John was deep in thought when a crisp female voice cut through the music and chaos.
"Hey, I just saw you smile."
The voice belonged to a girl—young, probably no more than seventeen or eighteen. She looked like she was in the prime of her youth, but the heavy layers of smoky makeup on her face gave her a rebellious street-punk edge. The kind that made people instinctively want to steer clear, or look twice.
She flopped into the booth next to him, uninvited and unbothered.
There was a hint of alcohol on her breath when she spoke, her eyes glassy but sharp. "You definitely smiled. Don't deny it."
John turned his head slowly, squinting slightly at her, but didn't say a word.
"What?" she said, narrowing her brows. "Are you mute or something?"
He raised an eyebrow, still expressionless. "I'm not. But I could make you be."
His voice was calm. Flat. Devoid of any jest.
Most people—especially girls—would've taken that as a clear threat and walked away without hesitation.
But this one? She just laughed.
A sharp, clear giggle spilled from her lips. "You're funny."
John didn't laugh. "Humor? You think I'm joking?"
He leaned in slowly, so close their faces were mere inches apart. Their breaths mingled in the space between. The dim bar lights danced across his cheekbones, giving him an almost ghostly presence.
The girl looked mildly uncomfortable. She tilted her head back just a bit, giving herself some space.
John noticed the shift. He leaned back into his seat, pulled a small knife from under the table, and began to idly spin it in his fingers. The blade caught the light in erratic flashes as it twisted.
The girl's gaze flicked down to the knife, then back up.
"Easy, killer," she said, waving a hand. "Honestly, I felt like puking a few minutes ago, but now I'm kinda in the mood. Want to kiss?"
John tilted his head. A strange smirk played at the corner of his lips. It wasn't amusement. It wasn't interest. It was something colder. Sharper.
"No," he said quietly. "You can go now."
"Go?" she repeated, offended. "I'm not leaving."
He stared at her blankly. "Because we're not the same kind of people."
"Bullshit," she snapped, standing up from the booth and jabbing a finger toward him. "Who exactly do you think you are?"
John smiled. Not kindly.
"Me?" he said, rising slowly.
In one fluid motion, he stepped forward, pressed the edge of the blade against the girl's neck, and leaned in close, his breath brushing her ear.
"I'm an evil person," he whispered.
The girl's eyes didn't flinch.
"So am I," she replied calmly.
That gave John pause.
Before he could react, the knife in his hand began to tremble.
Not his hand—the blade itself.
The shaking intensified rapidly, and then, with a sharp jerk, the knife tore free from his fingers and floated into the air, hovering between them with its tip aimed at his chest.
John's expression didn't change, but a spark flickered in his mind.
Magnetism?
He narrowed his eyes.
"You can control metal?" he asked softly.
The knife spun lazily in the air, suspended by an unseen force. The girl grinned and stepped back into the light.
"Pretty cool trick, huh?"
John's thoughts raced. A girl, young, rebellious, magnetic powers…
And then it clicked.
Polaris.
Magneto's daughter.
The knife wobbled once more, then zipped back into her hand as if summoned by invisible strings. She twirled it between her fingers.
"What do you think?" she asked. "Is that evil enough for you?"
Her voice had shifted. No longer teasing. There was weight behind her words now. Confidence. Challenge.
John studied her carefully. Her earlier intoxicated demeanor now seemed... practiced. A mask.
Was she pretending to be drunk this whole time?
He didn't know.
But he knew one thing.
"No," he said, voice calm, eyes hard. "It's not crazy enough."
"Crazy?" she echoed, blinking.
Then she glanced toward the center of the club. The crowd was still swaying, lost in the music. Bodies pressed against bodies, oblivious to the storm brewing at the edge.
Polaris smirked.
"Then let's see if this is enough."