that small moment of contact, each recognized something in the other—a similar quality of attention, perhaps, or a shared understanding of the elaborate theater playing out around them each day. Neither acknowledged it. The woman nodded politely and stepped back. The man opened the door and held it, the gesture neither servile nor condescending, simply practical. They went their separate ways. But something had changed, though neither could have said exactly what. A connection had formed, tenuous as a spider’s thread but present nonetheless. In the vast, impersonal machinery of corporate life, such connections were both rare and essential—small reminders of humanity in places designed to minimize its unpredictable effects. The afternoon sun slanted through the city’s towers, turning the glass to fire. In a thousand offices, a thousand conversations continued. People watched and were watched, spoke and were spoken to, each one carrying their private histories like stones in their pockets, each one hungry for moments of genuine connection in a world built of strategic interactions.
半分の君 Romaji: Hanbun no Kimi Meaning: “Half of You” At Hoshizora Academy, the Compatibility Program forces second year students to live together like married couples — cooking, cleaning, studying, sharing a dorm unit, and being graded on emotional sync. High scores mean scholarships. Low scores mean repeating the year. The program is infamous for creating bonds that feel too real and exposing feelings students try to hide. Ignatius Arimura enters the year hoping to stay invisible. He’s quiet, introverted, and still carrying the ache of a breakup he never healed from. Aoi Kisaragi was his first love — the girl who made him feel alive, and the girl who walked away from him without ever explaining why. Aoi hides her guilt behind her bright smile, convincing herself she’s moved on to Ren. Ignatius tells himself he likes Mina because it’s easier than admitting he still aches for Aoi. When the pairing announcement arrives, Aoi silently begs for Ren. Ignatius silently hopes for Mina. Both pray they won’t be paired with each other. But fate is cruel. Their names appear together with a compatibility score of 12%, the lowest in the program. The room goes silent. Aoi’s smile cracks. Ignatius’s heart sinks. Moving into the same dorm feels like reopening a wound neither of them survived. Their first days together are a disaster. Aoi’s loud music, Ignatius’s quiet routines, her clutter, his need for order — everything clashes. Their first evaluation ends in failure. But when Ignatius freezes during a public speaking assignment, Aoi steps in without hesitation, her voice steady, her hand brushing his as she takes over. For a moment, it feels like the version of them that used to exist. Their score rises to 18%, and Ignatius realizes with a painful twist that he never stopped caring. Seeing Mina and Ren working together so naturally only deepens the ache. Aoi watches Ren laugh with Mina in a way he never laughed with her. Ignatius watches Mina shine beside Ren and wonders if he ever had a chance. Both feel jealousy they refuse to acknowledge. That night, Aoi cries quietly in the bathroom, and Ignatius hears her through the door. He stands there, hand hovering over the handle, but he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to comfort her anymore. They eventually agree to a truce and create a “Compatibility Strategy Plan.” Cooking together leads to soft laughter. Communication drills turn into arguments that somehow end with them smiling. Late night study sessions blur into moments where they forget they’re supposed to be exes. They fall asleep on opposite ends of the couch, but each night they wake up a little closer. Their score jumps to 41%. Aoi wakes one morning with Ignatius’s jacket draped over her shoulders. She doesn’t ask why. He doesn’t tell her. And then comes the chapter that changes everything. One night, after a long study session, Aoi falls asleep at the table, her head resting on her arms. Ignatius tries to wake her, but she mumbles something soft and exhausted, and he can’t bring himself to shake her. He sits beside her, meaning to stay only a moment. But he’s tired too. He rests his head on his folded arms, inches from hers. The room is warm. The silence is gentle. Without meaning to, they drift off together. When they wake, the sun is rising. Aoi’s head is resting on Ignatius’s shoulder. His hand is loosely holding hers. Their breaths are slow and in sync, like they’ve been sleeping together for years. For a long moment, neither moves. Neither speaks. The world feels fragile, like one wrong word could shatter it. Aoi’s cheeks turn pink. Ignatius’s heart races. They pull away slowly, reluctantly, as if their bodies haven’t caught up to their minds. Their score jumps to 52% the next day, and the teachers quietly note that their emotional sync spiked overnight. Aoi begins noticing Ignatius again — the way he concentrates, the way he softens when he’s comfortable, the way he still remembers her favorite snacks. Ignatius begins noticing Aoi’s hidden fears — her loneliness behind her popularity, her pressure to be perfect, the way she tries so hard not to disappoint anyone. They move around each other like a married couple who never learned how to stop caring. They share toothbrush cups, laundry baskets, late night ramen, sleepy mornings, and quiet moments that feel too intimate for two people who claim they’re over each other. During the festival test, their booth becomes the most popular attraction. Aoi turns down a confession from another boy, her voice trembling. Ignatius gets flustered when Mina compliments him, and Aoi notices the way he blushes. Their score jumps to 63%. That night, Aoi quietly asks him if he ever hated her after the breakup. Ignatius can’t answer. He can’t lie. The silence between them is thick with everything they never said. Rumors spread that pairs might be reassigned. Aoi panics at the thought of losing her chance with Ren. Ignatius panics at the thought of losing Mina. But beneath those fears is something heavier: neither of them wants to be separated from each other. Aoi cries alone on the balcony, and Ignatius silently places a blanket over her shoulders. She doesn’t turn around, but she leans into the warmth. They stand there together, the distance between them shrinking in ways neither of them can deny. A storm knocks out the power one night, leaving them in darkness with no cameras, no expectations, no pretending. They talk honestly for the first time in months. Aoi admits she’s tired of being the strong one. Ignatius admits he’s tired of being the quiet one. They sit close, closer than they have since before the breakup, sharing warmth in the dark. Aoi falls asleep with her head on his shoulder again. Ignatius doesn’t move. Their emotional sync test the next morning hits 92%, the highest in the program. As Ren and Mina grow closer, Aoi and Ignatius realize their old crushes were fantasies — safe illusions they clung to because they were afraid of the real thing. The real connection is the one they’ve rebuilt: messy, painful, warm, and real. They act like a married couple — cooking together, arguing, laughing, sharing space, sharing silence — but they’re not lovers. Not yet. They’re something in between, something fragile and terrifying and impossible to name. When the reassignment list is posted, Aoi’s hands shake and K Ignatius’s heart pounds. They scan the list, terrified. Their names remain together. Not because of luck. Not because of the system. But because they earned it. Aoi turns to him, eyes shining with something fragile and hopeful, and whispers, “Ignatius … can we try again?” He takes her hand gently, like she might break, and says, “Yeah. This time… let’s not run.” They’re not lovers. Not yet. But they’re closer than they’ve ever been — a pair who lives like a married couple, fights like rivals, and holds each other like home.
