Chapter 37 - Chapter 37 — Empty Abyss

February 26, 2015 — Thursday — Hayes Estate — 8:22 PM

Claire knocked twice, lightly.

"Are you okay? You haven't left your room since they confiscated your phone," said Claire.

Kiana opened the door, eyes puffy, and just nodded. She stepped back without speaking; Claire came in and closed the door carefully. They sat side by side on the edge of the bed.

"Claire, without my mom here, I've always looked up to you… Can I ask you something?" said Kiana, gaze lowered.

"You can," said Claire.

"How did you come here? And how did you meet Mirage to recommend me to the Young Team and all that? I remember you with me since forever," said Kiana.

Claire sighed; a small, nostalgic smile touched her face. "Well… our parents knew each other since I was little. When you were born, I was sixteen. So even before I worked here, I already came with my dad to see you whenever he passed through this city."

Kiana shifted on the bed, attentive.

"I always wanted to be a cop like my dad," said Claire. "When I turned eighteen, I joined the academy. That's where I met Mirage—of course, back then she used her real name. Two years older than me, and every instructor respected her. I got curious: why was someone so young already above so many people?" said Claire.

"Honestly, hard to believe," said Kiana, raising her eyebrows.

"I asked her directly. We became friends fast. She told me she'd been doing special missions since very young and was passing through because of a job," Claire said tucking hair behind her ear as she chased the thread of memory. "When I was twenty-one, I joined the police. My dad wanted me to be a princess at home; he freaked out when he saw me in uniform. He wanted me to quit everything. I said no."

"So why did you leave and come work here?"

"Less than half a year later… your mother passed away," said Claire, voice dropping. "Your father fell apart. My dad and I started coming every day. He wanted someone to look after you, someone he trusted—and since you got along with me, he made me an offer. There were a lot of zeros on that contract… and I already loved taking care of you. I decided it wasn't something I could refuse."

Kiana smiled and hugged her tightly. "Thank you for staying."

"Listen," She said, holding Kiana's shoulders and pulling back just enough to look her in the eyes, "all these years have let me save enough to retire if I wanted. Don't worry about me when you make your decision, okay? I see you as a little sister. Whatever you choose, I'll back you."

Kiana's eyes watered again. "You've always been here."

Claire nodded, stood, and pulled a VHS tape from her bag, the label old and her mother's name scribbled on it. She held it out. "Here."

"What's this?"

"Your father was watching it today before his flight—in that room that looks like a museum."

Claire let a lighter tone slip at the end to ease the weight in the air. "I think you should watch it."

Kiana held the tape carefully, as if it might break.

"Thank you."

"If you need me, I'm outside."

Kiana crossed the hall to the relic room, rolled out the cart with the VCR, blew dust off the panel, and slid in the tape. She pressed play.

The image flickered before settling. A living room lit by morning sun. A four-year-old girl ran across the frame—herself, tiny. Her mother appeared in the background, young and beautiful, sitting on the rug with open arms.

"What are you going to be when you grow up, sweetheart?" her mother asked.

"I'll be an actress," said little Kiana, hand to chin, serious for a beat before tumbling on. "You already are a heroine, right, mommy? You already protect daddy and everyone. I'll be an actress then," said little Kiana.

Her mother laughed and pressed her forehead to hers.

"Deal. I'll protect you too. Make movies and get really famous. I'll be waiting for it."

Little Kiana flashed a huge smile, gave a crooked thumbs-up, and windmilled her arms until she toppled onto her back, giggling. Her father stepped into frame just then, laughing as well. He kissed his wife's forehead, hugged them both—and the tape hissed for a second as another voice popped up: "Ew, gross! A kiss?" said her brother, turning the camera toward his own face and freezing the frame.

Kiana pressed a hand to her mouth.

Her legs went weak and she sat on the floor right there, in front of the TV. Tears came all at once, hot and silent, until they broke into sobs.

"I'm sorry, mom," whispered Kiana, voiceless.

February 27, 2015 — Friday — Grayson House — 12:50 PM

The sky hung dark; clouds felt like the prelude of what was coming, the light thinned as if the afternoon had aged early. Kai tossed his backpack by the couch and sank into the cushions, staring at the ceiling.

What is happening? Two days she didn't go to school. Then guards all over the mansion. They didn't let me in and, finally, surveillance. Impossible to reach her by flying unseen. "I'm losing my phone for a while, I'll call as soon as I can. I love you."

I love you… and silence after.

Kai covered his eyes with his hands, thinking.

His phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

"It's Kiana. I'm using Claire's phone. We need to talk. It has to be today at 2 PM. I'll come to your house."

'We need to talk.' In another life, those words were a trigger. Now, he held his breath for a second.

Ah, damn… I know how this ends.

Kiana on that rooftop flashed in his mind—eyes to eyes, saying they were infinite.

Not this time, right?

An hour passed slowly. At 1:58 PM, a black sedan pulled up to the curb. Claire glanced at Kiana in the back seat; the window reflected a face firm on the outside and tired within.

"Be quick. I convinced your father, but if it's what you intend, we can't take long. Are you sure?" asked Claire.

"I am," She said, pressing her fingers once like sealing a private vow, trying to seem steady while the shadow she carried weighed more than grief. "At least now… with all this, his parents can't know about him, not yet. I know my father would do what he said. And Korea… it's what I promised my mom."

She stepped out. The door's thud announced her arrival. Kai opened before the bell rang and saw her standing a few steps from the porch.

"Aren't you coming in? Mark isn't home yet," said Kai.

Kiana shook her head, eyes on the ground.

He walked a few steps closer. "Is everything—" said Kai.

"Let's take a break," Kiana said.

The cold wind cut through the empty street. For a second, Kai's body obeyed old memories—a pause, a blank—and then he came back to himself.

"I can see it in you," he said quietly. "This doesn't sound like something you want. And that 'break' thing doesn't work. So no."

She kept her chin set, eyes dodging his. "I'm leaving for Korea. I won't be a hero anymore."

"That's fine," he answered, stepping closer, trying to take her hand. "I can get there fast, you know that. I can see you every day."

Water shone in her eyes. Her hand stayed in his for a second that stretched too long. If I stay… my father…

Her heart raced. She only wanted to say I love you and hug him… but if she did, she wouldn't be able to go through with it. She drew a breath, let it out slowly, and slipped her hand free.

"I'll help you. With whatever. But saying you want a break makes no sense. We were fine two days ago. What aren't you telling me?"

Her chest clenched. The world blurred at the edges. One step back—enough to hurt—the last line of defense before giving in and embracing him.

"Let's end it. I don't want to be with you anymore."

The words landed like an old weight. Inside, something shut off—a reflex burned in by another life, echo of stacked losses. Again. Again. Until nothing's left. He stood there, unmoving beneath the darkening sky, while Kiana stepped back, turned, and climbed into the car.

The door closed. The sedan pulled away.

The first drop burst on the sidewalk. Then another. Minutes later, rain thickened—smooth, cold—filling the silence with a steady hiss.

Should I cry now?

The cold water ran down his face, masking any sign of tears.

Should I feel bad… In the other life, I fell apart. When it happened again and again, too… until that point.

The hiss of the rain grew louder, a constant, indifferent noise.

Kiana was the perfect match for me, better than everything I had before. And even so… I don't feel anything now.

He stood there, hair plastered, shirt heavy with rain, fingers loose at his sides.

Maybe each time it gets easier… easier until nothing's left.

He raised his eyes to the low sky.

For an instant, the rain split along the invisible line of motion. No suit, no mask—just the body that had finally owned what it was—Kai shot upward, a streak cutting the cloud ceiling, and vanished.

He flew for long minutes until only ocean lay beneath. Wind hammered; water repeated in every direction. No reference point. No sound beyond his own passage cutting the air.

Nothing.

Emptiness.

Feeling empty was worse than feeling bad. The Six Eyes kept running on their own, sweeping the horizon, measuring distances, densities, currents… and finding only water.

He stopped in midair and looked down.

In my past life, I'd have chills here. "What hides in the depths?"

Now… nothing.

He knifed downward. Water closed over him and the light died in layers. The plan was simple: dive until he felt something or until he ran out of air.

Neither happened. A Viltrumite body could hold its breath for weeks—he just didn't know yet. And the dark around him didn't scare at all.

Just me and the dark. Both saying the same thing.

He drove along the bottom, pushing water. A school of dozens of sharks crossed his path. Kai opened his arms and slid among them, slow, close.

He knew they couldn't hurt him.

Ironically, they knew it too. None attacked—an old instinct recognized a greater predator.

Kai looked at his own hands in the dark, read by the Six Eyes.

Even among the school, no shiver, no discomfort, no hint of losing breath. He floated in the water without even knowing what he was searching for.

What he'd long given up on resurfaced.

What if… now?

He extended an arm; a red spark flickered in the ocean's dark—and vanished as fast as it formed.

Nothing changed.

The glow drew attention. The largest shark came straight in. The mouth opened, body bowed for the strike. Kai raised his hand and, without turning, simply palmed sideways. The impact wrenched the animal into a sharp spin; flesh, bone, and teeth blew apart into a red cloud only the Six Eyes could see.

Blood spread like ink in the void. The others surged.

Kai went to meet them.

There was no anger; if anger existed, it got lost inside him. There was only movement. Clean posture, cuts through water, limbs like cold levers. One, two, five—broken bites checked by counters, skulls split by short taps, spines bent like wire. When he noticed, about eighteen floated in silence, and the rest fled in snapping tails, disappearing into black.

He still felt nothing.

