Grief 7.14

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

The thrift store smelled like mothballs and broken dreams. A cardboard cutout of Betty White smiled eternally from behind a rack of Hawaiian shirts, all of them stained in exactly the same place. Fluorescent lights buzzed conspiratorially above mannequins in various states of disrepair. One was wearing half a wedding dress and a motorcycle helmet. Another had three arms, none of them matching.

A dark-skinned young man with dreadlocked hair dyed a garish platinum blond and tied back into a messy ponytail stood adjusting his blazer cuffs for the fourteenth time in three minutes with a self-satisfied smirk worn proudly. The price tag was still hanging from his sleeve - $249.99, marked down to $6.50. His tattoos shifted under the fabric like living things, blue ink catching the light every time he moved. "You know what's funny about this place?" he asked no one in particular, ink-black eyes entirely lacking pupils making the smile he wore look distinctly threatening. "That mirror's the only thing worth more than twenty bucks."

Slique’s chrome mask fractured into a kaleidoscope in the cracked mirror. Rainbow trails bloomed under his fingers, like oil slicks. "Funnier that you're counting other people's money while wearing clearance rack Armani, Nox."

"It's Versace, actually." Nox's smile was sharp enough to cut glass. "And I got it for a steal."

A snort like a freight train echoed from near the empty shelves where a massive frame loomed, making the space feel even more cramped than it was. His skin bore a lifetime of scars and weathering, aging an otherwise young-looking face in the oddest of ways. He had a tiny plastic tiara perched on his permanently bruised and entirely bald head - probably swiped from the children's accessories bin. It sparkled every time he moved, a sharp contrast to the rust red padded vest he wore in his chest with the word “Brunt” spray painted on it in black. "Ya'll are wearing dead folks' clothes and arguing about brands?"

Metal scraped metal as a figure in the back of the old store cleaned his rifle, a thin man with black hair and blacker clothing accented by bits of blue, sat surrounded by porcelain dolls in a perfect semicircle. Their vacant stares didn’t bother him. One wore an eyepatch of electrical tape. “The dead don’t need clothes,” he muttered, not looking up. “Or mirrors. Or tiaras.”

"Some of us have standards, Tangent," Slique replied, his power leaving prismatic trails as he moved. A nearby rack of shoes began slowly sliding across the floor, friction apparently taking a coffee break. "Even if we're working with... tools."

"Tools?" Nox's laugh could have stripped paint. "That's rich coming from someone who treats walls like they're moving walkways at the airport. At least I fight on solid ground."

"When you can see it," Brunt rumbled, adjusting his tiara with surprising delicacy for hands that could crush concrete.

"Better half-blind than half-assed," Nox shot back, but his fingers were tapping an uneven rhythm against the counter now.

Slique turned away from the mirror, with a scoff on his lips. "Efficiency isn't about pride. It's about results. You're all here because you're useful. Nothing more."

Tangent's rifle clicked as he reassembled it, the sound precise as a metronome. "This little dick-measuring contest done yet?" His voice was as flat as day-old soda. "Or do we need to sit through another round before we actually talk strategy?"

"Thank G-G-God," Another figure blurted, blurring between display cases like a caffeinated pinball. His blue-haired reflection multiplied across the cracked glass, each one showing a different twitch or tic. The man’s hands fluttered at his sides like electrocuted butterflies, blue light pulsing under the bare skin of his chest and arms in seizure-induing patterns. "Finally. S-s-seriously, we're wasting time here.” He scratched the blue-inked tattoo of an electrified brain in the center of his chest. “We got, like, a million things we c-could be doing instead of just... this."

Slique tilted his head like an overly curious cat. "We?" The word dripped from his mask like quicksilver. "You're part of this now, Snapt. Remember that. Your time isn't yours anymore."

Snapt froze mid-bounce, his fingers conducting an invisible orchestra. His mouth opened and closed like a fish, eyes darting toward Brunt faster than a shoplifter spotting security. The massive man hadn't moved, but his presence filled the space like concrete filled a grave even as the plastic tiara sparkled menacingly.