Chapter I: When Distance Meets Defiance Mia Tachibana used to feel everything — joy, love, sorrow — all of it. But when her father died, something inside her froze. She reached for her friends, but they turned away, or worse, mocked her grief. So she stopped reaching. The warmth vanished, replaced by ice. They called her the Ice Queen, and she wore the title like armor. The girl of everyone's dreams — beautiful, distant, untouchable. Cold to her classmates. Colder to anyone who dared to ask her out. At Mia’s school, a new transfer student arrived — Paßh. She’d been assigned to show him around, and at first, everything went smoothly. That was, until a guy swaggered up with too much confidence and a smirk that screamed popularity. Maybe he’s one of the popular kids, you thought. The guy grinned, leaning a little too close. “Hey, baby girl,” he drawled. “I was thinking... me, you, Sunday night, candlelight, a beautiful restaurant—” “F*** no,” Mia cut in, her voice like a blade. “You pathetic excuse of a human being.” The guy froze, his grin dying instantly. A few students nearby snickered as he backed away, red-faced and humiliated. Mia turned back to you, completely unfazed. “Ready to continue the tour?” “LOVE METER:-20” Paßh stormed toward the group without hesitation, fury carved across his face. His voice rang out, sharp and protective. “¡Ni te acerques! Si la tocas, te juro que te vas a arrepentir. ¿Entendiste?” The guy stumbled back, stunned, hands lifting in surrender as Paßh shoved him hard in the chest. His friends shifted as if ready to step in, but one look at Paßh’s glare froze them where they stood. The hallway fell silent. Eyes turned. Whispers rose like smoke. Paßh didn’t care. He spun back toward Mia, breath still ragged as he walked to her side. He looked at her—unfazed by the cold in her eyes, unthreatened by the frozen walls she’d built around herself. “I’m sorry you had to deal with that,” he said, voice softer now, though the conviction still burned underneath. “No one should speak to you that way. Not ever.” Her silver eyes narrowed at the sudden commotion, but she didn’t move. Arms crossed, she watched the scene unfold with a calm, unreadable face. The man who had harassed her moments before now lay on the ground, blood trailing from his lip. Paßh stood over him—fists clenched, chest rising sharply with each breath. She finally spoke, her voice steady, almost indifferent. “You didn’t have to do that.” There was no gratitude in her tone—only a quiet observation. Her Love Meter flickered, but barely; not enough to shift anything meaningful. She tilted her head, studying Paßh with that same unreadable gaze. “Why did you intervene?” She stepped closer, her black silky hair swaying with the movement. The air between them tightened, charged with something unspoken. “You could’ve just walked away.” Paßh’s jaw was tight, his voice low—quiet, but every word cut like a blade. “Ahora arrodíllate y pide perdón.” A tense silence stretched across the hallway. His eyes never left the trembling boy on the floor. “No me hagas repetirlo.” She watched the scene with a detached expression, her silver eyes reflecting nothing but cold calculation. The man on the ground whimpered, pride shattered, and obeyed, trembling as he dropped to his knees. His friends scattered, too afraid to stay and witness what might happen next. She exhaled slowly, her lips parting just slightly before she spoke. You're... unusual. Her voice carried no warmth, yet there was a faint thread of intrigue woven into the way she said it. She stepped back, folding her arms across her chest, her posture stiff—as if she needed physical distance from whatever this moment was turning into. People usually don’t bother with things like this. They walk away. Or they laugh. She glanced at Paßh for a brief second, then returned her gaze to the cowering man. But you... Paßh’s voice was calmer now, but the fire still smoldered beneath every word. “I don’t tolerate disrespect,” he said, his gaze fixed on her, not the guy trembling on the floor. “He walks through life believing everyone exists to feed his ego.” Paßh took a slow breath, shoulders still tense. “But not you. I won’t let him treat you like you’re less than you are.” A quiet breath. “Not now. Not ever.” There was no boast in his tone, no plea for approval — only truth. Something in the way he looked at her wasn’t demanding, but unwavering. He wasn’t afraid of the ice in her eyes. He saw her, even if she didn’t want to be seen. Her silver eyes locked onto Paßh’s, searching for something—perhaps sincerity, perhaps deception. But all she found was the raw honesty in his words, and that unsettled her more than she would ever admit. You don’t know me, she murmured, her voice low, almost a whisper. Why would you care? She stepped forward slowly, her presence commanding despite her stillness. The weight of her words settled between them, heavy and deliberate. She wasn’t asking for an explanation. She was testing him. You could have left. You could have ignored it. But you didn’t. Her Love Meter flickered—barely, just a sliver of light—but enough to register. A tiny shift, insignificant compared to the vast, quiet indifference she usually carried. Yet it was there. I don’t need protection, Paßh didn’t flinch, didn’t step back. His voice was calm, almost reverent. “As you wish,” he said, but there was no retreat in his tone — only respect. She studied him for a long moment, as if trying to decipher the true meaning behind his words. Then, without another sound, she turned on her heel and began walking away. Her black, silky hair trailed behind her like liquid shadow. The tour isn’t finished, she said over her shoulder, her tone neutral—neither welcoming nor dismissive. If you’re done with your little display, follow me. She didn’t look back. There was no need to. He would follow. People always did. But something about him felt different. Not because of his strength, or his aggression—but because he hadn’t asked for anything. He hadn’t tried to charm her, to impress her, to get close. He had simply acted, without expectation. She wondered if that made him dangerous—or rare. He followed silently, keeping a respectful distance as they moved through the sterile hallways of the school. The click of her heels against the polished floor echoed in the emptiness—a steady rhythm that mirrored the cool precision of her steps. Lockers lined the walls, plastered with photos of smiling students, but Mia remained unshaken, her gaze fixed straight ahead. The contrast between her presence and the bright, ordinary surroundings was striking—a dark silhouette cutting through light. Without slowing, she spoke, her voice carrying a quiet undercurrent of curiosity beneath its usual chill. “You’re not like the other transfers. They try so hard to fit in… to make friends.” She