Don Javier stood in silence, his gaze locked on the water still churning from the impact.
The waves slowly began to settle.
Only Gwen's sobs still echoed around the pool.
"I'm going to kill you!" she screamed, her voice raw.
She thrashed in the guards' grip, soaked in gasoline, wrists bound, tears mixing with the droplets streaming from her dyed strands.
Don Javier didn't even look at her.
He kept staring at the pool's surface, at the platinum plate before his eyes. He had just shot his own son… the one wearing the pendant he'd given to the only woman he had ever truly loved.
He made a weary gesture with his hand.
"Get her out of here… clean her up. Then wait for my instructions."
The guards had no trouble dragging Gwen away as she stumbled, legs shaking.
"Argh… wait… Gregorio!" Javier called, his voice suddenly hoarse.
"Yes, boss?" replied a solid man with graying hair.
Don Javier shifted nervously, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.
"You stay with me. The rest of you, go."
"Got it, boss."
The guards took Gwen away, while Gregorio remained beside Javier, hands clasped behind his back, eyes on the pool.
Tears clouding her vision, Gwen kept her gaze fixed on Don Javier over her shoulder until the door shut. She was certain of one thing: one day, she would kill him.
They threw her into a tiled service room with no windows, lit only by a buzzing fluorescent tube.
A man in a black suit, sleeves rolled up, was already waiting for her, a high‑pressure hose in his hands.
"Ready for your luxury spa?" he sneered.
Before she could answer, an icy jet of water slammed into her chest.
The pressure hurled her against the wall, knocking the air from her lungs.
"Ggh…!"
Water streamed down her, washing away the gasoline, plastering her clothes to her skin. She tried to push herself up, blinking through the spray and coughing, but the man just lifted the hose like he was washing a car.
"Turn around, princess. Let's do this right," he laughed.
"What do you think the boss wants her for?" asked another thug, leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets.
"No idea, but after the mess in Los Angeles, it's clear we've got to be ready," said the guy with the hose. "She's gotta have some fire in her. Big change from his casino models."
Both of them snickered.
Gwen clenched her teeth.
Under the freezing water, something began to crackle deep inside her again. The familiar tingling of electricity climbed her arms, gathering in her fingers.
She felt the first tiny arcs forming at her nails.
She drew a breath.
Even if she was just a girl who had spent most of her life dematerialized in the web, she was still a survivor of the Zero Program. She was no less powerful than the others who had fought in the Battle of Los Angeles.
She could do this.
She would do this.
Gwen mustered her courage and pushed herself to her feet in one swift motion, eyes blazing with determination.
"You're going to regret this," she muttered.
She lunged at the man with the hose, gaze locked on him, ready to tear him apart.
The thug narrowed his eyes slightly as he watched her charge.
"Oh, here we go, she's rushing in," his colleague commented, amused.
"Relax," said the one with the hose.
He calmly adjusted his grip, twisted a notch on the metal handle, then squeezed the trigger.
The jet of water exploded.
Gwen was blown back like a scrap of paper, sliding across the tiles before slamming into the wall with a dull thud.
"Ouch," winced one of the thugs, miming the impact. "Ten out of ten for the flight."
Gwen groaned and tried to get up, trembling, soaked hair sticking to her face. She raised a hand, sparks flickering back to life at her fingertips.
"I… I can…" she gasped.
She leapt a second time.
"Round two," announced the guy with the hose, laughing.
He simply pressed the trigger again.
The jet caught her full on, pinning her to the floor, the water hammering down on her with a deafening roar.
"Looks like a puppy that's never seen a shower, seriously," the second thug said, laughing.
"That's a superhuman?" added the first. "Looks more like super zero combat experience to me."
They burst out laughing.
Gwen coughed, swallowed water, and tried to crawl, her knees slipping on the soaked tiles. Every time she managed to push herself up even a little, the jet came back, relentless, knocking her down to the same spot.
The scene was almost ridiculous.
Her, small but determined, charging again and again.
Them, barely winded, pushing her back with a simple squeeze of a trigger.
"See that? She's coming back," murmured the man against the wall. "Gotta admit, she doesn't quit."
"Yeah. Shame persistence doesn't replace brains," the other replied.
Another burst of laughter.
Gwen finally stayed sprawled on her back, panting, arms spread.
Water kept streaming over her face, dripping from her dyed strands. Her clothes were heavy, glued to her skin, making her shiver.
The electric arcs had faded.
Not because she had run out… but because she no longer dared to let them out.
If she had taken the time to train…
If she hadn't spent her life holed up inside the web, running from the real world, its eyes, its noise…
If she had faced her fears instead of hiding behind screens…
She knew it all too well.
She could have wiped out Don Javier and every last thug laughing at her.
But not here.
Not now.
She wasn't less powerful.
She was just… less prepared.
"That's enough for now," said the man with the hose. "The boss wants her alive, not in pieces."
"Shame, I was starting to get attached," the other replied with a grin.
They shared another laugh as they turned away to put the equipment back, as if this had all been just another day at work.
Lying on the floor, drenched, her face dripping, Gwen stared up at the flickering neon light on the ceiling. Shadows danced across the tiles.
She still had the power to fight.
She could feel it, deep down. The electricity lay in wait, ready to become a weapon again, ready to burn everything.
But in her head, something had snapped.
She had lost, mentally, any hope of escape.
"I have to get stronger…" she murmured to herself, so softly no one could hear.
Her fingers curled into a fist, water dripping from her palm.
A tiny spark cracked between her nails, then vanished into the puddle beneath her hand.
They put her in a small white room with no windows, in the hotel's basement.
The walls were bare.