"Enough," Tangent repeated. His rifle came up with mechanical grace. "What's the plan?"

"Y-y-yeah," Snapt continued. "We're not just sitting here for story time, are we?"

Snapt’s footsteps drummed against the warped floorboards, syncopated with Tangent’s rifle checks and the airy whistle of wind through broken windows

"Don't rush genius," Nox drawled, adjusting his discount designer lapel with the air of a man who'd practiced the motion in front of a mirror.

Several mirrors, probably. His smirk could have curdled milk. "You can't hurry art, Snapt."

"A-a-art?" Snapt's stutter hit the word like a speed bump, his circuit around the counter stuttering as one hand spasmed toward his face before dropping like a failed high-five. The blue glow under his skin strobed in time with the dying fluorescents overhead. "This ain't art. This is sitting around l-l-like we're waiting for an oven timer. What're we even—what're we even doing, huh?"

"You're stuttering through your third loop around that counter," Slique noted with all the warmth of a morgue freezer. "It's almost impressive how much nervous energy you have. Almost."

Snapt's glare could have melted ice, if the ice was already mostly water and sitting in direct sunlight. "You're real good at w-wasting time, huh? Bet that's w-w-why you needed backup."

Slique stepped forward. "Funny.” His voice could have frozen helium, "coming from someone who can't stand still long enough to follow instructions."

"Boys," Tangent's voice cut through the tension. He cradled his rifle like it was the only sane person in the room. "Play nice. Or don't. I don't care. Just don't get in my way."

"Good to know the robot has an opinion," Nox quipped, slouching against the counter. His fingers tap-danced across the cracked surface in a poor rhythm. "What about you, big guy? Wanna weigh in? Maybe settle this little spat before someone loses a tooth?"

Brunt's grunt made the shelves shiver. He unfolded his arms with the deliberate grace of an avalanche deciding which way to fall, muscles rippling under his vest like tectonic plates. "I think y'all just like hearing yourselves talk," his drawl thick as Mississippi mud pie, "but I'll break a jaw if it means some peace and quiet."

Nox's hands shot up faster than retail prices near Christmas, his surrender more mock than a courtroom re-enactment. "Noted. Point taken."

Slique's mask caught the dying light like a disco ball at a funeral, fragments of reflection dancing as he turned toward the window. His gloved fingers tested the glass with the careful precision of someone checking if milk has gone bad, leaving rainbow-sheened fingerprints that seemed to bend reality slightly sideways. "This isn't a democracy," he announced coldly. "You're here because I wanted efficiency, not feedback."

"Yeah?" Nox leaned forward like a cat spotting an especially judgmental mouse, his clearance-rack Versace creasing. "Then maybe you should've hired quieter help."

"Or smarter help," Slique replied without turning, his words hitting the room hard.

Snapt's hands shot up, neural patterns surging blue-white under his skin before fizzling out like cheap Christmas lights. "G-great. Awesome. This is f-f-fantastic teamwork right here." His pacing resumed with the manic energy of a squirrel after three espressos, each step making the display case rattle. "You wanna lead, lead. But s-sitting around cracking jokes? Not a plan."

Tangent's rifle clicked, the scope snapping into place with mechanical perfection. He rose from his crouch, weapon balanced in his hands like a particularly lethal dance partner as his pale eyes fixed on the group.

"Plan." The word dropped into the room like a penny in a wishing well.

The fluorescent lights buzzed their approval as Snapt's sneakers squeaked a counterpoint against the warped floorboards. Slique surveyed them through his mask, their reflections warping and stretching.

"What's the plan?" Tangent pressed, his tone as blank as flat soda.

"Y-y-y-yeah," Snapt's words tumbled out in fits and starts. "We're not just sitting here for story time, are we?"

The air thickened like grocery store gravy as Slique seemed to take his time responding, each movement measured like he was being charged by the second.