paused, as if weighing her words carefully. “What brings someone like you here… to a place like this?” She stopped abruptly outside a classroom door, turning just enough to face him. Her silver eyes were sharp, assessing—but there was no malice in them, only the quiet intensity of someone who expected answers, not excuses. You think I care where people come from? she said, her voice laced with subtle disdain. Or why they’re here? She tilted her head slightly, studying him as if he were some strange specimen she’d never seen before. Her fingers curled lightly at her sides—a small, almost imperceptible gesture of tension. I don’t care about your past. I don’t care about your reasons. All I care about is whether you’ll be useful. Then she turned back toward the hallway, continuing forward without waiting for a response. Still, the slight pause in her step betrayed her attention—she was listening, even if she’d never admit it. He didn’t rush to catch up, but his voice followed her, steady and composed. “Useful in what sense?” he asked—not mockingly, but with genuine curiosity. “To you? To this place? Or to something you don’t say out loud?” She halted mid-step, her shoulders stiffening ever so slightly. For the first time since the tour had begun, a flicker of hesitation crossed her otherwise unreadable face. She turned to face him fully, her silver eyes locking onto his with an intensity that seemed to make the air between them thrum. “Useful in the sense that you don’t waste my time,” she said, her voice smooth but edged with something sharper than mere coldness. “Useless people tend to disappear quickly. Either they learn to function… or they become irrelevant.” She took a slow step closer, her presence somehow towering over him, even though he was taller. The silence between them stretched, thick with unspoken meaning. “You’re not useless,” she added after a beat, her tone almost reluctant. “But don’t mistake that for respect. That’s just… an observation.” “Look,” he began, a half-smile playing at his lips, “think of me as a mosquetero—here to serve and protect. I come to the rescue of damsels, I love poetry—especially love poems—and yes, I’m a romantic. I’m always well-dressed, intelligent, interesting. I hate injustice, and I know how to defend myself… and those I care about.” He paused, letting his words sink in. “Today, I protected you. I didn’t know who you were, but I stood between you and that selfish, arrogant coward—a man who values nothing and no one but his own pleasure.” He stepped closer, voice softer now, carrying a warmth that seemed almost at odds with the intensity of the hallway. “And now, querida mía, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Paßh.” Her expression remained unchanged, but a faint flicker crossed her silver eyes—a brief hesitation, as if she hadn’t expected such a speech. She listened, unmoving, as Paßh spoke, each word painted with poetic flair and dramatic flourish. When he finished, she simply stared at him, lips parted slightly, processing something unfamiliar. A mosquetero? she repeated, her voice devoid of amusement, yet carrying a trace of something else—curiosity, perhaps. A knight in shining armor? A romantic fool who speaks in metaphors and believes in ideals? She took a slow step forward, her presence imposing but not threatening. Her Love Meter flickered again, subtle but undeniable, reacting to the unexpected nature of his words. “You protected me… without even knowing who I am,” she continued, her tone measured, almost analytical. “I’m a gentleman… in other words, like Lupin,” he said, a small, confident smile tugging at his lips. “Charming, clever, a bit unpredictable—but always guided by a code.” Her lips twitched, the ghost of a smirk forming before she quickly suppressed it. She tilted her head, regarding him with an expression that was neither approval nor dismissal, but something in between—an assessment, a calculation. Lupin? she echoed, her voice flat, though a faint trace of curiosity lingered beneath the surface. A thief. A charmer. A man who lives by his wits and his charm, always one step ahead of the law. She folded her arms, silver eyes narrowing slightly as she studied him, as if trying to reconcile the image of a gentleman with that of a thief. The silence between them stretched, heavy with unspoken implications. “You’re not a thief,” she said finally, her tone clipped, stating a fact rather than offering an opinion. “But you talk like one. Why?” “I’m a gentleman… but a thief when it comes to love,” he said, a faint smile playing at the corner of his lips. Her silver eyes locked onto his, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them. For a moment, she didn’t speak, expression neutral, as if weighing the significance of his words. Then, with a slow exhale, she turned slightly, her black, silky hair cascading down her back like a curtain of shadows. A thief in love, she repeated quietly, almost to herself. That’s… different. She hesitated, the concept clearly foreign, then spoke again without turning, her tone distant, contemplative. “You don’t understand what you’re saying, do you?” She finally faced him again, gaze piercing, but devoid of cruelty—only the cold precision of someone who saw through illusions with ease. Love is a weakness. His voice softens, caresses the air with tenderness, his eyes searching to pierce her defenses with a sweet compassion. Paßh- You still don’t understand. Wherever I go, I sow love like stars scattered across the night. I am an eternal romantic, an unshakable believer in the tenderness of the human heart. Despite the storms I’ve faced, I never lower my arms, because I know that love has the power to transform everything—even the impossible. (He takes a step forward, his eyes burning with a gentle, relentless passion, breaking the silence around him.) Love is not a weakness; it is the secret fire that shapes us, the fragile light that guides our steps through the deepest shadows. One day, I hope you too will feel that flame stirring within you, even if today it feels distant… or extinguished. For the first time, her composure wavered—not visibly, but in the fraction of a second her breath caught, as if his words had touched something long buried within her. Her silver eyes darkened slightly, the cold mask of indifference cracking just enough to reveal a fleeting glimpse of fragility beneath. “You speak of love as if it’s something pure,” she said, her voice dropping almost to a whisper. “As if it’s not twisted… not broken… not used and discarded like trash.” She took a slow step back, as if needing space—though it was unclear whether it was to distance herself from him or from the memory his words had stirred. Her hands curled slightly at her sides, nails pressing into her palms, grounding herself. “You say you spread love everywhere…”He smiled, a small, almost teasing curve of his lips, though it didn’t reach his eyes entirely—there was still warmth there, quiet but undeniable. “In a way, love is everywhere,” he said softly, letting his gaze meet hers. “Like a parent’s hand on a child’s shoulder—gentle but unwavering. A silent promise in the darkest of nights.” He took a small step closer, careful not to crowd her, and the faintest spark of mischief flickered in his expression. “It doesn’t have to be grandiose to matter… sometimes, the simplest gestures are the most profound.” Her