A dim room bathed in soft, silver-blue light.
The air was still, but heavy—with memory, with power, with something old stirring.
At the center stood four figures.
Four faces.
One origin.
Tyler Foster.
The original. The architect.
Solarius.
The light-bearer. The leader of HOPE. Created to be the ideal, the beacon.
Richard.
The mind's anchor. Calm, precise. The weapon sealed in flesh.
Crow.
The broken. The feared. The villain. The soul bent by grief.
All of them… born from Tyler.
Now, after years of walking separate paths, they stood together again—at a table etched with a map of the world.
And the next move was about to be made.
Crow scoffed, folding his arms, his coat billowing behind him like a storm cloud.
"Tsk. Solarius."
Solarius's jade-green eyes lifted coolly.
"Adam Frost."
Crow's eyes sharpened.
A flicker of emotion. A wound reopened.
"Don't call me that," he said through clenched teeth.
"Call me Crow."