Snapt's sneaker screeched against the floor, his pacing stuttering into a half-step forward. "So? We just g-gonna stare at each other, or are we—"

"You're making it harder to think," Slique cut in. "All energy, no direction."

Snapt jerked to a stop like someone had hit his pause button. "Direction? Oh, right, because s-s-sitting around waiting for your big brain to come up with something better is real f-f-fucking productive."

"Snapt." Brunt's voice rolled through the room. "Shut up."

Snapt folded in on himself like a card table at closing time, shoving twitching fingers deep into jacket pockets. His resumed pacing had the guilty shuffle of a cat pretending it hadn't just knocked something off a table.

Nox snorted, adjusting his cuffs with the dedication of someone avoiding actual work. "And here I thought this was going to be boring. Nothing like watching a team fall apart before the job even starts."

"That's enough," Tangent declared, voice cold as ever. His rifle received another adjustment that seemed more therapeutic than necessary. "Either we're working or we're not. Pick one."

The tension hummed through the air, all eyes drawn to Slique as if magnetized. He propped one foot against the wall with calculated casualness, leaving a slick spot where his limb rested. His head tilted just enough to acknowledge their existence, like a cat deciding whether to knock a glass off a table.

"You want a plan?" Slique's tone suggested he'd rather be explaining basic math to a particularly dense rock. "Fine. Here's the plan. We go in, we hit fast, we clear out. No room for hesitation, no room for mistakes. Brunt takes point, clears the path. Tangent sets up wherever he can see the most angles. Nox does what Nox does best."

His gaze swung toward Snapt. "And you? You keep your head on straight. Or I'll do it for you."

"Bold words," Nox drawled, smirking like a cat. His lean against the counter looked rehearsed enough to have its own choreographer. "Especially for a guy who just admitted he can't do this alone."

Slique stepped forward with the careful menace of a tax notice. The shimmer of his power spread beneath his boots like an oil spill, turning the warped floorboards into a funhouse mirror's nightmare. "I don't need you," each word precise as a surgeon with OCD. "You're here because you make it faster. Don't confuse that with essential."

Brunt's chuckle rolled through the room like thunder deciding to take up comedy. His massive frame made the sagging shelves behind him look like they were having an existential crisis, while his tiara somehow managed to sparkle threateningly. "He's got you there, Nox."

"Yeah, yeah," Nox flicked his wrist dismissively, still grinning like a used car salesman who'd just found his groove. "But I'm the one who keeps things interesting."

"Interesting isn't what we need," Tangent announced, his rifle's bolt snapping home with the finality of a bank closing early. He rose like an automaton, the weapon sliding across his back with mechanical grace. "We need efficient."

"Y-y-yeah," Snapt's stutter tap-danced through the silence like morse code on fast forward. "We're not just sitting here for story time, are we?"

Betty White's cardboard smile seemed to take on a knowing edge as the fluorescents overhead played a symphony of dying bugs. Snapt's sneakers continued their nervous percussion against the floor, each squeak harmonizing with the building's asthmatic ventilation system.

Nox shifted his weight like a pendulum looking for attention, gesturing toward Snapt. "He's got a point. Might be the only coherent thing he's said all night, but hey, even a busted clock, right?"

Neural patterns surged under Snapt's skin as he whipped toward Nox, glaring as hard as his twitchy eyes could manage. "G-go fuck yourself, Nox. I'm the one still standing w-while you're out here playing... what, the team comedian? N-not helping."

"Sure," Nox purred, studying his nails. "Because your neon rave routine has been invaluable so far."

Brunt's laugh rumbled through the room like an avalanche taking a coffee break. He leaned forward with the deliberate grace of a glacier, the shelves behind him creaking. "Y'all ain't ever gonna get along, huh?"

Slique glided into the center of the room as rainbow sheens spread beneath each step. His mask caught the light like a mirror practicing intimidation. "Focus."