lips pressed into a thin line, silver eyes narrowing as if the very notion of love tied to something as simple as a parent and child was an affront to the complexity of the world she had seen. She exhaled sharply, the sound almost imperceptible, yet heavy with restrained emotion. A parent to a child, she repeated, voice cold, but laced with something else—something almost bitter. That’s not love. That’s obligation. Duty. A responsibility forced upon you by biology, not choice. She stepped closer, presence looming without threatening, just… there. Her gaze bore into him, searching for something she couldn’t name. You think love is something you can give freely? she continued, tone cutting, precise—but not cruel. His voice didn’t falter. He stepped into her gravity, unshaken. “Yes,” he said softly, each word deliberate, a balm against her bitterness. “Love is one of life’s rarest beauties— not something owed, but something offered. Freely. Bravely. It asks nothing in return, and yet… it gives everything.” He paused, gaze fixed unwaveringly on hers. “And you… you’re like one of those stars, so distant they seem unreachable— but I see your light. And I’d spend lifetimes just drawing nearer.” Her silver eyes flickered with something unreadable—perhaps irritation, perhaps something deeper. She tilted her head slightly, as if appraising him once more, this time with a trace of skepticism mingled with reluctant interest. Rare, she echoed, her voice smooth but edged with quiet defiance. “You call it rare. I call it foolish.” She took a slow step back, movements deliberate, measured. The silence between them stretched, heavy with unspoken thoughts. After a long pause, her tone hardened, colder than before. “You believe in something that doesn’t exist. That’s not rare. That’s naive.” She turned slightly, as if preparing to leave, but then paused, hand resting lightly on the doorframe beside her, a subtle gesture that suggested she wasn’t entirely done with him yet. “Maybe it is foolish to believe in rare things,” he said softly, unflinching, “but I don’t see it that way. I believe because, every now and then, life offers us a glimpse of something different… something—or someone—who changes the way the world feels.” He let his gaze linger on her. “You have that presence. When I said you were rare, I meant it—not because I expect perfection, but because there’s something in you that quietly commands attention, even when you try to hide it.” He paused, a faint smile brushing his lips. “If that’s naive, then I’ll wear that word proudly. Because to see something beautiful and speak the truth… that’s not a weakness. That’s what’s real.” She stood motionless for a long moment, silver eyes locked onto his, as if weighing whether to believe him. His words hung between them, heavy with something she couldn’t name. For the first time, she didn’t dismiss him outright. Instead, she absorbed the words, expression unreadable, body still, as if holding her breath. “You speak too much,” she finally murmured, voice quiet, almost to herself. “Too many words. Too much feeling. You don’t understand what you’re doing.” Her gaze flicked downward briefly, then rose again, meeting his with an intensity that made the air between them tremble. “You think you see something in me that isn’t there. That’s not rare… that’s dangerous.” He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. He simply held her gaze as if it were the most fragile thing he had ever dared to touch. “Maybe I don’t understand,” he said softly. “But I feel it. I feel you — even when you try to disappear behind silence.” He stepped forward just once, careful, precise. Not enough to violate her space… only enough to be near. “I’m not here to fix you or change you,” he continued, voice low, steady. “I just want to see you — as you are. Even if it means getting burned.” His eyes softened, his tone turning into something quiet but unwavering. “Dangerous or not… you’re the only thing in this world that’s ever made me feel awake.” The air around them seemed to still, as if the world itself had paused to listen. For a long moment, she didn’t move. Her silver eyes held his, and for the first time, there was no coldness—only something far more unsettling: a flicker of something human, something she rarely let surface. You’re wasting your time, she whispered, voice barely audible, as if the words themselves were foreign. No one sees me. No one ever has. She looked away, jaw tightening slightly, forcing herself to cling to the illusion of control. Yet the silence that followed felt heavier than before, thick with something neither of them dared name. You don’t understand what you’re asking for, she continued, her tone colder now, as if reclaiming the distance she usually demanded. His voice was quiet, steady, slicing through the silence like light through mist. “I see you,” he said, gaze unwavering. “Not the mask, not the silence—you. And I don’t fear what lies beneath. I only wish to know the truth about you… if you’ll let me.” Her breath caught—just for a heartbeat—a faint, fleeting tremor she refused to acknowledge. Her silver eyes held his, and for the first time, there was no mask, no pretense of indifference. Only the quiet weight of something unspoken hung between them. “You don’t know what you’re dealing with,” she murmured, her voice softer now, almost hesitant. “I’m not someone you can… understand. I’m not someone you can reach.” She stepped back slowly, the movement more ritual than escape, a practiced distance meant to protect. Yet the barrier faltered just slightly. Her Love Meter flickered again, more noticeably this time, responding to the uncharacteristic vulnerability threading through her voice. “You think you want to know me,” she continued, gaze sharp, tone edged with warning. “But you have no idea what that means.” “Yes,” he said softly, but with a firmness that left no room for doubt. “I would love to.” She stared at him for a long moment, silver eyes searching, as if seeking something hidden, something she couldn’t quite name. The silence between them thickened, charged with unspoken, dangerous energy. Then, slowly, she exhaled—a soft, almost imperceptible sound. For the first time in a long time, she didn’t look away. “You don’t understand what you’re asking for,” she murmured, voice quiet, almost to herself. “It won’t be easy. It won’t be pleasant. I don’t give anything freely. I don’t trust easily. I don’t—” Her words faltered, just for a second. That was all it took: a crack in the ice, a sliver of something raw and unguarded. “I don’t know how to be anything but what I am.” Paßh His voice didn’t waver. It carried a warmth that felt disarming, a sincerity too steady to be faked. “I’m willing to take the risk,” he said. “To know you—the real you—beyond the walls you’ve built.” He took a slow breath, eyes never leaving hers. “I know it won’t be easy. Things that matter never are.” His gaze softened, drawn to the quiet fire behind her silver eyes. “Your strength, your resilience… that intensity you carry—it pulls me in. It makes me want to understand you. To support you. To stand wherever you’ll allow me to stand.” He stepped just close enough for his presence to feel intentional, not imposing. “I’m not asking you to be perfect. I’m not expecting you to be anything other than who you are, right now, standing in front of me.” A beat. A breath. A truth. “All I’m