He dropped lower, propelling himself into deeper dark. The blue had died meters before the shark school; still, he sank. Cold grew dense. He stopped where light would never reach, already knowing nothing would change.

The Six Eyes saw it first: something huge approached, unhurried—a shadow with a creature's outline that didn't fit a name: abyssal fish, leviathan, whatever.

It came until Kai turned slowly; they regarded each other—black eyes into his blue.

Five seconds too long.

Then it turned away and vanished, sinking deeper.

It left Kai behind, suspended in an immensity whose pressure would crush submarines.

Ironic, isn't it? I'm the abyss that stared back, thought Kai, a short smile matching the realization in the sea's emptiness: an abyss larger than the depths themselves.

He rose in a calm line to the surface and floated, letting the current drift him a few meters. Head tilted, eyes on the low sky.

I should be feeling something now.

Anything.

Memories of the other life came on their own, trying to fill the void. Streets, voices, smells of a city that didn't exist here… or did it? The question grew slowly, taking the space pain didn't.

"I never stopped to think about it, but the Chicago here is practically the same as the Chicago from before," said Kai, low, to no one. "What if other cities are the same too? And if… people from there… maybe even the me from before… exist here?"

The thought hit and stayed. It wasn't comfort. It was a vector—something that wanted to feel.

He drew a deep breath. If this is the universe's joke, I want the punchline.

Kai closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them, the Six Eyes sharpened their reading of the world, sketching the wind's orientation above the waterline. He lifted slowly, broke the surface with his whole body, and hovered.

The water column in his wake shattered into fine droplets. He shot in a straight line, leaving behind the sea's quiet void and taking the only thing that still resembled a feeling: the need to know—camouflaging the grief of losing the one he loved and not knowing how to feel, or how to fight for it.

The voice from his past life repeated, clear as a verdict:

You always knew it would end like this.

February 28, 2015 — Saturday — Seoul, South Korea — 9:00 PM (UTC+9)

The glass of the automatic doors reflected the neon city when Kiana crossed the airport exit. Ian was already waiting.

"Welcome to Seoul," said Ian, pulling her into a firm hug.

"Thanks," she said, her voice hoarse with exhaustion, eyes still betrayed the night before.

Ian stepped back to study her. "Did you bring everything? Need anything right now?"

"Just… to get there," She drew a long breath.

Just get there and not think.

On the way to the car, one assistant carried her suitcase and another offered an envelope. Ian took it, slid out a new phone, and handed it to her.

"Your local number. Already activated," said Ian.

"Thanks," the answer, accompanied by a forced smile.

Ian's penthouse occupied two full floors atop a glass tower: a double-height living room, floor-to-ceiling windows, pale wood floors, a U-shaped stair to the private wing. Three suites, a studio, a balcony over the Han, an open kitchen with a marble island. And enough silence for her head.

"You'll take the back bedroom," he said pointing down the upper corridor. "There's a closet and a desk for study/scripts. If you need it, the team can install a simple home gym."

"This is fine," she said with a small nod.

Ian hesitated before broaching it. "The studio wants you there Monday morning. Marketing/production. 8:30. And… give it time, maybe Dad changes his mind later, but I'm glad you're here."

She went upstairs. Closed the door. Lay down. The new phone sat on the nightstand, face down.

The weekend passed that way—on both sides of the ocean. Kai stared at his ceiling an ocean away. Finding out whether this world had echoes of the other… was an excuse that didn't really matter. He stayed. She stayed. Only silence breathed.

March 2, 2015 — Monday — Seoul, Haneul Vision Studios — 8:30 AM (UTC+9)

The mirrored façade tossed back the pale sky; inside, people. Many. A gold carpet in the lobby, reception staff in a discreet line, her badge ready.

Other actresses watched her arrive and curled their lips, murmuring in Korean—variations on the theme that she'd only be cast because her father was a sponsor.

She walked straight, pretending she didn't understand, until the talent coordinator greeted her.

"Good morning, Ms. Hayes. It's an honor," said the coordinator in English.

"Good morning. You can speak normally—I'm fluent," said Kiana in Korean, tilting her head and winking lightly toward the nearby actresses.

A conference room: LED wall, citylight posters framing past projects, coffee at the perfect temperature. Directors, the head writer, two executive producers. Her beauty suspended the room for a second; her last name, for another. The rest was pragmatic.

"Since you're fluent, we want you as the lead for our new romance series," said the executive producer. "Final leads locked and a tight schedule. It has to air within two months."

"Alright," said Kiana, without hedging.

"We'll handle your social channels," said the head of marketing. "We'll restructure image and the posting calendar. We can archive or delete older content if you prefer."

"That's fine, but… don't delete," said Kiana.

"Perfect," the executive nodded. "We'll start with table-read photos this afternoon, styling tomorrow. Wardrobe fittings Wednesday. Camera tests Thursday. Friday: first rehearsal with your co-lead."

Kiana checked the thick script pushed across the table. She nodded once.

An assistant handed her a tabbed planner and an access card. "Any personal needs, tell me."

Kiana inclined her head, professional. "Thank you."

Outside, Seoul raced on. Inside, countdown clocks started, tighter than the pressure in Kiana's chest.

March 2, 2015 — Monday — Oakwood — 11:30 AM Chicago Time

Campus thrummed at lunch: voices, sneakers on concrete, the dry thump of a basketball on the court. Kai watched from the terrace rail. They asked about Kiana. He deflected.

"She absent again?" someone pressed.

"Is she sick?"

"Did you two break up?"

"She's handling family stuff," he answered—always the same.

In the next class, an open window reflected the city in broken panes. Work. Library. Messages. He ignored them all. The day slid by like water on glass.

Two days later, the air changed.

A new post on Kiana's social media. Four studio photos. Drama teaser. A press release in Korean and English. Kiana smiling, with no trace of the past—old photos, friends, Kai—everything scrubbed.

During a teacher swap, Kai stepped into the hall "to use the bathroom." He muted notifications, then muted people, ignored everyone in the corridors. He buried the phone deep in his backpack and kept walking. The noise didn't enter; it just ricocheted outside, like rain on bulletproof glass.

Brandon appeared ahead.

"I challenge you to a ranked match."

Kai didn't stop; he just cut him a quick, disdainful look.

"Come on, you gonna chicken out?" said Brandon.

"When you're the top of the school," said Kai—the first excuse that came to mind—without looking back.

In the days that followed, he simply stopped going to Oakwood. Quit the boxing club. Ignored the comms pinging for missions.

He still woke early, but he didn't catch the bus. He flew low between buildings, mapping neighborhoods like tracing an old atlas with a magnifying glass: West Loop, Wicker Park, Evanston, Hyde Park. Used bookstores, cafés with familiar names, corners that echoed curves from another life. At night, he returned to his room without turning on the light. He spread mental index cards: names, streets, dates.

An excuse to have a goal. A new way to be quiet.

No matter how much he searched, it didn't matter. No one from his past life existed here—and deep down, he already knew.

Even so… he kept looking.

Two Weeks Later — March 17, 2015 — Tuesday — Times Square, Manhattan — 5:30 PM Chicago Time

Wind cracked against LED panels and Broadway rose like far surf. Kai landed atop a billboard, backpack slung, watching the flow of people between 45th and 46th.

At some point I started thinking I belonged to this world. I don't. Not the old me, not the current me. Maybe even less now…

Memory flashed: sharks fleeing, then that creature in the ocean's void—meeting his eyes and leaving.

Even the abyss runs from me. What am I in this world?

Well, it all started with me saying I'd be the strongest…

His phone buzzed, cutting through.

"Yeah?" said Kai, not checking the screen.

"Kai, Viktor and Cassie are here again. Where are you? I thought you were with them," said Debbie on the line.

Kai pulled the device back and stared at his reflection in the glass panel.

"Damn."

He brought it back to his ear. "I'm close. I was heading home."

"Alright, we need to talk," said Debbie.

The call ended. Kai looked at the screen fading, pocketed the phone, and drew a steady breath. 'We need to talk.' That phrase kept stalking me.

He stepped off the billboard and vanished into the sky.

A Few Minutes Later — Grayson House

Kai touched down two blocks away, slipped into an alley, stowed Grey's mask and suit in his backpack, and pulled on the dark T-shirt he'd rolled up inside. Only then did he cross the street and climb the porch steps.

The handle turned. The smell of coffee and warm cake drifted from the kitchen. Cassie and Viktor were at the table, plates half-finished.

Kai dropped his backpack in the corner, ran a hand through his hair, and walked in wearing a weary half-smile. "What are you two doing here? Come to eat?"

Cassie blinked, scraped her chair back, stood, and closed the distance in decisive steps. She stopped half a meter away, bit her lip, then hugged him for real, arms tight across his back.

"Dude, were you hiding at home?" said Viktor from the chair, speaking around a mouth half full.

Debbie appeared in the doorway, drying her hands on a dish towel. She walked to Kai and pulled him into a long hug, her chin touching his shoulder.

"Kai, did you and Kiana break up and you didn't tell anyone?" said Debbie.

"So many hugs," said Kai, exhaling slow without fully stepping back. "I didn't say anything because it doesn't matter. It's fine. I'm fine."

Debbie kept her hands on his arms, steady. "How is it 'fine'? You leave at five saying you're going to school and only come back when everyone's asleep."

Kai glanced past her shoulder. Viktor lifted his brows at Cassie; she narrowed her eyes back like someone who'd just caught on. They knew he hadn't been going to Oakwood.

"I'll let you talk, but I'm here. And I'd like you to talk more to me," said Debbie, squeezing his arm before letting go and leaving the kitchen.

