"Cecil, I know you can hear me."
Nolan's voice was calm, steady, but carried the unmistakable weight of a threat. He stood in the open air, the breeze barely rustling his clothes. One hand rested at his side, holding a small communicator, while the other raised a robotic eye, its lens blinking with life. Nolan stared into it, unfazed.
His posture was relaxed, almost casual, but every line of his body radiated intent. There was no doubt in his tone. Just finality.
"You have five seconds."
Then, silence.
Cecil stiffened on the other end, eyes narrowing at the live feed just before it cut to black.
No panic. No theatrics. Just a sharp order to the technicians around him:
"Evacuate. Everyone."
He didn't say why.
He didn't have to.
_ _ ♛ _ _
The base in Utah was built to withstand anything—anything human.
But Nolan Grayson was not human.
Above the desert, he hovered silently, eyes scanning the canyons below. The countdown was over. He gave them exactly one minute. No more.
Then he dropped.
The air cracked with a sonic boom as he fell from the sky like a meteor, smashing into the reinforced entrance with a thunderous impact that registered on seismographs across three states. The earth quaked. Concrete buckled. Steel screamed.
And then it all gave way.
He punched through the first bulkhead like it was rice paper, sending twisted metal cartwheeling down the hall. Soldiers rushed forward. Guns raised. Tranquilizers. Shock rounds. Energy weapons. They screamed warnings, fired—
Nolan was already on them.
He moved like a phantom, faster than thought, fists turning bone and armor into paste. One punch caved in the corridor wall and three men with it. Another strike sent a reinforced blast door careening down the hall like a battering ram, crushing everything in its path.
No hesitation. No mercy.
Alarms wailed. Automatic lockdown initiated. Gas lines ruptured as containment fields shorted out. Flames bloomed—but Nolan simply walked through the inferno, untouched.
There were no clever powers.
Just brute, unstoppable force.
He tore the mainframe out of the wall, hurling it through the ceiling. He drove his shoulder into a structural pillar, collapsing an entire support wing behind him. Hallways crumbled. A wave of smoke and debris swallowed fleeing agents.
Nolan didn't slow.
He struck pressure points in the architecture that only he, with his battlefield precision, would recognize. Load-bearing walls. Core supports. The spine of the base cracked under the weight of his intent. Concrete ruptured like old bone.
By the time he reached the command sector, the ceiling was collapsing behind him. Flames chased his shadow. The base was screaming.
He didn't look back.
Outside, the first tremors hit. The ground split wide as the entire compound began to sink into itself, collapsing like a dying lung.
From a safe distance, helicopters lifted away. Cecil watched from a secure uplink, the screen flickering with seismic data, camera feeds, and then—static.
Nothing remained.
No wreckage.
No survivors.
Just a smouldering crater where a multi-billion-dollar facility used to be.
And high above it, in the silence that followed, Nolan hovered alone—arms folded, face unreadable.
He didn't smile.
He didn't speak.
He simply turned and flew away.
_ _ ♛ _ _
The house was still standing, but something beneath its walls had changed.
At the breakfast table, Mark pushed scrambled eggs around his plate, jaw tense. Nolan sat at the head, silently scrolling through news on his phone like he hadn't erased a military compound days ago. Debbie, ever composed, moved between the stove and counter, keeping her expression neutral—but her hands lingered too long on the coffee pot, her glances too frequent.
Stephen sat nearby, quiet, watching everyone play their parts. Nothing had been said about what happened in Utah. Not the crater. Not the screams. Not the silence that followed. But Stephen had no idea that a base in Utah was, settled in the air like dust after an explosion.
"What's the plan today?" Mark asked, eyes still locked on his food.
"Training," Nolan said, not looking up. "You're not where you need to be."
Mark gave a sharp exhale through his nose. "Right."
That was all. No argument. Just a quiet acceptance wrapped in frustration.
They flew miles beyond the city, into the open wilderness—somewhere no one could hear them, or get hurt if things went wrong.
Stephen touched down on a rocky plateau, the wind skimming across the empty landscape. Nolan stood a few yards ahead, arms folded, waiting. Mark landed behind him, already stretching out his shoulders, jaw clenched tight.
"Stephen," Nolan said, without turning, "watch for now. See how it's done."
Stephen didn't respond, just gave a small nod. It wasn't an order, just a simple instruction. It was the first time Nolan had included him in something like this—so he had to behave and pay close attention, as he is expected to understand.
Then Nolan moved.
No warm-up. No warning. Just impact.
Mark braced as his father rushed him. Their fists collided mid-air with a crack that echoed across the cliffs. Nolan didn't ease in—he pressed hard, chaining attacks that forced Mark into a scramble. There was no wasted movement, no hesitation. Just clean, punishing precision.
Mark caught a blow to the ribs and tumbled across the plateau. He rolled to his feet with a grunt, face tight with effort.
"Again," Nolan said.
Mark launched back in, faster now, every movement sharper, more focused. He'd gotten stronger—that much was clear—but Nolan was still a wall. Every strike was met. Every dodge was answered. Nothing Mark did seemed to catch him off guard.
Stephen watched from the edge, he could barely look, but with, arms crossed he forced himself to see the struggles his brother goes through every day.
This wasn't just about improving. Nolan was showing Mark the gap—between what he was, and what he needed to become.
And Mark was trying. Really trying. Every hit he took, he stood back up. Every failed move, he pushed harder. He wasn't getting praise. He wasn't getting reassured. But he didn't stop.
They trained for hours. Breaks were short and silent. Nolan only spoke when he needed to correct form, redirect an angle, adjust pressure.
Mark's shirt clung to his back, his breathing shallow and ragged. But his eyes stayed locked on Nolan, even when his body begged him to rest.
Stephen could see what this was. Nolan wasn't punishing Mark. He was preparing him—for something worse. And he wasn't using words to explain it. Just pressure.
Eventually, Nolan turned toward Stephen.
"Your turn."
Stephen stepped forward without a word, his stomach tightening. He'd never trained like this. Not with Nolan. Not under scrutiny like this. But there was no hesitation. He knew this moment was coming.
And Nolan didn't slow things down for him.
The hits were just as fast. The force behind them real. But Nolan's eyes studied him differently—measured, even curious. Stephen held his ground longer than Mark had. Dodged more, landed a few strikes of his own. But he could feel it: Nolan was watching for something. Not just ability. Not just power.
Intent to kill.
Later that night, after showers and dinner, the house fell quiet again.
Mark was passed out on the couch, an arm hanging off the side, one leg still twitching from overworked nerves. Debbie had retreated early, her door shut like always. Nolan sat in the dark of the living room, staring through the window, face blank.
Stephen stood alone on the roof, the night sky open and still above him.
He hovered a few feet into the air, letting the breeze curl under his arms. He was taking his time to do something quieter—an attempt to breathe.
He thought about Mark—about how hard he pushed today. How he didn't ask for praise. How he didn't complain. Which was different from his usual behaviour, normally when he achieves something he wants to be recognised for it, but during training, he was like a different person, Stephen could feel the weight on Mark's shoulders.
Stephen had held his own against Nolan. That should've meant something.
But it didn't feel like a win.
The world had changed again. But no one was talking about it. Not Debbie. Not Nolan, Not Mark. They carried on like nothing had happened. Like there wasn't probably thousands dead from his clash with the Viltrumite in the city, like there weren't many buried and crushed beneath miles of rock and ash.
Stephen hadn't seen the aftermath, after it happened.
But he felt it.
And some part of him still hoped none of it was real, for something, something was deeply wrong, as he…felt…no…guilt.
End of Chapter 36