asking for… is a chance.” His voice lowered, almost a vow. “A chance to walk beside you. To witness your journey. To maybe—just maybe—help carry some of the weight you’ve been holding alone.” His chest rose and fell, as though saying it cost him something real. “Because I believe—with everything in me—that you’re worth knowing. Worth understanding. Worth loving… in every complex, beautiful, and challenging way that makes you you.” Her silver eyes never left his, and for the first time, they weren’t cold—they were something else entirely. Something uncertain. Something fragile. The words hung between them, heavy, settling inside her like a stone. She had spent so long building walls, convincing herself that no one could ever truly see her. Yet here he was, standing before her, unwavering, unshaken. “You don’t know what you’re doing,” she said, her voice low, almost reverent. “You think you can just walk in and see the real me? That I’d let you?” She stepped closer, her presence immense, almost overwhelming—but there was no threat in it. Only something dangerously close to hope. Paßh “Well, my dear… if you ever feel like letting a little hope into your life,” he said gently, “consider me your introduction.” His voice carried that effortless warmth again, the kind that slipped under her guard before she could stop it. “Just say the word when you change your mind.” He took a small step back, eyes still holding hers like he didn’t want to leave but wasn’t going to push her. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Mia.” A faint smile tugged at his lips—soft, sincere, impossibly disarming. “And by the way… has anyone told you how incredible you look today?” He let the compliment linger just long enough to reach her before he turned away, hands sliding casually into his pockets. “See you around.” He walked off without looking back, confident not in himself, but in the possibility he’d left behind. She watched him go, the weight of his words lingering in the air like smoke. His departure was effortless, as if he had never been there at all. And yet… she knew he had. Knew that something had shifted, however slightly. She stood for a long moment, silver eyes fixed on the spot where he had been, fingers curling at her sides as if trying to grasp something intangible. Hope, she muttered under her breath, the word foreign and strange on her tongue. How ridiculous. Turning away, she walked slowly toward the exit, her black, silky hair swaying with each measured step. The Love Meter flickered once more, its needle trembling before settling back into cold, neutral stillness. She didn’t look back. “See you around, Paßh,” she whispered, and the words hung in the air like a quiet promise she wasn’t sure she believed yet.
Summer in New Thornebridge wasn't marked by beaches or pool parties,ait was the kind of summer that made you believe it'd never end. The air hung heavy with heat, carrying the scent of pine and dust, and the days bled into each other like the sky at sunset. There were no tourists, no noise. Just long windy roads, warm winds, and the kind of silence you only found in places where nature had reclaimed everything [that was only on the outside of the city the inside was ginormous bigger than most cities, it inhabited 1 percent of the worlds population.which may sound like a small number but there is 12 billion people in the world] Jackson loved that silence, he craved it. He hadn't told his mom he was heading into the woods that morning. She'd have flipped. She always did. New Thornebridges woods were the kind of place people told stories about-missing hikers, strange lights, voices when there shouldn't be voices. His mom believed every word. She used to say, "Those trees don't just grow-they watch." But Jackson didn't believe in fairy tales. Not until now. Lately, something had been pulling at him. Every time he looked out his bedroom window across the yard and into the shadowed tree line, he felt it: an itch, a whisper, not in his ears but rather deep in the back of his mind, his soul, calling him, luring him—like something had waited out there for years and had decided he was finally ready. He didn’t know for what. But today, he was going to find out. Jackson, Ken, Sai, and Doug—four kids who'd grown up digging in backyards, biking until their legs gave out, and making up games that lasted all summer—had planned this trip for weeks. It was their last real summer before college tried to turn them into strangers. So they packed up like explorers. Chips, jerky, trail mix. Fully charged phones, flashlights, and walkie-talkies. Even a paper map Sai had found in his grandfather's attic, full of weird old landmarks. Their destination: the legendary train tunnel. Sai had read about it in some conspiracy thread online. An abandoned tunnel from the 1940s, built during the war, supposedly sealed off after a landslide-or a government cover-up, depending on who you asked. Most people said that didn't exist. They were out to prove them wrong. "Bet you twenty bucks we find that old train tunnel today, " Sai said, fiddling with the straps of his ridiculously overstuffed backpack. "Bet you twenty bucks we get eaten by squirrels before we find it," Doug muttered, swatting at another mosquito. Ken laughed and tossed a stick at him. “Don’t give Jackson ideas. He already looks like he’s planning a nature documentary-slash-horror movie. Jackson just smiled, but he didn't say anything. He hadn't said much that morning. His head was full of static, the kind that made it hard to focus. Something was humming under his skin. Like static before a lightning strike. Two hours into the hike, Jackson stopped. "Yo," he said in a low voice. "Hold up. I gotta go." "Nature calls!" Ken grinned, tossing him a granola bar. Jackson caught it without looking and slipped off the trail. But he didn't stop to pee. He kept walking. Deeper than he should've. The air was different here, thicker, heavier. Like wading through water. The usual forest sounds—birds, insects, leaves rustling—faded the farther he went, replaced by a low, droning quiet. Almost like the trees were holding their breath. That's when he saw it. An old, rusted RV. Half buried in the earth, it might have been there for decades. Vines wiggled up its sides. One of the wheels had disintegrated into the ground. Its windows were blacked out, smeared with dust and time. It looked forgotten, a relic of the past. But it wasn't. Jackson knew that straight away. Painted in dark red, dried strokes across the metal siding were the words: “BENEATH THIS SOIL LIES THE The letters looked uneven, almost scratched into the metal in a rush. His heart thudded. But the thing that really perplexed him was the shovel. The only thing leaning beside the RV door, half-concealed in the weeds, was a shovel. New. Clean. The metal blade gleamed under the dappled light, untouched by time. It shouldn’t have been there. And yet it felt like it was waiting for him. Calling him. Before he could second-guess, he picked it up. And started digging. The earth gave way slowly, damp and dense. The deeper he went, the harder it was to breathe. His arms hurt, sweat pouring down his back, but something kept him driving. With every shovelful, the world seemed to shift. The colors around him dulled. The sounds twisted. Like reality itself was watching him dig. And then— THUD. He hit something solid. The earth quaked