Silence hummed with the fridge.

"I told you he'd be fine. He's a wall. It only hurts if you make him look at it. Just let him be," Viktor said.

"It's weird. I don't think Kiana would do that out of nowhere. She could've warned—she didn't tell us either. That sucked," said Cassie, sliding back into her chair and pushing her plate aside.

Kai set his fingers on the counter, tone unchanged, a half-smile that didn't reach his eyes. "So, have you decided I'm fine yet?"

Viktor gave a thumbs-up, nodding as he grabbed another slice of cake.

Cassie set her palms on the counter, meeting his eyes. "Okay… you didn't convince me, but you look fine. Still, if you keep skipping, I'm telling your mom."

Kai inhaled, tired, stared at the ceiling, and let the breath out slowly. "Alright… alright. If I flunk for absences the school will call anyway."

Viktor and Cassie left near sunset. The house settled into a functional quiet until night set in for good.

The new routine: dinner pushed late to wait for Mark to get home from work; table set, Nolan and Debbie talking low about their day, Mark sharing a Burger Mart story, Kai keeping pace with everything—missing no answers, not seeming too far away.

In the bedroom, Kai dropped sideways onto his bed, the room dim, only the corridor light bleeding through the crack.

Mark came up, opened the door, and sat on the opposite bed, leaning back. "Man, I haven't seen you these days… But Mom said you and Kiana broke up."

"Yeah," he said, still lying down.

"I know you. I know you're not okay. If you need to talk, I'm here."

Kai turned only his head, nodded once, silent thanks.

"Man… that was awful of her. Lame. Just leaving like that," said Mark, pinching his chin.

"It's fine. I already knew it would end like this," he said, his voice calm, no trace of anger.

Mark watched him a second, recognizing the automatic shell from when they were kids. He stood, pulled the door until the crack vanished, and went back to bed.

The next day—and the days after March 17—didn't pass so much as glide. The news talked about a comet that would skim close to Earth, maybe the Guardians would have to act, and the incidents with the man in the purple armor slipped to the back seat.

Kai reappeared at Oakwood just enough not to fail for absences. He'd arrive, take the back window seat, copy what he needed, vanish during breaks. Teachers called his name twice; boxing-club classmates said he'd "gone missing"; he answered with a short nod and disappeared before the next questions. On the days he didn't go, he flew. Chicago, then the suburbs, then other cities. He searched for something nameless: streets that resembled old memories, people whose gestures echoed lives that maybe never existed.

In Korea, the clock spun faster. Kiana woke early—makeup, wardrobe fits, blocking rehearsals, seven hours on set, table read for the next day. Kim Jae-Wook arrived with the certainty of someone who'd seen his own face on too many billboards. "You should grab dinner after the shoot," said Kim. Kiana replied with a polite smile. "Thanks, but I have plans." The plan was her room's quiet and the blank page of a locked phone.

The romance series advanced like a train on schedule. The girl from overseas who doesn't know she's an heiress; the cold heir who falls in love despite his family; meetings in the rain, hands that almost touch and don't. The studio prepped dubs, licensed to U.S. platforms and beyond, and announced the launch event in Seoul.

On the press-day carpet, flashes: Kiana in a light dress, Kim wearing a manual-perfect smile. A loaded question—his thirst for spotlight delivered a measured answer despite the rejections he'd already collected. Kim leaned into the mic. "The chemistry was natural. We get along really well off-camera too." The line hit the top of the trends before the presser ended. The studio posted a shot of the two—his hands in pockets, her gaze angled—under a caption ambiguous enough to ignite comments.

In Chicago, Viktor sat on the Oakwood terrace rail beside Kai, legs kicking in the air. "Dude, I know everything that happened, but…" said Viktor, turning toward him. "We're short two. Silver's gone and you… well, you stopped showing. Kiana isn't the last girl on earth—the other girls keep asking about you, even in my class, it gets annoying. Time to come back and shake this off."

Kai leaned on the rail, wind in his hair. "I know…"

Viktor scrolled; his thumb ran on autopilot. A notification popped up like the device had decided to provoke him. He opened it, read the caption, saw the photo, and frowned.

"Yikes. That's rough," said Viktor, loud enough to bounce off the concrete.

Kai glanced over, curious. He took the phone still on the image: the interview frame, Kiana and a famous Korean actor—Kim. Aligned by perfect composition. He held the device two seconds longer than he'd held anything in the past two months. He finally felt something.

But it came so faint it was like static.

Viktor studied his face. "Man. You're cool with this, right? It's been two months."

Kai breathed, stared until the image lost focus, and answered without hiding behind easy lines.

"I don't know."

Viktor nodded, less playful than usual. "Ah… Forget what I said about coming back now. Take your time."

Kai nodded, pocketing the phone.

"Arcade tonight," said Viktor, hopping down. "Cassie and Jenny will definitely go if I ask. Yeah?"

Kai looked up for a beat, like confirming something with the air itself. "Honestly, I'm not in the mood… But I think I'll go with you this time."

April started and ended without fireworks. May arrived in the same rhythm. Kai stayed caught in the same loop, searching for echoes of a life that no longer existed so he wouldn't face what he truly felt.

On the other side of the world, Mr. Hayes's orders were clear: Kiana and Claire weren't to receive any news from the U.S. A controlled bubble—no leaks.

On set, Kiana flipped the switch from scene to scene. She cried on take three, laughed on take five, took notes, delivered. Kim pressed again once or twice a week; she kept refusing. At night, the studio posted edited clips; by morning, translations, memes, and theories popped like corn. Claire filtered what she could; the rest, Kiana simply ignored.

In Chicago, coats gave way to rolled sleeves. In Seoul, Kiana held fast to the promise made to her mother, trying not to look back—yet thinking of Kai whenever the shooting schedule and new school granted her a heartbeat of silence.

Cassie tried reaching out on socials more than once—ever since losing Kiana's number—but nothing got through. The accounts were studio-managed now; every message vanished into an automated reply.

Two months had passed since Kiana left. Two months of Kai searching for ghosts in cities that looked familiar but felt wrong. Two months of Viktor trying to coax him to missions, of Cassie checking in with careful texts, of Debbie watching him with quiet worry she didn't voice. Two months of static where emotion should be. The Young Team operated without Grey. Silver's absence left a gap no one mentioned but everyone felt. Mirage stopped asking. Viktor stopped pushing. Even Atlas seemed to notice the shift—though he said nothing. On the other side of the world, Kiana filmed twelve-hour days and smiled for cameras and spoke lines about love she no longer believed in. Neither knew the storm approaching.

May 15, 2015 — Friday — One of Russell's Labs — 6:20 PM

The lab looked like a profane chapel: frosted glass walls, brushed steel, the hum of energy stabilizers, and a clean antiseptic tang. On the floor, a cartel man trembled with zip-tied hands, his forehead pressed to the cold tile. Russell and Dr. Mikhail spoke as if they were in an office, not standing over a hostage.

The automatic door slid open. Chris, Bruce, Scott, Tom, and Robert filed in, the sound of their boots swallowed by acoustic isolation.

"Finally—what's our next move?" said Chris, idly turning a ring on his finger.

Russell grabbed the cartel man by the collar and lifted him half a handspan—just enough to make the hierarchy plain—then dropped him. "We're going to own the cartels. Not partner. Above. They will answer to us. I have an expansion plan… and to kill two birds with one stone, you're going to like this."

"What is it?" said Chris, eyes narrowing without heat, only curiosity.

"For me to get what I want, Dr. Mikhail needs a specific subject for testing." Russell smiled. "Guess who."

"I'm not big on guessing," said Chris, flat.

"Grey," said Russell, savoring the name. "Something in his power is the key to fixing the defects in Serum 2.0. According to the doctor, to correct everything one hundred percent, we need direct tests with him."

Mikhail nodded, flicking through a transparent display strobing with cellular graphs. "Samples indicate his physiology stabilizes the serum's unstable chains. We need continuous exposure."

"Dude, that's gonna be great, finally!" Scott stepped forward, buzzing. "What's the plan?"

"He's been scarce," said Russell, walking toward a wall where a holographic map of routes and cities flickered. "But as we know, whenever it gets ugly for the Young Team, he shows. The problem is if the Guardians answer instead."

"And how do you make sure it won't be the Guardians?" Chris asked.

"May twenty-second." Russell pinched out a news feed that had circled the globe. Headlines flashed: COMET TO SKIM EARTH'S ORBIT. "In one week the comet passes close to Earth. The press won't shut up about it. The Guardians will be busy."

He gave the cartel man a friendly—and still humiliating—pat on the back, making him stumble two steps. "The cartels are meeting in Michigan, an isolated zone. They planned to take advantage of the Guardians' distraction."

"Exactly! They were gonna do it behind my back and thanks to our friend here, I found out in time. Now we use their plan," said Russell, voice low and satisfied. "We'll wave just enough flags to trigger a hero response. The Young Team will answer first. And you'll give them a problem. I'll handle Salamanca and, when Grey appears, I take the boy. Cartels on their knees, supply chain under our control, and the last stone out of the road."

Bruce folded his arms, running contingencies. "And Atlas?"

"I'll handle him if I must. You only need to hold when Grey arrives—my sense-confusion works on one target at a time."

Tom rolled his shoulders like his body begged to change. "So, Michigan… I've been itching to transform again. Finally some fun!"

"Not fun. Coronation," said Russell, lighting a cigar with a flame at his fingertip, not even looking at the coal reflected in the glass. "The cartels will learn the new hierarchy—and soon, when my cells are at a hundred percent, I won't need to hide."

