Joren walked out of the law firm. All he wanted now was a quiet place to sleep.
Home was out of the question.
Those S.H.I.E.L.D. agents had probably already dismantled his bed, examining the springs for traces of alien tech.
He wandered aimlessly, his tall frame dissolving into the city's jagged shadows and neon haze.
Just then, his phone vibrated in his pocket.
He pulled it out. The screen flared to life with a new message.
From: Felicia.
The text was brief, direct—and laced with mischief, complete with a playful cat emoji:
> I heard you're homeless tonight, poor handsome guy. Want to come over? Nobody's home… and I'm wearing black stockings today~
Joren stared at the message, unblinking.
He could picture her lounging on that jewel-studded sofa, long legs swinging lazily, a sly smile curling at the corners of her lips.
Without a word, he flicked his finger and pressed the power button.
The screen went dark, swallowing the perfumed invitation into silence.
He turned down another street, neon signs stretching their glow like grasping fingers.
A cheap hotel sign flickered overhead, its letters stuttering—HOT_L—as if too tired to finish its own name.
---
The next morning.
Joren woke on a mattress as hard as slate.
After a quick wash, he left the hotel without looking back.
He had class today. Needed his textbooks.
Several unmarked white construction vehicles still idled in front of his house. Men in work clothes hauled out debris wrapped in tarps, their faces blank. When they saw him, they gave curt nods—but didn't stop.
He pushed open the front door.
The air inside reeked of fresh paint and sawdust.
Every piece of furniture was draped in white sheets—like bodies laid out in a morgue, waiting for someone to claim them.
Wow… what a professional disguise.
Star Platinum materialized behind him.
Its gaze—sharper than Hawkeye's—swept the room: walls, floor, ceiling, light fixtures, outlets. Every surface magnified, analyzed, dissected in its hyper-focused field of vision.
Nothing.
No hidden cameras.
No listening devices.
No infrared sensors.
The place was too clean.
Would S.H.I.E.L.D.—the same agency that wanted to catalog every cell in his body—really leave his home untouched?
Or… had another "fly" already swept through before them?
Joren's brow furrowed deeper.
This silence was more unnerving than a room full of bugs.
He shut down the thought, stepped into his bedroom, yanked a few textbooks from the shelf, and stuffed them into his backpack.
Pulling his hat low, he slung the bag over his shoulder and walked out—leaving behind a house that felt less like a home and more like a stage set, waiting for the next act.
On his way to school, he reached the end of the sidewalk.
A yellow taxi sat parked by the curb, idling through the red light.
When the signal turned green…
…it didn't move.
Then—engine roaring—a screech split the air.
The taxi whipped around, tires screaming against asphalt, and shot straight toward Joren, leaving twin scorch marks in its wake!
The speed was too great. Pedestrians screamed in terror and scattered in all directions.
Just as the taxi was about to hit him, Joren stepped left.
The reckless vehicle roared past the spot where he'd stood a heartbeat earlier.
Boom—!
A deafening crash split the air.
The taxi plowed into a fire hydrant. Water erupted skyward, arcing high before catching the sunlight—and for a fleeting moment, refracting a shimmering rainbow.
The driver's door flew open.
Staggering out, the man clutched his head. His forehead had slammed into the steering wheel; blood streamed down his face, but he seemed oblivious to the pain.
He rose unsteadily, eyes hollow and vacant.
Like a puppet on unseen strings, he lurched toward Joren with stiff, reckless steps.
Mind control.
Before the driver could close the distance, Star Platinum raised a single finger and pressed it against the back of his neck.
The man's body went limp instantly, collapsing like a sack of grain—completely unconscious.
This is trouble.
Joren glanced at the driver sprawled on the pavement, then lifted his gaze toward the distant silhouette of the school.
This woman's abilities were nothing like that loud, blustering purple-haired man's.
That fool needed proximity to issue commands—his control hinged on scent and spoken words. His downfall had been arrogance, plain and simple.
But this woman? She was different.
How far did her influence reach?
How had she pinpointed Joren's location so precisely?
And how many minds could she seize at once?
If she struck at the school, she might turn hundreds of students into weapons aimed straight at him.
The thought sent a chill down his spine.
Ugh. Going to the school is no longer an option.
After a brief pause, Joren turned and walked away—deliberately putting distance between himself and the campus.
He needed open ground. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere civilians wouldn't get caught in the crossfire.
He would be the bait.
On the city's outskirts lay an abandoned industrial zone—now little more than skeletal husks of factories swallowed by weeds. Dust devils swirled through cracked concrete, and plastic bags skittered across the ground like ghostly rats.
Joren walked to the center of the wasteland and set his backpack down.
Closing his eyes, he sat cross-legged on the barren earth and began to regulate his breath.
An energy stirred in the air.
With each inhale, it coiled toward him—drawn like iron to a magnet.
Golden threads pulsed beneath his skin, converging inward until they flooded his heart.
His life force blazed like a beacon across the desolate expanse.
This was his message to the hidden woman: I'm here.
The sun dipped low, bleeding orange across the horizon.
Joren's eyelids twitched.
He sensed them now—not one, but many.
Dozens of figures rose from the ruins and tall grass, emerging silently from all four directions.
Men and women. Young and old. Office workers in rumpled suits, students with backpacks slung over one shoulder, homeless wanderers in threadbare coats.
They shared one chilling trait:
Their eyes—empty, glassy, devoid of will—were identical to the taxi driver's.
Like mindless revenants, they encircled Joren without a sound.
"Ugh… ugh…"
Joren stood, brushing dust from his pants.
"That's all?" he muttered—half to himself, half in challenge.
"Just sendin
g puppets? Really."
Joren adjusted the brim of his hat, his gaze cutting through space itself, as if locking onto the woman lurking beyond the veil.
"You disappoint me greatly."
Visit patreon.com/ShiroTL for more chapters.