Location: Fenwick District — Highway 17 — Moving Vehicles — Night
The rings shot forward.
Seven bands of pale light, their trajectories intertwining like the strands of a knot. They streaked through the air, their edges glowing, their paths intersecting with lethal precision. The air around them shimmered, distorting with the force of the energy they carried. The hum was low, resonant, vibrating in the teeth.
Marcus's hand moved.
Not fast. Not slow. Just there.
His palm rose—casual, almost lazy. His fingers spread. His eyes fixed on the incoming rings with something that looked like amusement. The corner of his mouth twitched upward.
The air around him shifted.
Not temperature—pressure. A weight that pressed against the space, that made the asphalt beneath the Charger tremble. The light around his hand distorted, bending, warping, twisting. The shadows in the car stretched, reaching toward the center of the vehicle.
A wave erupted from his palm.
Not wind. Something else. Something that moved like sandstorm, like the chaos of a desert swept up by forces that had no name. It was heat and grit and raw, untamed energy, all condensed into a single, devastating pulse. The air around it shimmered, distorting with the force of its passage.
The rings met the wave.
The impact sent a shockwave through the night—a crack that echoed off the buildings like a thunderclap. The pale light of the rings flickered, dimmed, then flared again. The wave pushed against them, pressing, grinding, eating.
The rings held.
For a moment.
Then they broke.
They scattered across the asphalt, their light fading, their momentum shattered.
---
II
Caleb's eyes widened.
"What the—"
His hands tightened on the steering wheel. The Charger swerved, its tires screaming against the asphalt. The shockwave from the collision had sent the car skidding across the road.
Marcus's voice was flat, almost bored.
"Be careful, idiot."
"You're going to get me killed."
Caleb's jaw tightened.
"Shut up."
"Just—"
"Just focus."
Marcus ignored him.
His eyes were fixed on the figure on the roof of the meat truck. His expression was unreadable—not angry, not amused. Just... present.
"A Vein frame," he said.
"Interesting."
"But wasteful."
"Your Shinkai—"
"—doesn't align with that frame."
"You can't exhibit its full capability."
"Which is a shame."
"Those of Aru'el are rather hard to come by in this era."
---
III
Lucian's eyes narrowed.
"Hey," he said.
"Aren't you that dimwit who always liked talking—"
"—but at the same time saying nothing at all?"
"What was his name?"
"Marcels?"
Marcus's expression shifted.
Not much. Just enough.
"If you mistake me for that simpleton weak insect—"
"—then you are mistaken."
"You can say I'm of the higher form."
---
IV
Elijah's voice cut through the earpiece.
"Lucian."
"What's happening?"
Lucian's voice was flat, controlled.
"I don't know."
"There's someone—"
"—someone who looks like that Marcel fellow."
"The one I killed."
Elijah's internal thoughts churned.
Marcels?
No.
Marcus.
The one I killed during Azaqor's hostage situation.
It can't be.
Can it?
Don't tell me—
—don't tell me Caleb has gone mad.
To allow his own son's body to be used like that.
Just for some vendetta.
Seriously.
It appears my past blunders are catching up to me.
His voice was sharp.
"Lucian."
"Use the surrounding itself against that Marcus fellow."
"Whatever he is—"
"—if what I'm thinking is right—"
"—you're not his match."
"You could even end up killed if you're not careful."
"Great."
"Just great."
"You're telling me this now?"
"Relax."
"You've experienced lots of bumpy rides."
"Why would another make you start shivering in your boots?"
"Because this one is different."
"They're all different."
"This one is more different."
"Just use the environment."
"Like a river that flows around a stone—"
"—don't try to break it."
"Use its own momentum against it."
"Got it."
---
V
The rings returned to Lucian's arm.
His eyes were fixed on Marcus, on the figure in the Dodge Charger, on the wave of heat and grit that had shattered his attack.
"Alright," he said.
"Let's try something else."
His hand moved.
The rings detached.
All seven of them.
They shot forward—not in a tangled formation, but in a spread. Each one aimed at a different point, a different angle, a different weakness.
Marcus's hand moved again.
The wave erupted once more.
Heat. Grit. Chaos.
The rings met the wave.
They didn't break.
They bent.
They curved around the wave, their trajectories shifting, their paths adapting. They were no longer attacking—they were probing. Searching for a gap, a weakness, a way through.
Marcus's expression shifted.
Not much. Just enough.
"Interesting."
"Very interesting."
---
VI
The chaos spilled into the streets.
Inside the coffee shop, the windows shattered. Shards of glass exploded inward, scattering across the floor like frozen rain. Customers screamed. Some dove for cover. Others froze, their eyes wide, their mouths open. A barista ducked behind the counter, her hands over her head.
"What the hell—"
"What the hell is that?"
"I don't know!"
"Get down!"
"Get down!"
---
VII
On the street, a skateboarder was filming.
His name was Jayden. He was seventeen, lean, with a mop of dyed-blue hair and a nose ring that glinted in the dim light. His skateboard was scuffed, its grip tape worn from months of practice. He was mid-trick—a kickflip off a curb—when the shockwave hit.
His board wobbled.
His arms pinwheeled.
He caught himself, stumbled, and looked up.
The sky was wrong.
Not the sky—the space between the buildings. The rings. The wave. The explosion of light and heat and chaos. It looked like something from a movie, something from a video game, something that couldn't possibly be real.
His hand moved to his helmet.
His fingers found the phone.
"What the—"
His voice was high, almost a squeak.
"Is that—"
"—is that CGI?"
"No way."
"That's real."
The comments scrolled across the screen like a river of panic.
"Bro, is that real?"
"What the hell am I looking at?"
"CGI for sure."
"No way it's CGI. Look at the cars."
"This is insane."
"Someone call the police."
"I'm already calling."
"This is live, right? This isn't a replay?"
"Check the time stamp. It's live."
"What the actual hell."
"This is some anime level stuff."
Jayden's hands were shaking.
"Guys," he said.
"This is real."
"This is seriously real."
"I'm not making this up."
"I swear."
---
VIII
Wilder was in his car.
The black spider car was parked at the side of the road, its engine idling. He was on his phone, scrolling through Vidflash, his thumb moving in lazy arcs across the screen.
"Gosh," he said.
His voice was loud, theatrical, the voice of someone who had never been told to be quiet.
"My parents are so nosy."
"Like, one time—"
"—I was in my room, busy doing my online gaming Livestream."
"And my mom comes knocking on my door."
"'Find a job,' she says."
"'Get a real life,' she says."
"So I showed her how gaming pays—"
"—like, literally, I showed her the numbers."
"Couple of grands a month."
"More than some lame nine-to-five job."
"Can you believe it?"
His friends nodded.
They were in the car with him—three of them, all in their early twenties, all glued to their phones.
"Yeah," one of them said.
"Yeah."
"She just doesn't get it."
"None of them do."
"They think we're wasting our lives."
"But we're the ones making money."
"We're the ones—"
Wilder's phone buzzed.
He looked down.
The Livestream.
The rings. The wave. The explosion of light and heat and chaos.
His eyes widened.
His jaw dropped.
"What the—"
His hands tightened on the phone.
"What the hell—"
He stared at the screen.
At the figure on the roof of the meat truck.
At the rings.
At the wave.
"No way," he said.
"No way."
"Is that—"
"—is that Lucian?"
His voice rose.
"What the hell is he doing?
---