May 22, 2015 — Friday — Young Team Operations Center, GDA — 2:45 PM

The ops wall sprang to life with maps of Southwest Michigan and Southern Indiana. Red arrows marked convoys; blinking icons where civilian drones had filmed flatbeds with covered beds and armed outriders. Donald, on a video tile, pinched to zoom; cartel radio nomenclatures appeared in captions.

Mirage stood with arms crossed, face locked in mission mode; Atlas, Vortex, Reflex, and Ghost Girl were set.

"Cartels coordinated at four points. They chose the day for a reason: the Guardians are off the board for comet duty. That makes this our mission," said Mirage.

"Objectives?" said Vortex, already cracking his neck.

"Contain, isolate, and capture leadership. Zero collateral. Reflex, split up, search for possible civilians, and scramble firing lines with copies. Ghost Girl, infiltrate and silently sabotage command vehicles. Atlas, breach barriers, but only on my confirmation. Vortex, perimeter containment and smoke control. Keep channel five clear for updates."

Donald appeared on the main tile. "Medical teams are fifteen minutes from each hot zone. Comms are secure on fallback alpha—if it's too hot, withdraw and wait for the Guardians."

Mirage nodded.

"Ping Grey on the reserved channel," she added. "If available, redeploy for Bravo support. No hounding. If he comes, great. If not, we proceed."

Vortex tapped his comm. "Message sent."

"Move," said Mirage. "Now."

They launched in staggered deployment, door whoosh slicing corridor silence. Ops dimmed; Michigan's mesh grew larger on the wall, rural corridors and lots forming a chessboard.

None of them had any idea what was coming.

Low Earth Orbit — 3:17 PM (UTC−5)

The comet cut the dark like an iridescent blade. Smaller fragments burned in the high atmosphere. Immortal led, voice on the external channel.

"We break the big rocks before the Kármán line."

"Understood," said Cosmic, raising a translucent field as microdebris pattered like dry rain. "Trajectories corrected."

Omni-Man dipped in a perfect arc and punched a bus-sized block, reducing it to shards that sifted into luminous dust.

"Next."

Green Ghost phased through and reappeared ahead, tagging vectors with green flares.

Earth turned blue and white below. Space duty had the Guardians' full attention.

May 22, 2015 — Southwest Michigan — 3:48 PM

On the ground, the Young Team was already spread across the points. An abandoned logistics park—metal sheds, oil and dust in the air.

"Alpha point in sight," said Ghost Girl, voice low. "Four pickups, two trucks. Improvised command post in the gray container."

"Civilians?" said Mirage.

"None visible, only lots of armed men."

"Reflex, prioritize silent extraction if you find any. Vortex, strip the smoke in the east sector. Atlas, prep advance at the gate—only on my 'go.'"

Reflex doubled the corridor into three versions of herself, copies sliding through shadow and pushing precision distractions. Vortex raised pressure; oily haze pulled back like a curtain. Atlas touched down heavy to the gate's right; metal groaned under his boots.

Mirage watched it all in the visor, teammates' heartbeats as discreet bars.

"Channel five: status every sixty seconds."

Mission clock read 00:03:11. The comet, high above, robbed the sky. On the ground, Russell's plan was already in motion. Somewhere in the bandwidth, the reserved channel waited for Grey's reply.

Meanwhile, Elsewhere — Brooklyn Bridge — 3:48 PM

Grey stood on the main cable of the Brooklyn Bridge, opened social, and tried to type Kiana a message.

He typed three versions of "How are you?" and erased them in a row.

Wind sliced the towers like paper. He was a still point on the cable, the city laid out below, the Hudson reflecting broken bands of light. He pulled the phone, opened Kiana's profile, tapped chat.

"Are you okay?"

Deleted.

"Just wanted to know if you're doing alright…"

Deleted.

"How are you?"

The comm vibrated at the exact instant his thumb grazed send. The preview stuck on the screen:

"How ar—"

Ah, damn it.

"Seen" popped up seconds later. His heart skipped and reset. Five minutes. Ten staring at the phone… nothing.

In another life, this would break him. Rage, grief, desperation— all the emotions that come with abandonment.

But he'd been here before. Too many times before.

So instead of breaking, something else happened.

The last piece of hope he'd been holding—unconsciously, foolishly— shut off.

"Ignored, successfully," he murmured to the wind. "What did I expect? It's no different than the last life."

He pocketed the phone without anger. Only a calm, resigned fatigue.

He glanced down at the lanes—cars in a hypnotic flow—and a silver sedan snagged his attention. A familiar profile behind the glass, at a glance. He dropped from the bridge arch and slid into the air, high and smooth, shadowing the car.

Ten minutes later, the sedan rolled into a Brooklyn grocery lot. As the door opened, Grey settled in front of the windshield. The woman jumped and her purse slipped—wallet, keys, and lipstick skittered across concrete.

The face wasn't the one he'd seen in his head. Someone else. Another world.

"Sorry, I thought you were someone I knew," said Grey, touching down and crouching to gather things.

"You scared me. But thanks, I guess." The woman narrowed her eyes as recognition clicked. "You're the Young Team hero, right? The one who's always with the other heroine. Grey!"

He only nodded.

"Aren't the heroes on a mission because of the comet? Shouldn't you be up there? What are you doing scaring ladies at the store?" she said lightly.

Grey held her gaze for a second that felt longer than it was. "No. Maybe I should be somewhere else. But today… only if it's urgent."

"Yeah, being a hero must be rough. Good luck."

He dipped a brief nod and lifted into a low glide over the rows. Doubt rode the slipstream.

What if they need me?

"Doesn't hurt to check."

He reached for the comm—but before he touched it, the ping cut through his thoughts. He pressed. "Grey here. Mission details."

The voice that answered wasn't the one he expected.

"Grey, my name is Donald. GDA. We lost contact with the Young Team. Our support units can't get close. It's just you."

His jaw set; his body didn't.

"I'm on my way," said Grey.

And he ripped into the sky like a stroke of graphite, everything else shrinking behind him.

The clearing looked like an old quarry carved into the forest: gravel underfoot, limestone walls, abandoned trucks, gray dust. From above, the Six Eyes swept everything in frozen frames.

Giant gorilla—last time he'd thrown an entire crane like a twig. Another masked man was firing thorn-bursts in tight volleys at Vortex, who was holding two lines at once with wind blades and air pressure.

Farther right, one spewed fire from both hands, flame licking the scree; the field was cross-stitched with electric snaps, sparks threading the air toward Atlas, who took and returned each blow. On the flank, two blurs traced a perfect figure-eight. The Six Eyes focused and opened the frame: Red Rush and… the other one in a military suit—familiar. Matching Red Rush's speed and countering every angle change.

Gunfire in the back.

In the immediate perimeter, the damage screamed louder than the noise. Reflex was down, leg at a wrong angle. Mirage, braced against a pickup buried nose-first in the ground, had been hit twice—blood at shoulder and thigh—breathing short.

Ghost Girl was pinned under an overturned car, the axle crushing her clavicle. Off center, crisp, rhythmic shots came from the tree line—far from the team. Another war was happening there.

Grey stopped being a point in the sky.

His landing kicked gravel into the air. He slid his hands under the steering column, heaved the car and flung it back meters, dropped to a knee, and braced Ghost Girl with both hands beneath her shoulder. The Six Eyes tracked her vitals.

Air. Weak, but there. He carried Ghost Girl to the pickup, set her beside Mirage. He knelt by Reflex, checked pupils, splinted the leg with two road rulers and a strap he ripped off a drum. Mirage bit a pressure bandage into place on her shoulder.

"Five primaries. Looks like one more inside—fighting each other," Mirage got out through pain. "Help Vortex and Atlas. Then together—help Red Rush."

"Understood."

A spine-bolt shredded the pickup's bumper at Grey's eye level. He turned just enough to catch the trail. Robert was reloading his forearms, skin plating into spikes.

He moved.

The first step threw a cone of stone. By the second he was on Robert's flank. An open palm to the forearm ripped the next volley before it was born. The spikes geysered upward like fireworks, the villain's own arm betrayed by physics. Tom thundered in from behind, a storm of muscle and fury, swinging a 300-kilo counterweight like a mace.

"Vortex, now," said Grey.

Air collapsed around the counterweight. Its path lost a handspan; Grey slipped under, dragging his fingers through the gravel to steal torque and slammed a short hook into the brute's sternum. Tom skidded back three steps, gouging trenches; the crane cracked in two when it hit.

At center, Scott's fire jetted like a torch at Atlas. Grey read the oscillation pattern of the flame, saw Chris ghosting in behind to plant a straight shot on Atlas's nape. Grey cut the angle in a shallow burst, ripped a truck door clean off, and shoved it between Atlas and the flame. The edge glowed red; he rolled his wrist, swept the plume skyward, and frisbeed the door into Scott's face. The smack choked the fire for a beat.

"Atlas, the live wire is yours," said Grey.

"Don't order me!" Atlas snapped, already pivoting in the same frame. He detonated into a leap and caught Chris's trail mid-stride, driving a shoulder into the plexus and grinding sparks into the gravel.

On the outer ring, the blur duel escalated. Red Rush shifted frequency; Bruce mirrored it instantly. Grey's Six Eyes anticipated the next exchange: they'd converge on that toppled tanker. He shot up, crossed the space, and got his hand under the rear axle, lifting just enough for both blurs to pass under without turning the quarry into fireworks and Armageddon. Red Rush threw a thumbs-up without stopping.

"Thanks—this one's hard to put down," said Red Rush.

