Memory Fragment - Age 10
The humid air of the Kane Complex arboretum clung to their skin as Lucas flopped onto the grass beside Leor. "Hey Leor," he said, plucking a blade of grass, "if you could have any superpower, what would it be?"
Leor stared up at the artificial sky, considering. "Flying seems cool. Or maybe super strength," he finally answered. "What about you?"
Lucas's crimson eyes gleamed. "I want the strongest power of all. Something like summoning black holes or atomic blasts."
Leor frowned. "That scale's too big. You'd cause so much damage, being a hero would be impossible."
"Who said anything about being a her—"
"Talking about powers again?" Lyra's voice cut through as she appeared, her lab coat flapping behind her like a cape. At ten, she already carried herself with the poise of the scientists she shadowed daily.
"Just boys stuff," Lucas snapped, his usual irritation at his twin surfacing.
Leor watched their bickering with a smile until a shadow fell across them. Dominic Kane towered above, his golden hair catching the artificial sunlight, green eyes crinkling with warmth. "How's my favorite troublemakers?"
"Daddy!" Lyra beamed.
"Mind if I borrow our little genius? Dr. Carter wants her perspective on something."
"But I just got here!" Lyra protested.
Dominic ruffled her hair. "Won't take long. Your friends will wait, won't you boys?"
As Lyra skipped away, Leor caught Lucas's expression - the way his fingers dug into the grass, his jaw tightening as he watched his father's retreating back with something far more complex than childish annoyance.
Present Day
The memory dissolved like smoke as Leor jolted awake, his body protesting against the truck's worn backseat. The taste of copper filled his mouth - he'd bitten his tongue during the lightning surge.
"Where—?"
"About time," Dave grunted from the driver's seat, tossing a chocolate bar without taking his eyes off the desert road. "Eat. You burned enough calories to power a small town."
Leor's fingers trembled as he unwrapped the bar. "Where are we going?"
"After that lightshow? Anywhere but here." Dave's knuckles whitened on the wheel. "Authorities'll be swarming by sundown."
Through the rear window, Leor watched their latest home - the fourth in three years - disappear behind a curtain of dust. The chocolate tasted like ashes in his mouth.
"You'll see," Dave added, softer now, as the truck sped toward the horizon where storm clouds gathered.
HARROW POINT
The faded wooden sign creaked in the salty wind, its peeling letters announcing:
WELCOME TO HARROW POINT
*"Home of the World's Sweetest Lobster" (1987-2003)*
Dave parked the rusted pickup outside a weathered bar, its windows so grimy they looked painted black. "Used to be a fishing town," he muttered, lighting a cigarette. "Now? Retirement home for folks who wanna disappear."
Leor eyed the empty streets. No cars. No kids. Just the distant cry of gulls and the smell of dead shellfish.
"You comin' or what?" Dave jerked his chin toward the bar.
Inside, the air was thick with old beer and older secrets. A grizzled man behind the counter didn't look up from polishing a glass. "We're closed. Can't you read the—"
"What sign?" Leor blurted. The door had been bare.
The man froze. His knuckles whitened around the glass as he lifted his head—brown eyes widening under salt-and-pepper brows.
"Dave...?" His voice cracked. "Is that you?"
Dave smirked. "Been a while, Vincent." He nudged Leor forward. "Meet Leor Carter. James's kid."
Vincent dropped the glass. It shattered between them like an omen.
Recognition. Dread. Something worse.
His stare dragged over Leor's face—lingering on the faint blue veins visible under his too-pale skin. "Jesus, Dave. You actually found—"
"Not here." Dave's boot crushed the glass shards like a warning.
Aftermath of the Battle
Six Hours After Departure
The cabin lay in ruins, its splintered remains barely distinguishable from the surrounding devastation.
Men in black tactical gear moved through the wreckage like shadows, their helmet lamps cutting through the settling dust. Trees had been uprooted in radial patterns, their trunks shattered mid-section as if hit by artillery. The ground itself was cratered—one particular indentation resembled a colossal fist imprint.
A sleek government sedan pulled up, its tires crunching over debris.
The operatives stiffened as Han Ho-Jo stepped out, his tailored suit stark against the destruction. At forty-two, his sharp features betrayed no emotion—only the calculating gleam of a man who'd built a career on hunting anomalies.
"Sir!" An operative saluted. "Glad you—"
"Spare me." Han's voice was ice. "Report."
The operative swallowed. "Evidence suggests a non-conventional engagement. No explosive residue, but..." He gestured to the thirty-meter swath of flattened pines. "The force required to cause this damage exceeds standard military capabilities. Then there's this."
He handed over a tablet displaying security footage from a gas station twelve miles away.
Han's breath caught.
The grainy video showed the mountain horizon—then, without warning, a searing blue bolt erupted from the treeline, punching through the clouds with enough force to ripple the camera lens. Seconds later, a shockwave visibly distorted the air, rattling the store's windows.
Han's thumb hovered over the timestamp.
03:47 AM.
The exact moment satellite surveillance had detected an energy spike in this sector.
He tossed the tablet back, lips curling into something between a smile and a snarl.
"Sir? Orders?"
Han was already sliding into his car, the footage secured in his briefcase.
"Burn the site. No traces."
As the sedan peeled away, his reflection in the window glowed faintly yellow.