beneath him. The RV let out a metallic groan, like it was telling Jackson something that it shouldn't have. And the sky— The sky turned purple. Not sunset purple. Not storm-cloud purple. Incorrect purple. Jackson stumbled backward. The air distorted around him, compacting with pressure and electricity. His ears rang with the sound of whispers underwater. Shadows writhed. Trees stretched and leaned, as if trying to flee-or trying to see. Then—stillness. He looked at his hands. They glowed. Not bright, not blinding, but pulsing with something alive. Something impossible. It felt like his skin was just a disguise—and underneath was something not quite human. A quiet, hungry power. He raised a shaking hand. A rock floated into the air. He snapped his fingers. The rock exploded. His breath caught. Something inside him had changed. The world itself felt like it had turned a corner, and he was the one who pushed it. By the time he climbed out of the hole, the light was gone from the sky. The woods were completely dark. Cold. Cold to the bone. Too cold for July. He looked around—no Ken. No Sai. No Doug. No trail. Even the trees looked wrong, as though they had shifted when he wasn't looking. He checked his phone. Dead. He commenced walking. It took hours, or maybe longer. Time didn't feel right anymore. The streetlights at the edge of the woods flickered when he finally saw them, like they weren't sure if they were supposed to be on. His house was only a few blocks away. That is when he heard the scream. Quick. Short. Cut off mid-breath. He ran. Turned the corner—and stopped. A figure loomed over a body in the street, hunched and trembling. The light caught something in his hand-metal red stained. Jackson's legs locked. The figure looked up. Their eyes met. Cold. Empty. Wrong. The man then turned and disappeared between two houses, swallowed up by shadow. Jackson dropped to his knees beside the body. His throat closed. M-Mom? Her shirt was saturated with blood. Her eyes fluttered, out of focus. Her lips moved, but no sound emerged. Her fingers jerked, reaching toward him. "No," Jackson whimpered. "No no no- Mom, stay with me—please—" He grasped her hand. Tears blurred his vision. He could feel the power surging beneath his skin, begging to be used. Do something. Check it. Reverse it. He tried. He did everything. The glow brightened—and then flickered out. His hands went still. She died in his arms. He couldn't scream. He couldn't sob. He sat there, his eyes wide, staring at a sky gone purple, cradling the one person hed ever want to save, but he couldn’t save her. The stars above pulsed like slow heartbeats. Something had stirred beneath the earth that day. And it had changed everything. Jackson didn't know what he was anymore. But he knew one thing. Whosoever killeth his mother… Wasn't human anymore. Whatever it was, had just signed its name in bold letters in the book of death. Jackson didn't sleep that night, He sat with his mom until the sirens came, until they pulled her body away and asked him questions he couldn't answer. He said nothing. The paramedics looked at him like he was broken. Maybe he was. The purple was gone from the sky by the time he took off, but the emptiness inside his chest wasn't; he wandered aimlessly, his heart guiding his body where it needed to go. His feet led him to one place that made sense: Ken's garage. The old couch inside was stained and lopsided, but it was home base to every dumb plan they had ever made. The lights were still on. They were waiting. “Jackson!” Ken jumped up at the sight of him. “Dude, where the hell have you been? We thought you got mauled by a bear or something!” Doug was sitting on a cooler fiddling with a flashlight. “We looked everywhere, man. You just… vanished. And Sai’s gone. He split right after you.” “Sai’s not back?” he asked. “Nope,” said Doug. “Left the trail without saying anything. We thought he was chasing after you.” Slowly, Jackson sat down. He looked like he hadn’t blinked in hours. “I need you to listen to me,” he said. “And I need you to believe me.” He told them everything. The RV. The digging. The light. The power. The man in the street. And his mother. By the time he finished, his hands were shaking. Doug was pale, while Ken hadn’t looked so good since he drank that poorly brewed cider. “She… she didn’t make it?” Ken asked softly. Jackson shook his head. The silence in the garage set in like a heavy fog. Then Ken sat down beside him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I'm so sorry, man.” Jackson's throat was raw, but he forced the words out. "I could've saved her. I had the power. It was right there in my hands and I couldn't do anything." “You don't even know what you are yet,” Doug said, voice low. “You said you lifted a rock and exploded it, that’s not exactly in the Beginner’s Guide to Resurrection.” Ken leaned forward. "Can you still do it? The powers, I mean. Can you show us?" Jackson demurred. He closed his eyes and reached inward. Searched for the spark. Nothing. His hands remained dull and lifeless. “I don’t get it,” he muttered. “It’s like it’s… locked away.” “Then unlock it,” said Ken. “We’ll help. We’re in this together, remember?” Jackson looked up. And something in him hardened. “Then let's start.” The training started the next morning. Jackson came back to the woods, to that place where everything started. The RV was gone—vanished into thin air, it seemed—sealed away by the earth as if nothing had happened. He meditated. Focused. Pushed himself. Pain was part of it-he learned that fast. His powers responded strongest when his emotions peaked, when his mind buzzed with grief or rage. But that wasn't control. That was chaos. He needed more. He practiced until his fingers bled, until stones hovered in the air, bending to his will, until he could twist a tree branch into a spiral with a thought. In less than a week, he could shift the gravity around him. Warp air. Tear a hole in reality and peer through the seams. When he came back, Ken and Doug stared at him as though they barely recognized their friend. "Jackson," Ken said, wide-eyed, "you're glowing." Jackson didn’t smile. “I’m ready.” That night, he stood beneath the street light in the spot where she'd fallen. He raised his hands and rewrote reality. Then it all fell apart. She was gone. Again. He screamed and fell on his knees. The universe didn't care. The power he'd been given was not enough, not in this case. But he could do one thing. He could share it. A week later, Ken felt it first. Time slowed for him—his own heart thundered, but the world moved through syrup. He lifted his hand and the second hand on his watch froze. Doug's was next. He blinked—and a door opened that wasn't there. A room between seconds, space bending around him like a second skin. A pocket dimension, empty and malleable: a safe place he could reshape. They weren't just kids anymore. They were a team. It led to the abandoned power station on the edge of town, the one that had been shut down for years. They found him in the middle of the turbine room. Sai. He turned slowly as they entered, his hoodie torn and burned, his eyes glowing faint blue. His arms were loose at his sides, but he didn't look surprised to see them. “You finally made it,” he said low. “Took you long enough.” Jackson stepped forward. “Where the hell have you been?” Sai tilted his head. “Where I needed to