The gunfire in the background thinned, then died. An odd quiet settled on the lip of the nearby structure.

From the warehouse doorway, a figure walked out at an unrushed pace.

Russell emerged first—immaculate in his suit, hands dusted with grit and blood like it were an afterthought. In one of them, he dragged a mountain of a man by the collar—shoulders like a wardrobe, known among the cartel as Morté. The brute hung like an empty bag.

Behind them came another man with his hands raised, shaking. And behind him, more than fifty cartel gunmen spilled between the mouth of the building and the open yard, forming a hesitant half-circle.

Russell hoisted Morté like dead weight and flung him a few meters forward. The giant hit the ground with a dry thud and went limp.

"This was the famous 'Morté' of the cartels?" asked Russell, appraising the defective product. "Came up a little weak."

The man in front—thick Mexican accent—rushed to answer.

"Okay, okay, Russell. You're in charge now. No need to kill anyone," said the man.

Russell's smile brightened, satisfied.

"Very good. You learn fast, little Tomás Salamanca," he said. "See? A little cooperation goes a long way."

Then his eyes slid over the gunmen's line and locked onto a single point.

Grey.

The smile changed flavor.

"If you'll excuse me, my guest has arrived," said Russell, patting Tomás on the shoulder twice. "Do stay out of the way for a minute."

Russell shot off the ground—no carapace—straight at Grey.

Grey was already turning before the hit arrived, as if he had eyes in the back of his head. In a sense, he did. The Six Eyes had read the entire motion before it happened.

He brought up his forearm and caught the blow clean.

Up close, he took in the face of the tall man in a suit. Recognition landed in an instant.

The bank "hostage."

The sadist's smile was still there.

"So you're the one behind this?" Grey growled, jaw locking. In the same motion, he returned a punch that sent Russell skidding away.

He gave him no air. Grey streaked after, caught the body mid-flight, and pinned a second shot in—keeping Russell suspended as a target.

But Russell never lost the smile.

A third punch—harder—Russell braced with crossed arms, yet the impact still hurled him groundward, cratering the quarry floor.

He lay at the bottom for a heartbeat, one arm bent at a wrong angle—already knitting back, bones realigning under the skin like something alive.

He laughed from inside the pit.

"Very strong. Time to get serious," said Russell.

Russell climbed out of a crater with carapace rising up his neck like a purple tide. The smooth surface mirrored the bleached sky; the joints pulsed with dark veins, as if current crawled under the armor.

He didn't waste time.

Ice bowed from an open palm, solidifying on air into a spear. Grey stepped in, turned his hip, and broke it across his forearm before it had a body. Russell overlaid powers: fire roared from the other fist—a curtain that came with his whole body accelerating in a straight dash, dry as lightning.

The Six Eyes read knee angle and shoulder tilt. Grey rose a handspan and let the dash pass under, tearing the truck shell behind him instead of his sternum. He caught Russell's nape as he went by and flung him through the air, pile-driving him into a gravel mound fifty meters out. The stone went off like a muffled blast.

Russell laughed inside the helm.

"Better. Show me more."

The air around them trembled. Grey felt like someone turned the world down a notch: a tenth of the field's strength siphoned into the armored man. Vortex lost half a step; Atlas swore under his breath. Grey adjusted in the air like switching stances in a boxing ring.

"I was at my limit today. I needed to hit something," he said through clenched teeth, fists haloed with circling blue.

"Let's see it then," Russell answered, rising. Spines and fire bloomed from his forearm at once, the spines guiding the flame into incandescent helices.

Grey met him head-on, chest to carapace, and shoved him straight up in a vertical tear. The helices passed beneath, scoring the gravel where Mirage and the wounded no longer were. The air column cleared; the forest shrank to a diorama.

Ten stories up, Russell scissored Grey with his legs and hammered three times with his left. The sound was thick metal on stone. Grey bled impact with a waist roll and answered with a tight cross wrapped in Blue at the spot the Six Eyes had caught micro-fracturing on the first hit—two centimeters below the right clavicle.

The plate snapped, but didn't break through.

Without that plating I could end this—feels like it's about to give, but it won't… something's off. He's playing.

Russell slid back a handspan in the air and, without warning, pointed two fingers.

"Game over."

The world hiccuped, as if the horizon tilted. The maze inside Grey's skull rotated half a degree—the same distortion as before, but without a fixed channel: a flick-on/flick-off aimed at reflexes.

Grey dropped out of the air, vision a half-tooth out of alignment.

What? He can do this too?

He forced muscle to bite, bled speed enough not to punch through the quarry, still plowing a shallow groove. Iron taste bloomed on his tongue. His mask had slipped to his neck.

"You're strong, but not as strong as me!" Russell laughed from above.

"Everyone—focus the faulty plate at the clavicle!" Mirage barked over comms, dragging herself upright.

Atlas nodded, saw the crack Grey had left. He launched. Russell met him. They collided mid-air like living projectiles. Atlas attacked without hesitation: eyes burning, dry advances, a chain hammered on the same spot. Russell countered in implacable rhythm, each answer heavier than the last—as if Atlas's blows didn't really matter. The final straight drilled through Atlas's guard.

The ground took Atlas like a nail. Russell plunged after, impact sinking the quarry another layer—his hardest strike yet.

Take Atlas off the board—couldn't keep playing with him in. Atlas went still.

"Now!" Vortex shouted.

Air in front of him knotted into a compact sphere. Vortex slammed Russell and, on contact, expanded pressure. The armor sang. He strung bursts together—diagonal cuts and pressure shocks to shred the enemy's cadence.

Mirage yanked a boot blade free, sprinted along the rim of a toppled container on the last of her strength, jumped, spun, and threw. The knife whistled past Russell's helm. He laughed behind the carapace. Idiots.

VWOOSH!

Red Rush appeared where the knife would have fallen, snatched the hilt, spun his body, and drove the tip at the cracked clavicle.

Russell's hand clamped the speedster's forearm in the same instant.

"Not today," he said, amused.

Red Rush released, tried to shave the fissure at a new angle. The point skittered in useless sparks. The return punch tore the air like a cannon. Red Rush vanished into dust.

Vortex came back with a tight combo, wind hitting like invisible sledges, trying to herd Russell away from the wounded. Russell ceded half a step, then pushed into the flow, armor joints grinding, each surge ripping the air-curtain by brute force.

Grey pushed to his palms. His legs refused him. The sky still crooked, horizon crooked, the whole world crooked.

He tried to warn them but couldn't—inside that tilted world, his voice came out too soft.

"Don't go in. The crack… he's playing. With that armor you can't put him down."

He tried to lift his torso; gravity doubled.

I should've seen it. I'm always late, always wrong. What good are these powers if I can't do anything? That's why I always end up alone. I'm never enough.

Heavy hits again—one, two, three. Vortex's breath blasted out; he pinwheeled into the scree, rolled, and clawed back to a knee on sheer stubbornness.

Move. Up. Now.

Grey's fingers dug into stone. His body didn't listen.

I could've stopped him. I could've stopped all of this. I should've used everything when he was bare.

His breath came ragged; chest locked. The world stayed one degree left. His heart beat in the wrong place—like it wanted out through bone.

Enough. Up.

Nothing.

Vortex went first; Red Rush returned, appearing at his side like a red ink stroke. In sync, Red Rush pounded short sequences at the clavicle fissure while Vortex slid into a low spin, twisting air inward and then exploding it outward in a shock ring. Vortex's wind shield turned on its own center, forming a convex bulwark that soaked the armor's counter and returned it in two crossed snaps—one high, one low.

Robert sprinted along the flank, spikes pushing under skin. Scott came with hands ablaze. Chris and Bruce hung back, watching—cold.

Chris touched his earpiece. "Russell, we hit the objective. We're pulling out. No reason to keep this up."

But Russell was having fun. The smile wouldn't leave.

One clean motion and Russell dropped Red Rush, a straight that washed the color out of the world for a second—out cold.

"You won't die from that, right? I don't want the Guardians hunting me," Russell said.

Vortex didn't yield. He drew wind into a narrow funnel, tilted his palm, and hurled his own body into the current, accelerating. He braked in the last handspan and converted all speed into raw pressure in his right arm.

"Wind Blast!"

The hit smashed the cracked plate. Vortex rolled his wrist through the impact, buckling the armor inward and shaking the air with a dry thunderclap.

He didn't stop—slid past, used the motion to condense air in his other hand, carved a lateral cut with wind blades, and in the same breath raised a pressure wall with the fist that was already turning a faint purple. The wall burst and flipped part of Scott's flames back. Robert, coming from the other angle, caught the shock wave's edge and went tumbling.

Dust rose as Vortex glanced at Grey on the ground and grinned at the end of the combo. He didn't need words. The grin said: I beat you on that one.

The dust settled.

Russell stood there without a scratch. The carapace had sealed again like flesh instant-healing. "I have to admit, that was a good one. I liked you, airhead."

On the far side, Robert—on a knee—had let spikes fly in reflex when he'd been flung. The spikes arced high, then dropped at vicious angles.

Vortex was out of gas.

Three impacts. Center chest. Abdomen. Thigh.

Blood.

Grey's blue eyes saw the world flip, the horizon tilt as if someone twisted a dial. He opened his mouth.

"No!"

Nothing came—only a thread of air.

Vortex coughed blood and toppled with the same smile still on his lips. His body went heavy, the wind lost its owner… and the light left his eyes.

Grey's eyes burned neon. Reflex, barely conscious, tried to rise and collapsed again with a strangled cry.