No switch, no outlet, no device connected to any network. There was not even a light on.
"Can't see shit in here," Gwen grumbled.
The thug escorting her sighed, annoyed, and jerked his chin toward a few bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling.
"That's your thing, isn't it? Making sparks."
He gave her a practical, almost bored look, then slammed the door shut.
The bang echoed in the room for a long time.
A few days later, the lock creaked.
The door opened on another mafioso, who found her standing in the middle of the room, arms raised, focused. The bulbs were switching on and off one after another in sequence, like a little improvised light show.
"…What the hell are you doing?" the guy asked, one eyebrow raised.
The bulbs flickered a bit more, then steadied. Gwen lowered her hands.
"Training," she replied simply.
The thug shrugged.
"The boss wants to see you."
She nodded, heart tight, and stepped out of the room.
They led her down a carpeted hallway, far more luxurious than the basement, up to a pair of massive dark‑wood double doors.
"Don't move," ordered the guard in front of the door.
Gwen frowned.
"Why, what are you—"
She felt a sharp sting in her neck.
She spun around.
"Ow! What was that?"
The thug slipped the syringe back into his pocket.
"Just a precaution."
He knocked twice on the door, then opened it.
Don Javier's office overlooked the city.
Wide bay windows revealed the lights of Las Vegas, neon signs, glowing billboards, and tiny cars far below.
Don Javier sat in a leather armchair, a newspaper in hand.
He briefly lifted his eyes to Gwen, gave her a slow once‑over, then turned slightly and began to read out loud:
"'New evidence in the Zero case has been revealed. According to our information, several former subjects of this program are involved in the Los Angeles catastrophe. The city is struggling to recover from battles that seem to have come straight out of a fantasy work…'"
He paused, then shifted into a more theatrical tone.
"'…a massive beast, a young girl with silver hair making superhuman leaps, an instant storm and lightning appearing without clouds, causing a total blackout across Los Angeles.'"
He folded the paper slightly, turned his head toward Gwen, and repeated, emphasizing each word:
"Lightning appearing without clouds… and causing a total blackout in a city as massive as Los Angeles."
He glanced at his bodyguards one by one, mouth open in exaggerated astonishment, before closing it again with a mock‑shocked expression.
"You guys hearing this?"
A few muffled chuckles went around the room.
Don Javier set the paper down on the desk and laced his fingers.
"Hm. I'm guessing that was your doing… hm?"
Gwen stayed silent.
She stared him down, shoulders tense.
An amused smile curved Javier's lips.
"I'll take that as a yes."
He snapped the newspaper shut with a flick of his hand.
"Well, well… Looks like the world is about to change. We've got goddamn monsters, a guy walking on water, a girl holding up a whole building by herself…"
He stood up and took a few steps toward the window, watching the city.
"Hard to see my business thriving at this pace. The world is getting… how should I put it… a little too spectacular for my taste."
He turned back to her, pointing a finger in her direction.
"What I'm missing is… let's see… a super weapon to protect me from all the changes that are coming."
"I could blow you all to pieces right now if I wanted," Gwen shot back, eyes narrowed.
Don Javier looked left, then right, as if checking whether she was really talking to him, then stifled a laugh.
"Well then, go ahead," he declared, throwing his arms wide, theatrical.
In a heartbeat, every gun in the room swung toward Gwen.
A barrel even pressed cold and solid against her temple.
"I see, I see…" Don Javier said, amused. "You're… kind of a coward, aren't you? You talk and talk, but I'm still standing here."
He shrugged.
"It's okay to be a coward, you know? People say cowards live longer. What do you think?"
Gwen was shaking.
Not from the cold. Not because of the gun.
Because of the sentence still ringing in her mind: "I'm going to kill you."
She clenched her fists but didn't answer.
Don Javier snapped his fingers.
"Yeah, here's what we'll do…" he said, as if he'd just picked a dessert. "We're going to train you. For… let's say, four years."
He held up four fingers.
"I'm not just going to make you strong. I'm going to make you the strongest of them all."
He smiled like he was talking about a promising investment.
"So. Deal?"
Gwen slowly lifted her chin.
"That way I'll be able to kill you," she said, a cold smile tugging at her lips.
The guards traded glances, half amused, half uneasy.
Don Javier burst out laughing.
"Oh, you think so? You remember that little shot you got earlier?"
He tapped his own chest, right over his heart.
"If my heart stops… boom. No more head."
He flicked his hand, miming an explosion at his temple.
"You get the idea. No need for a diagram."
His smile thinned.
"So. Deal?"
Silence.
Gwen could feel her heart pounding. The hatred. The fear. The memory of Leo falling into the pool.
"…Deal," she said at last.
"Figo!" Don Javier replied with a wide grin, as if they'd just signed a sponsorship deal.
The four years that followed were long.
Hellish.
Gwen was trained, broken, rebuilt. They pushed her up against her fears, her physical limits, her own lightning. They forced her to control, to store, to unleash, to start again until she collapsed. Every scar on her body, every ache, every sleepless night carried a single name: vengeance.
She was eighteen now.
And in all those years, she had never lost sight of her goal: to avenge the death of the one she loved. The one who had been her light when she was lost.
Don Javier stood facing the hotel window, staring at the horizon, a glass in hand.
A chronic cough shook his chest. He set the glass down and took a moment to catch his breath.
Behind him, a 1.93‑meter‑tall figure stood at attention. A massive silhouette, dreadlocks falling over broad shoulders, eyes hard.
"Well, well… looks like it's almost time for the succession," Javier said, amused.
Silence.
"Still not much of a talker, huh… Leo."
To be continued.