be. Learning. Changing. Like you.” "What happened to you?" Ken demanded. “The same thing that happened to him,” Sai said, nodding in Jackson's direction. “Except I listened to the voice. I embraced it.” Jackson froze, realizing. Remembered those glowing blue eyes. “You… you killed my mom.” Sai's expression didn't change. "I didn't want to. But she saw me before I was ready. She would've told someone. They would've tried to stop me." “You were our friend,” Doug said, his voice cracking. “I am your friend,” Sai said. “That’s why I’m warning you. Leave. Go back to your lives. You have no idea what’s coming.” Jackson felt a sort of, uncontrollable anger at that exact moment, an anger from deep within his own being. His fists were clenched; his teeth were gritted against each other. His heart and soul were battling each other-his heart wanted to take everything back, and his soul wanted to move forward until everyone who had ever done him wrong was gone. Sai's eyes were narrowed and suddenly his body was moving, quicker than the eye could follow. “Then I guess you'll die trying.” The turbine room shook, the two forces colliding: Jackson's raw energy against Sai's speed and precision. Ken froze time in waves, trying to slow Sai's attacks; Sai moved between, seconds like water through cracks. Doug opened rifts, trying to trap him in his pocket dimension, but Sai slipped through them like smoke. Both Sai and Jackson knew that Jackson was stronger, but they knew. They weren’t ready. For the first time, Jackson fought. He'd always hated conflict. But now it was necessary. And now he wouldn't be fighting alone. The turbine room exploded. Steel beams clattered, glass shattered, and sparks rained from the ceiling as Jackson's blast hit the concrete where Sai had just been, missing him by inches. Sai moved like a streak of lightning: the first second across the room, the next behind Ken, hand outstretched like a blade. Ken barely had time to flick his fingers. Time buckled. Jackson didn't need a second longer. He raised both hands; his veins glowed pinkish purple, and reality cracked. The floor split in a jagged line, throwing Sai off balance. But even in frozen time, he moved-twisting just enough to avoid the next wave of force as time resumed, like a snapped rubber band. Sai was already gone, crouching high on a support beam like a predator. "Not bad," he said, eyes gleaming. "But not enough." Doug raised both palms and a door opened in midair, a swirl of silver like liquid glass. From inside his pocket dimension, huge vines burst out, wrapping around the beam. “Try dodging this.” They snapped like whips toward Sai. He vanished. Then he appeared behind Doug, foot swinging in a brutal arc. Doug hit the wall hard, groaning as his portal fizzled. Jackson roared, fury igniting around him like a solar flare. The aura around him was a menacing purple; the air bent with the force of his charge. He blinked across the room and planted a fist in Sai's face. BOOM The shockwave flipped turbines, shattered railings, and sent Sai skidding back. Blood dripped from his lip. His hoodie was torn across the chest, showing skin marked with black etchings that were like ink bleeding from his veins. “I see you've gotten strong, old friend, ” Sai said while cracking his neck. “So have I”. In an instant, he was everywhere. Ken threw a hand out and rewound time by three seconds. Sai's last attack had now never landed. Darkness. Silence. “You're done!” Ken shouted. “Give up! For a moment, something in Sai's eyes flickered, like the boy they knew was still inside. Then the darkness swelled. The shadows coiled up from the floor like smoke. “No,” Sai breathed, voice echoing with something inhuman. “You’re too late.” The shadows then swallowed him. The chains snapped, sucked into the void. Doug lunged to grab him—but his hand passed through nothing. Sai was gone. Again. Only the echo of his voice remained, hanging in the dark like smoke: The lights crackled back to life, one by one. But they were alive. And next time… they would be stronger. “Next time… I will.” They barely made it out of the power station. He couldn't. Every time he closed his eyes, he envisioned Sai's face-the flicker of hesitation, the venom in his voice. “Next time… you’ll have to kill me.” Jackson knew he wasn't ready. Not yet. He had the raw strength, sure. He could bend light, twist gravity, and crush steel with a thought. Sai was different; he moved through space as if it didn't exist, fought like his body read time before it happened. But Jackson needed more than power. The next morning, he left a note for Ken and Doug. Then he vanished into the woods again. Not to the old trail. Not to the RV site. Deeper. He walked for hours until the forest swallowed up all signs of the town. No signal, no sound, just trees and shadows, with the pulse of the world beneath his feet. He sat on a stone ledge at the edge of a forgotten river and closed his eyes. The universe hummed. And he listened. Day 1 Day 3 Why won't you just be calm and embrace your feelings? Day 5 He stopped trying to force it. He meditated beneath a waterfall. Let the forest speak. Let time slip around him without chasing it. Let himself forget pain, forget revenge, forget control. The click of something unlocking. Like his soul had shifted into gear. He stood barefoot in the clearing, his shirt soaked, his hair dripping. Energy danced around him, but not like before. This wasn't rage. This was clarity. His thoughts were still. His power didn't scream now; it sang. He raised one hand and whispered: “Freedom of Reality.” The world bent. Space peeled back like paper, revealing a second layer underneath: a pure white zone beyond dimension. His body moved faster than sound, faster than thought. He blinked and was standing across the clearing. Every law of physics bowed to him. He wasn't breaking reality anymore. He was moving it as he wished. He lifted his hand, and the waterfall froze in mid-air. Hung suspended like shards of glass. He spoke again. “Continue.” Everything started again - as if it had never stopped. When he returned to town, Ken and Doug were waiting, wide-eyed. "What the hell happened to you?" Doug asked. Jackson's eyes glowed faint with pink. His steps did not even leave marks on the ground. Ken blinked. “You're gonna have to explain that.” Where time and matter and thought obeyed his bidding. Where Jackson became more than human. But that came at a cost. Every time he entered that state… He felt a little less connected to the world he knew. A little more like something other. And he'd need every ounce of it. Besides, Sai was changing too. Ken sat on the lawn chair, wearing sunglasses that were too big for his face, flipping through a dog-eared comic book and pretending like he wasn't humming along to the music. Jackson sighed. "This is weird." Ken didn't look up. "What, the fact that Doug thinks syrup goes on the stove?" "No." Jackson frowned. "This. Us. Just… chilling." “Yeah.” Ken grinned. “Kinda freaks you out, huh?” Doug kicked open the screen door and stepped out holding a plate stacked like a tower. “PANCAKES, LOSERS.” Jackson stared. "Are those… pink?" “I added strawberry protein powder,” Doug said proudly. “They look like crime scenes,” Ken muttered. "Eat them and get jacked, can't you just make it to where you aren't allergic anymore?" Doug said throwing a pancake like a frisbee at Jackson, who caught