Go back. Go back now. Grey yanked on Blue with everything, red sparks spitting backward, wrong, along with the inverted feed he was getting from Russell's power. Hair lifted around his face, strands rising on static from nowhere.

The infinite void inside him answered, climbing, layer after layer, until it found the greater void outside.

"It wasn't supposed to kill anyone. What a shame, this one was worth it." Russell undid the carapace like unbuttoning a jacket. "Fun's over. We're done here." He straightened his suit with a victor's smile and kept talking.

None of the words arrived.

Kai wasn't there anymore. He was inside the black hole of himself, where sound doesn't enter and time doesn't pass—only void and guilt. The blue in his eyes grew until the void filled everything.

The one who, from the cradle, never fit the mold—

Viltrumite and something more no mind could ever hold.

Only two words echoed.

"Muryo Kusho."

The sound died.

Dust hung in the air like grains trapped in amber. The fire in Scott's hand froze mid-bloom, a still flower of flame. Vortex stood motionless on the ground, eyes dim, the blood that had been spilling from his chest caught halfway down, a crimson garland with no gravity.

The whole world held its breath inside the Infinite.

Kai felt the old vertigo — that pull dragging him inward. The headache still pounded behind his eyes, yet somehow, it was a relief.

Here, nothing weighed anything.

The distortion that tried to twist the ground beneath his feet was swallowed whole by the vastness around him. The Void devoured it easily — and then gave back what Russell had taken.

Kai rose and launched forward.

He passed Red Rush lying still — like stepping through a photograph.

He slid past the crater where gravel had been crushed, around the scar where Vortex had fallen, his blood frozen beside his mouth.

My friend. My rival...

The blue eyes beyond the Void now carried pain — and tears — reading everything in ruthless detail.

The tiny dilation of a pupil.

The micro-tremor at the corner of a mouth.

The trail of air slicing past a lapel.

Energy came as it wanted — not Blue, but Red — sharp and contained, a vector-thin blade forming in his palm.

Russell stood there, one step ahead, grinning wide. No carapace. A hand resting on his suit collar, the look of a man who had already won. My jackpot has arrived. His thought was still stamped across his face.

In the velocity of an impossible impulse, Kai drew the motion simple as breathing: arm pulls back, torso turns, hand cuts through space like a blade.

The Infinite released the world.

Air exploded as reality snapped back. Kai's hand had already finished the strike. Russell staggered one step, confused.

Blood came in two clean jets.

The head spun once in the air and hit the earth with a wet sound.

The remaining men froze, cartel gunmen stumbling backward in horror.

Reflex tried to rise again, but the grief of losing Vortex left her in shock.

Ghost Girl's vision swam, tears mixing with blood and dust. Through the blur, she saw him. Grey. Standing over Russell's headless body. But the mask had slipped during the fight — torn, hanging at his neck. And the face beneath...

White hair. Blue eyes burning like stars. But the jawline. The way he held his shoulders. The—

"Kai?" she whispered, voice breaking.

Ghost Girl lied, even as certainty crystallized like ice in her chest.

Kai Grayson is Grey.

He didn't hear her. He stood at the center of it all, murmuring to himself, "You laughed before your time… thinking my defeat was certain."

His voice rose, cold fury sharpening each word.

"Now you'll suffer with the Ego I created."

He had crossed the line — the one he'd always refused.

He had killed.

The blue in his eyes burned bright.

His next words came hollow, loud enough for everyone to hear — empty as the ocean floor, empty as the creature he'd once seen in the depths.

"I'll kill every last worm who dared to touch one friend of mine."

The chill ran through everyone left standing; the fight had turned into something else — something uncontrollable.

"Russell's dead?! What the hell was that?!" Chris shouted from afar.

Bruce traded a glance with him — then both advanced.

Chris vanished in a flash of electricity; Bruce dove from above, fist cocked.

Real combat now.

Chris struck first.

The punch hit— but didn't. His knuckles stopped a hair's width from Kai's face. It felt like impact, yet nothing connected.

"What—?" Chris's eyes widened. He threw another punch. Then another. Same result.

Kai met his gaze and caught his arm mid-swing. "My Ego is bigger than yours."

The motion followed the words.

He twisted, body rotating, and ripped Chris's shoulder out of place. Without his absurd durability, the limb would've torn clean off.

A kick to the ribs followed — bone cracked, blood flew, and Chris was hurled across the yard.

Bruce dropped from above, draining ten percent of Kai's strength. Kai snapped upward, Blue flaring in his left fist, and hammered Bruce's abdomen, sending him rocketing skyward.

Tom roared; Robert launched a storm of spikes — but Kai vanished.

An instant later, he was behind Robert.

SCHRAKK!

The nightmare Kai once had wasn't about Omni-Man. Nor Cosmic.

It was about himself.

His arm burst through Robert's back and out the front — his hand gripping a still-beating heart.

"Let's see if you regenerate now," Kai said flatly.

Robert spat blood.

Kai's hand fell to his side, the heart still clutched tight.

Robert collapsed to his knees, then forward, twitching once before his eyes dimmed.

The gorilla bellowed, rage shaking the air, "Bastard!"

He charged, each blow heavy enough to bend steel.

Kai's breath came short, the hum of the Void pounding behind his skull — yet he only watched.

Slow.

Everything so slow.

When the strike came, Kai caught the mutant's forearm, turned with it, and twisted. The joint popped wetly — the humerus coiling like wire.

Tom screamed, and Kai stared down at him.

"No one leaves here alive. I thought I made that clear."

His voice was ice — no trace of soul left.

He dropped three Blue-lit blows into the giant's knee — bone shattered, ligaments snapped, the leg folding backward in a grotesque arc.

Tom crashed, foam on his lips, struggling to move. The transformation broke.

Scott shouted from the opposite side, "Kill that blue-eyed freak!"

Flames poured from his hands, while Bruce's copied beams carved the air.

Kai moved through the inferno, weaving between crimson beams. The fire swallowed him — but when it faded, he was right in front of Scott, a breath away.

Kai's hands clamped over the pyro's face, thumbs digging into his temples, pulling him close until their pupils almost touched.

"Let me show you what my blue eyes can really do."

His eyes ignited — an abyssal blue bursting outward. The pain struck like a hammer behind his own skull, but he didn't stop.

Limits didn't matter anymore.

He wanted more.

"Muryo Kusho."

The silence bit down on the world. For seconds, everything vanished. Even the ten percent Bruce had taken was returned.

Eyes of the infinite—nothing stands against their glare.

The world itself freezes when you meet that stare.

Then time snapped back.

"You're next," Kai said panting far beyond the limit, turning his head slowly, locking on Bruce.

He dropped Scott, who hit his knees, screaming, clutching his head — then fell limp, unconscious.

Bruce felt the stolen power drain away, a cold sweat crawling down his spine. "What the hell's in those eyes?!" he shouted, hovering above.

No mind can grasp the infinite, but every soul can feel the fear when it stares back.

Kai shot up like a bullet, meeting him mid-sky. The clash thundered so loud it fractured the small ring he wore to change his hair color — even without camouflage. It was completely white again.

Bruce answered with two jabs and a straight, fast enough to keep up. He still had Atlas's power woven into his own.

Kai slipped under the first, parried the second, and stepped into the third — shoulder turning, hip snapping, the Blue dragging space half a foot forward. The punch sank into Bruce's sternum. Air burst from him as he reeled.

"What's in my eyes?" Kai kept the rhythm, chaining elbows and knees between short bursts. "They say the eyes are the windows to the soul…"

His right hand glowed — not Blue, but a rough, unstable Red, sparking like scraped metal. "…and mine is infinitely empty."

He threw the punch. Air convulsed; the strike grazed and still sent Bruce flying, carving through clouds.

"I get it now," Kai panted, pain burning behind his eyes. "I can't control it yet… but it doesn't matter. It ends today."

Below, Chris bit his shirt, slammed his shoulder back into place, spitting a curse.

And at the same moment, Tomás Salamanca's voice tore through the clearing, soaked in panic and hate.

"Russell's dead! Open fire! Kill them all!"

The clearing lit up — a rain of muzzle flashes, casings skipping on gravel, the acid stink of gunpowder thick in the air.

Kai turned his head, only to lose himself further.

At the center of it all, Mirage — leaning against a truck.

Then the world broke into black spots.

The first bullets struck her already-wounded shoulder, then the side of her ribs; others tore into her thigh. Her body jerked under the barrage, mouth open in a sound drowned by gunfire.

Kai's eyes widened. He dropped from the sky, landing beside her.

The ground trembled with each passing burst. Blood already stained her lips; each breath came short, wet, bubbling red.

He knelt, pulled off her mask in one swift motion — and froze.

Rachel.

The woman from Cosmic's wedding. The gentle smile that once told Kiana she'd thought about quitting but still loved guiding young heroes.

The same eyes now dim, clinging to life by threads.

I failed again.

She tried to speak, words broken by blood. "Bast… ards… cartel…" Her voice died before finishing, but her lips moved one last time — silent, clear. "End them."

The thought hit like a stone dropped into an endless pit. Again I wasn't enough.

He should've pulled her out before fighting. But there hadn't been time.

Atlas and Red Rush down. Becky and Jenny bleeding near the truck. Vortex… gone.

A flash of memory: Debbie's hands covering his eyes as a body lay on the street, years ago.

Another life. Another failure.

"Viktor should've lived, not me," he whispered.

I should've gotten here first. It's my fault. It's always my fault.

The ringing in his ears — mental collapse, exhaustion, or the Void — he couldn't tell.

The horizon tilted a degree. The world's texture changed: thinner, sharper, more distant.

The Six Eyes scanned coldly—

Fifty-seven barrels.

Nineteen aimed too high.

Eleven on burst.

Three jammed.

Seven hands trembling.

One man giving orders, finger on the trigger's second stage.

The guy who mimic powers crouched a hundred meters away, half-covered.

The speedster charging toward his friend, lightning tightening tendons.

And Mirage, sliding down the truck's panel, leaving a crimson smear that meant nothing anymore.

The Void rose like a tide, whispering in his ear.

End them.

Blue flared from his chest, pulling the world a step closer.

Bullets warped, trajectories bending, air thick as glass. They struck him but didn't pierce — some rebounding into gravel, others freezing mid-flight.

Another snap behind his eyes — pain or power, he couldn't tell.

The Void squeezed harder but numbed everything else.

Kai didn't run. He walked toward them, trance-like.

With every step, the ground seemed to flinch.

The first man in his path had his rifle torn away before his mind caught up. Kai's knee slammed into his gut, spine collapsing like paper. The body folded in half and dropped lifeless, blood pooling fast.

He kept walking.

The quarry had become a stage in slow motion. Cartel men fired wildly, terror scattering them — two more fell, brutal, precise.

Every blow, a lesson carved in bone.

They shattered his hope; now they choke on the sentence they've sown.

Gunfire clattered uselessly against him.

puck-puck-puck. Metal on diamond. Bullets crumpled or halted inches away.

There was no escape.

Kai stopped before four men running for the trees. The Blue in his eyes widened. Air around him turned into a warped vacuum.

A single crack — space twisted blue — and the four imploded, painting the clearing in rain and fragments.

The next instant, Kai was somewhere else.

Torsos, limbs, blood drifted in mid-air through the silence of his madness.

One shooter's skull caved sideways, soundless, like crushing a dry gourd.

Another was punched upward, body bursting apart mid-flight, leaving a red mist.

A third aimed point-blank. Kai caught the barrel, yanked him forward — neck snapping, trachea tearing with the sound of split leather.

There was no stopping.

As easy as crushing sharks in the deep.

Maybe even easier.

A man screamed, crawling backward. Kai's boot pinned his ankle. Bone cracked; the joint separated.

The scream ended when Kai kicked him sideways — the impact tearing open his chest as he hit a fallen truck tire.

Precision of a predator purging pests.

Tomás Salamanca — the one who'd given the order — stumbled back, tripping over shell casings. He raised his submachine gun, hands shaking, sweat on his brow.

"Stay back, demon—"

Kai crossed the distance in a blink. He stopped close enough for Tomás to see his own reflection in the impossible blue.

The arm rose — clean, fast, without hesitation. His hand clamped around Salamanca's throat and squeezed.

The crack of a snapped cervical vertebra echoed sharp through the void.

The body hung a moment, gun falling, feet slack.

Kai tore the head free in one last pull, a hot spray washing over his shoulder.

The torso dropped onto the gravel.

He stood at the center of the clearing, holding the severed head for three long seconds — the world running wild inside his eyes — then let it fall.

The sound was soft.

The blue of his eyes devoured the daylight, too bright for the horror around him.

The Six Eyes scanned again, ignoring the fifty-plus bodies strewn across the ground.

The remaining two enemies were gone.

The blue still burned, searing his vision.

No veiled despair—only stillness swallowing him whole.

The cost of all that strength is a slow sickness of the soul.

Pain bloomed behind his temples; he fell to his knees, fingers digging into his skull. The air shimmered, the texture of space bending like heated glass. Time itself stuttered, pulsing wrong.

He forced his head up, scanning the ruin.

If the field expanded, it would swallow his wounded friends.

The blue flared at the rim of his iris.

He drew a breath — and shot skyward, crooked, trying to flee his own body.

Clouds split; wind screamed; altitude dropped.

When the strength finally broke, he crashed deep into the forest, trees snapping, leaves bursting in rings. He rolled through wet earth until he lay face-down between roots and stone.

Time beat out of sync, expanding and collapsing — a silent tide that thickened the air and warped the light.

The pressure of the Void tightened—an embrace that crushed. And then a voice cut through it.

"You broke anime rule number one. You killed the villain before he transformed. What a mess."

Kai's head snapped up. Blue fire lit the shadows.

Viktor leaned against a tree trunk, arms crossed, wearing the same half-smile as always.

"How—"

"Now we'll never know who hit harder," Viktor interrupted, lazily bumping his shoulder to the bark with theatrical boredom. "I hit him while he was transformed."

Kai's heart missed a beat. The Void swelled half a meter outward. Nearby leaves vibrated like tissue in a turbine.

"What a slaughter, man. Just like the sharks," said Viktor, eyes dropping to Kai's hands. "If every time something goes wrong you freak out and start killing everyone, the world's screwed."

"I never told you about the sharks. How do you know that?" Kai's voice came raw and scraped.

"Because I'm in your head, duh," he said, uncrossing his arms and taking two steps—his boots crunching leaves that made no sound. "I'm not real. You saw me down back there."

Kai clutched his skull again. Pain flashed a white-hot line along the base of his cranium. The Void swelled another ring. Ants on a root froze mid-crawl, pinned by stillness.

"Oh, here you go with the drama again," Viktor lifted his brows, arms opening wide. "You spawned with legendary skin and god-tier power and you were moping over a girl who left to become a movie star when you could have anyone. And now you're gonna grieve? Today you finally acted like you should have from the start."

The forest bent at the edges. Bark crackled. The air thickened, each mote heavier than water. Kai folded, forehead almost touching dirt.

Viktor crouched beside him. "You never use the chance you have." He leaned in, voice sharp. "I'm the one who should've lived."

Kai inhaled like a drowning man finding air. The Void answered. The time-field froze in a perfect ring, pushing leaves, dust, and mist to the rim—where everything trembled and stopped. The world sank inward; his pulse echoed like a mallet.

Viktor pressed on, meaner. "You looked everywhere and no one exists. What if, just like me right now, your past life is just your twisted mind—and never happened?" He put a hand under his chin, mock thinking. "You never told me any of this… Damn, lousy friend."

Kai kept squeezing his head, trying to cage the pain. At last he muttered back, "What if I made it all up?"

Kai's pupils shrank to an electric pin. Blue swallowed his eyes whole.

Viktor's voice kept looping, louder, crueler. "You don't even know who you are. The good guy who saves everyone—or the killer who spares no one? You've got God's power and waste it. You could've saved me, and because of you look at Mirage. Dead. I should be alive. I should have your power."

The little he lifted his eyes was enough for his mind to project in real time—Mirage dead. Enough to see himself drenched in blood. To remember Kiana with him atop a building, the two of them planning to study medicine to help people. And then the vision of his other-life self—standing apart, staring down at him with contempt.

Who am I? Did I make it all up? Why won't this stop?

"Stop? I'm not going anywhere. Know why?" Viktor leaned to Kai's ear. "Because—I—am—you."

Kai opened his mouth, but sound disobeyed.

It came out as a scream lost in silence—lost inside the Infinite's dominion and the mind's madness—shaking time and the present. Personality shattered into pieces.

No way to know what was real.

When his body was about to split the way his mind had, all the energy vanished—drained in some direction.

His sight went black.

Through the roaring void he caught only fragments.

A raw, strained "Aargh!" in a woman's voice, the dull thud of knees hitting grass.

 A second voice, familiar and breathless, forced out between clenched teeth, "Thank you." tight with exhausted relief, "I got in time, Cecil."

Interlude — Part 1: The Comet

Twenty minutes ago, as the world bent to the Void — Low Earth Orbit

The comet carved the dark like a white-hot blade, its tail blooming in bright dust that mirrored sunlight over the blue planet. A streak of fire—fast, heavy—on the perfect path to turn cities into craters.

War Woman flew alongside the rock, trying to lean its axis. Immortal braced at one edge, teeth gritted, tendons corded. Green Ghost phased through the comet again and again, checking for fractures. Cosmic shoved with shimmering force.

Nothing gave enough.

"More force," Immortal growled, his voice carried over comms through vacuum. "If this hits atmosphere like this, we trade an impact for nuclear rain."

"I'm at my limit," War Woman said, pushing everything she had.

Omni-Man hovered meters back, arms crossed, watching. His eyes tracked the group effort—the slow drag, insufficient.

If I weren't here, they'd be doomed.

The thought was clean. Not arrogance. Just fact.

He moved without warning—closed the gap like moving through water. Planted his hands into the rocky core, fingers sinking as if it were clay. One shove. Another. The Viltrumite's body roared against the colossal mass.

The surface cracked.

Omni-Man dug deeper—then pushed everything. The structure split, bursting into broad fragments. White light blew out part of the GDA's remote feeds.

He streaked between the pieces, gesturing—Divert the small ones.

Immortal darted. War Woman broke for another shard. Green Ghost phased through smaller fragments, nudging vectors. Omni-Man turned to smears between the largest, breaking, batting, guiding.

Minutes of precise work—no more doomsday risk—but not finished yet.

The comm hissed on main channel. Cecil's voice came dry, no preface. "We've lost contact with Red Rush and the Young Team in Southwest Michigan. Support teams can't get close."

Immortal hovered, breath ragged, face set. No signal at all?

Cosmic stopped mid-thrust. His voice carried through the vacuum as if it belonged there.

"I'll go while you finish here."

Interlude — Part 2: Remnants of the Tragedy

Just five minutes ago, Southwest Michigan, South Indiana

The GDA vehicles were stacked along the narrow dirt road, boxed in by burned-out pickups and trucks left sideways across the lane. Ahead, half a dozen cartel gunmen still clutched their rifles—too nervous to advance, too proud to drop them.