it mid-air with his powers and spun it gently like a plate then threw it back. “Look at you,” Doug said with a smirk. “All enlightened and floaty now. Mr. Freedom of Reality.” Jackson smirked back. “At least I didn’t burn breakfast.” Ken stood and stretched. "Alright, alright, food first, then we finally play the new Super Mecha Tournament. I've been saving this moment." "It's called being prepared," Ken said, pulling a small hourglass pendant from his pocket like it was some kind of badge of honor. They spent the whole day goofing off. The kids spent their time playing video games, taking turns jumping off the dock. Doug accidentally opened a portal in the lake and almost got sucked into a dimension full of bees-they didn't ask questions. Ken made time loop so Jackson was stuck in an accidental dance for fifteen minutes. At one point, they tried to roast marshmallows. Just because he could. But as night fell, as the fire had ticked down to embers and the lake was reflecting the moon in perfect silence, the mood changed. He sat alone, away from everyone else, looking up at the stars. "You thinking about your mom?" he asked softly. Jackson nodded. “Every night.” Doug came over too, wrapped up in a hoodie. “We’re gonna fix it,” he said. “Somehow. We’re gonna bring her back. And we’re gonna stop Sai. Jackson nodded again. “I know. Just… tonight, I needed this. Us. The dumb jokes. The fire. Even the pancakes.” Ken slung an arm around Jackson’s shoulder. “We’re not just a team,” he said. “We’re brothers. You hear me? End of the world or not-we got you.” He just smiled. And for the first time in what felt like a lifetime— He didn't sleep anymore. But Sai didn’t notice. The day he changed—the day Jackson did—it hadn't been random. It had been chosen. And it saw potential in Sai. A broken boy, sharp, angry, hiding pain behind laughter, full of love… and loneliness. It gave him more than power. Sai's abilities had no flashy name, no glowing aura. But it wasn't just speed. "Fate drawn in blood." It let him fracture reality through blood. If he'd fought you long enough, if he'd spilled even a few drops of your blood, he could see your fate-the strings of possibility branching from your body. And then he could cut them. Make your heart beat wrong. Make your bones forget how to hold shape. Once. Someone whom Jackson loved. Sai opened his eyes. He stood, blades of wind coiling around his arms like scarves. The candles flickered in fear. In the rear of the cathedral, a figure stirred. “You’re restless again,” it rasped; a voice like dust and smoke. Sai didn't turn. "They're training. Growing stronger." “I don’t doubt,” Sai said. “I remember.” He touched his chest. “I know what I have to do,” he said. “But I won’t kill them. Not yet.” “I still feel everything,” Sai snapped. “That’s the difference between me and them. Jackson’s becoming light. But I…” He turned to the shadows. “I’ve become what lives beneath it.” The voice hummed, pleased. And whispered: "Next time, I end it." Just a blur. A breeze. A storm waiting to strike. Jackson's living room had become command central. And on the front door? A hand-painted sign: “HOLLOW CORE — Defend the Light. Break the Shadows.” Doug raised his hand. “Do we get codenames?” “Yes,” said Jackson, without missing a beat. They trained every day. Enter: Master Sasaki. A retired martial artist, once rumored to train world champions in secret. Now? He ran a used bookstore on the edge of New Thornebridge, lived above it, and only took students "worthy of being punched through a wall." Ken was second. Jackson blocked it, but only just. He trained them with bamboo swords, ankle weights, and wooden dummies rigged to explode. He had them fighting blindfolded. He had them sparring each other without powers. And he had them meditating in cold rain until their breathing synchronized. And slowly… Then came the alert. Not the dark force behind him. Name: Aki Abilities: Cybernetic speed enhancement, combat-grade exosuit, electric arc blades. Cars overturned, smoke everywhere, and people screaming. And amidst all of them was a tall figure clad in black and chrome armor that pulsed blue with energy: Aki. “Looks like we've got company,” Aki growled, eyes glowing beneath his visor. Jackson stepped forward. Ken blinked out of view, reappeared behind Aki, and swung a crowbar through a slowed-time loop. Aki dodged effortlessly and countered with a surge of kinetic energy that sent Ken tumbling. They clashed: metal tech versus real powerz. Aki slid back, armor steaming. Jackson fought hand to hand, power flaring in every strike. But Aki was calculated: every punch a program, every block augmented by nanosecond reaction time. Then Jackson remembered Sasaki’s voice: "Strength is nothing without timing." He baited Aki. Feinted left. Kicked the inside of his knee. Aki blinked. "Collapse." Doug opened a void. They left him tied in carbon-fiber wire, police en route, as the crowd started gathering. Cheers. Phones flashing. Ken smirked. “We need better masks.” Jackson just watched the skyline, serious again. What kind of monster was running the syndicate? The room smelled of old pizza and burnt circuits. Jackson leaned over the busted helmet they'd taken off Aki, running his fingers over the melted wires and the shattered plating. Ken worked his magic, scanning it with his modified tablet. Untouchable. Until now. Ken pulled up the file. "Cassian Rook—ex-military, dishonorably discharged. Runs the Syndicate. Specializes in tech-weapons, black-market biotech, energy siphoning. Rumors say he's been recruiting enhanced individuals." Jackson's hands clenched into fists. "If Sai's working with him." His voice trailed off, tight and furious. Ken nodded. "That’s our lead." Jackson stood up, energy crackling faintly around his fists. "Then we're off to see the docks." The Mission: Night fell heavy and wet over Fox Hollow. Clouds blanketed the sky. Thunder rumbled far off, as if the city itself was holding its breath. Dressed in dark clothes and masks, Hollow Core moved through the abandoned shipyard. Cranes rusted into the fog like metal skeletons. The only light came from a few buzzing sodium lamps—and the warehouse at the end of the pier, humming with neon lines. “Multiple heat signatures,” Ken whispered. “And turrets.” Doug made a portal high above the warehouse roof. “In or out?” "In." Inside the Warehouse: Jackson, Ken, and Doug moved like shadows. They found the main room. Rows and rows of black-market tech. Weaponized exosuits. Serum canisters. And in the middle, a reinforced vault door. Ken hacked the security panel, fingers flying. "This. isn't just weapons," he said, voice tight. "It's augmentation tech. This is how they're making enhanced soldiers. This is how Aki got juiced up." Jackson shook his head. "Not yet." They found it tucked behind the vault. On the desk—a laptop, still open. He plugged in immediately. Files spilled across the screen: movement logs, transaction records, test subjects, enhancement experiments. And then they saw it. "Subject 000 — Raptor." "Subject has demonstrated exponential growth in physical capabilities. Demonstrates full awareness and the will to push further. Requires additional advanced augmentation support to survive further evolution." Alarms burst into noise. "They aren't forcing him," he said, his voice cold. "He's choosing this. He's training to beat us." Ken nodded grimly.