A pink flare slashed the sky.

Atom Eve dropped first, bringing Rex Splode and Dupli-Kate with her, touching down in a smooth hover, hair held back by her own glow. A translucent field rose between the gunmen and the GDA agents, locking both sides' aim in place.

Robot landed just behind them, metal frame adjusting its optics, the mechanical iris tightening.

"Multiple armed targets blocking the perimeter," he assessed in a clean voice. "No coordinated formation. And…"

He tilted his head a few degrees left, as if hearing something no one else could.

"Energy anomaly detected at two kilometers and six hundred meters—inner rural sector. Pattern unidentified."

"Translation: can I blow up a truck?" asked Rex Splode.

"Yes. Vehicle targets only," replied Robot.

Rex rolled a nail between his fingers, tapped it to the side panel of a pickup. CLANK. One second. BOOM. The vehicle turned to scrap—and the cartel's courage with it. Dupli-Kate had already multiplied into six, each copy appearing behind a rifle, kicking, twisting barrels, stripping magazines.

"Drop your weapons!" shouted one of the Kates. "Last warning!"

Two tried to push it; Eve tightened the pink field around them, twisting the air like glass until the rifles slid from their hands.

A purple contrail cut straight across the sky without wasting a second.

Robot tracked the streak with his sensors for a heartbeat, then turned to Eve, voice as even as ever."Atom Eve, verify the source. We will secure a route for the GDA."

She nodded and shot upward, her radiance mirroring the chaos below.

Less than half an hour later, with the road cleared and the cartel gunmen subdued, the GDA's armored vans finally pushed through.

Ambulances knifed through dust with low sirens. GDA teams moved between trees and twisted pickups, rigid spines on stretchers shining under gray light. Helicopters sheared the low sky like blades; rotor wash shoved powder, shrapnel, the iron stink of fresh gunfire.

Containment crews already lined the perimeter. Masks. Vests. Rifles low. No more combat. No one firing back.

Two paramedics knelt, one on each side of Ghost Girl. Her mask was gone—face pale with dust and dried blood, hair pasted to her brow. She blinked slowly, fighting to hold focus.

"Breathing's stable," said one medic.

"BP low, but holding. We're moving," said the other.

"Easy," he added. "Rib fracture and likely concussion."

A few meters away, Reflex sat on the ground, propped to the wheel of a ruined pickup. Her left leg was wrapped in rush-job bandage, a makeshift splint holding knee and thigh. That wasn't what kept her still. She was shaking head to toe. Eyes open. Pupils blown. Mouth parted. No sound.

She didn't blink.

Two agents tried speaking to her and backed away within seconds. She wasn't there.

"We need to drain her out of the center before collapse," a tech said, watching portable monitors. "No response to sound, touch, or simple questions. That's deep shock."

"Two alive here!" an agent shouted, lifting a beam over two unconscious bodies on gravel. "IDs: Scott Heigl and Tom Harsel."

"Immediate custody," came the reply. Collars and magnetic restraints clicked with a clean snap.

Cecil and Donald walked through the center of the blast field. Wind dragged grit and casings; gunpowder and iron lay heavy on the tongue. In the middle of the clearing, two corpses with clear meta markers: a young man pierced through the chest—the heart sitting a yard away on the grass—and, a few steps beyond, an expensive suit drenched red, the torso headless. Russell Baskin Borisov.

Another medic flagged two more nearby: Red Rush down, no severe trauma; Atlas cratered into the earth, barely breathing.

Donald glanced toward Atlas, frowning; seeing him like that was unreal. "What the hell happened here?" he murmured.

Ghost Girl's stretcher rolled past. She held her breath, raked up a voice from a throat scraped raw. "Cartels… with supervillains… The purple carapace from Payton." She lifted her chin toward the headless suit. "Him. And five more. They killed Vortex… and Mirage." Her mouth trembled. "Grey finished all of them."

Cecil pinched the bridge of his nose. Eyes shut for one long second. Donald stared at the ground, the weight climbing his shoulders.

"Where's Grey?" Ghost Girl asked as they slid her into the ambulance.

"Critical," Donald said, steady. "But in the care of someone we trust."

Then the scream came.

"OH MY GOD—OH, FU—!"

Radio chatter of scene procedure crackled—until a shout ripped through the distant sirens. "Chief! Over here! Behind the low warehouse!"

Cecil and Donald ran with two agents to a cracked concrete shed at the clearing's edge—a short depot garage with half the roof gone.

Forensics had opened a corridor of cones.

One tech staggered back, fell on the gravel, tore off his mask, and vomited. Another dropped his tablet and braced on his knees, breathing like he'd taken a gut punch. A third pulled off his safety glasses and clamped a hand to his mouth, as if to keep something from climbing out.

"What is it?" Donald asked—already knowing.

The answer was on the floor. A map of death.

There were bodies. Many bodies.

The first line, near the entrance, were riflemen. None intact. One had the top of his skull peeled like a can lid. Another's face lay folded at a wrong angle, as if dough smashed against a wall. One man's jaw was torn free; his fingers still locked on his gun, but the rest of his head was shredded meat.

Farther in, a second line. No bullet holes. Bones ripping through skin, crushed with animal brutality. Knees bent backward. Spines twisted until they snapped. One was pinned by his own rifle—shoved under the sternum and driven so hard it punched into the concrete behind him.

Cartel dead marked an irregular circle, like someone had painted a picture more grotesque than any war could muster in blood: torsos mangled, the few faces left frozen in the last look of fear.

Near the rim: clean cuts through vest and bone. At the inner radius: skulls hammered to paste against the building's concrete. Beyond: a man torn in half, vertebrae fanned like cracked porcelain.

Sound felt wrong here—too quiet except for a single bright-red drip from some overhead edge. tic… tic… tic.

At the center, a head ripped from someone they recognized immediately—not a neat slice like Russell's. Brutal. Muscle fibers flayed in bundles, serrated bone ending above the clavicle.

Tomás Salamanca.

It lay turned to the sky, eyes locked open in terror. The body knelt two steps behind it, upper half gone, arms hanging as if begging for an overdue truce. Blood had drawn a perfect disc around him, no spatter outside the circle—as if physics itself had been forced to obey another rule.

A tech swallowed hard. "This was…"

Donald breathed deep, shut his mouth slowly, and rubbed the back of his neck. He'd seen a lot. A lot. His voice still came thin.

"How many in here?"

"Fifty-eight so far," the pale tech said. "Cartel. All dead. No exceptions."

Cecil studied the circle—the geometry of horror—the hesitation-free cuts. Wind shifted, snapping the scene tape like a whip.

"Collect everything," he said, voice low, as if the clearing might listen. "No leaked photos. No speculation. We keep this world standing by telling the right truths at the right time."

Patrol lights blinked across that perfect ring of blood. For a moment, even they seemed to flinch.

Interlude — Part 3: Plans, Shattered

Meanwhile — The Reed Family Estate

The back field—usually kept like a show lawn—stood frozen beneath a leaden sky. Inside, the echo of footsteps and waxed wood couldn't drown the recent tremor of rage.

Chris paced in circles in the shut-down game room, fists clenched, jaw locked.

"Damn it! It's over!"

Bruce leaned on the marble counter, breathing shallow while his wounds stitched slow—remnants of what he'd copied from Robert still working under his skin. "We can rebuild."

"There is no rebuild." Chris spun, voice rising. "Start from zero? We're not even in Oakwood anymore—we graduated. Russell's dead. Robert… the cartels… all dead. You saw it." He dragged a hand down his face, eyes bloodshot. "Scott, the streets guy, he's already in custody. Tom too. Who knows what they'll pull out of them. There's no 'continue.' It's done."

Bruce pushed off the counter and crossed the room carefully—his shoulder still sore. "It's Grey's fault. You saw." He jerked his chin toward the window, as if the field could answer. "Mikhail's still moving. And now—"

"And now nothing!" Chris punched a wood panel. Fibers burst into splinters, a rectangular hole showing brick behind. "We never should've played supervillain." He blew out a heavy breath. "Mikhail's a lunatic hooked on gene work. We're going to be his lab rats now? If Russell's gone, there's nothing left to do. Grey…" His gaze unfocused, as if the scene replayed behind his eyes. "He was colder than both of us put together."

Bruce frowned. "If Mikhail doesn't get nabbed, he'll come for us. He needs parts. And we're the parts left."

Chris rubbed his knuckles, the skin already going purple. "If Charlize had gone, maybe she could've stalled him too…" The thought withered mid-sentence. "Yeah, no. If Russell couldn't, what's she gonna do—pregnant?"

The house popped in the wind, as if it objected. Bruce drew a long breath. "Yeah. Then it's over."

"I'm wiping our tracks. Everything that links us to the rest," Chris said, straightening with the posture of a man who'd decided. "Accounts, drops, cars, warehouses. All of it. If Tom or Scott talk, I'll muddy the trail with whatever it takes."

"And Mikhail?" Bruce asked, flat.

Chris pressed the broken panel back with his palm—like he could undo the damage. "He can choke on his obsession. Without Russell paying, his lab will bleed cash. He'll never get Grey to finish his precious research." A humorless half-smile. "Good luck to him."

Bruce looked through the window at the rain-glossed lawn reflecting a colorless sky. "And us?"

"We forget this whole mess," Chris said, turning his back to the hole like he was burying a body. "I'll take over some of my family's businesses. Get things straight. And one day…" He stopped at the doorway, hand on the knob, voice lower, harder. "One day, maybe…"