Snapt froze mid-twitch, his perpetual motion machine suddenly discovering pause. Tangent's eyes flicked up from his rifle with as much emotion as you'd expect from an ATM. Nox's shrug could have won awards for most theatrical surrender.

"This isn't story time," Slique continued. He positioned himself before a makeshift table that looked like it had been assembled from yard sale leftovers. "But if any of you want to treat it like one, feel free to walk out that door. Now."

The silence that followed had weight, mass, and possibly its own tax bracket.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

"Good."

Something crinkled in Slique's pocket. He withdrew and unfolded it with the precision of an origami master, smoothing it across the table's dusty surface. His gloved hands pinned the corners, the fluorescent lights overhead casting dramatic shadows across what was taking shape before them.

Tangent raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything as he stared at what could only be a map of Brockton Bay.

The map was part transit schedule, part serial killer manifesto. Red lines carved up Brockton Bay into surgical dissections, while timestamps and coordinates crowded the margins. A dead fly lay perfectly centered on Market Street, its tiny corpse circled three times in red ink.

"Everyone over here." The command left no room for discussion.

Brunt's boots hit the floor like artillery shells as he approached, each impact making the building remember its structural integrity issues. His tiara caught the light at exactly the wrong angle, temporarily blinding Snapt for a moment as the wiry man let out a curse.

Nox drifted over next, price tag fluttering. Tangent didn't bother standing, just dragged his chair closer with rifle parts cascading into his lap. The screech of metal on wood made everyone wince except him.

Snapt ricocheted between three different positions before settling, patterns under his skin dancing with each motion. He'd somehow acquired a rubber band and was stretching it between his fingers with the intense focus of someone defusing a bomb.

"What's with the spiderweb?" Brunt moved closer and leaned down until his shadow swallowed half the table. "You been doodling, Slique?"

"Tracking the kid." Slique's finger landed on what might have been a coffee stain near the Boardwalk. "He's predictable when he's on patrol. Sticks to a pattern, mostly."

"A cape with a schedule?" Nox's designer knockoff creaked as he leaned forward. "Adorable."

"Problem is—" Slique started, but stopped as a distant ballerina music box hit a particularly sour note. The tiny dancer spun faster, as if trying to escape its own melody. "Problem is, he's not stupid. Randomizes his drop-off points."

A moth committed suicide against the nearest fluorescent tube with a decisive pop as Tangent assembled three different rifle parts without looking, his movements precise as automated machinery. The dead fly on Market Street buzzed in a way that was very not-dead.

"Makes sense." Click-click-click went another piece into place. "Basic counter-surveillance."

"So we're chasing shadows." Brunt's voice rumbled. "Sounds like a waste of time."

"Not quite." Slique's mask reflected five different versions of the same tension. "Made a call to the client. He wouldn’t share anything but he connected me with another cape I’ve gotten to know well. She offered some... interesting details."

Snapt's rubber band snapped, the sharp crack making everyone but Tangent flinch. He was already reaching for another one.

"Details like what?" Nox's smirk had teeth now.

Slique's hand moved across the map like a blade. "His name. His address. His family." Each word landed with precision. "Friends. His patterns, behaviors, places he goes when he's not wearing a mask."

The room shifted.

Brunt's knuckles cracked like gunshots. Tangent's assembly routine accelerated to blur-speed. Nox's posture changed from 'amused cat' to 'shark that smells blood.' Snapt's new rubber band stretched to breaking point.

"So what's the play?" The excitement in Nox's voice was real now, sharp as broken glass. "Gonna send a little message to his mom?"

"If it works." Slique shrugged, but the casual gesture felt weaponized. "Point is, we don't need to chase him anymore. We make him come to us."

Brunt's laugh shook dust from the ceiling. "Now we're talking."

"What if he doesn't fold?" Tangent asked, his voice as flat as ever, though his hands paused for a moment over his rifle.

"Then we make our point another way," Slique said, his gloved finger tapping the map again, the sound like a faint drumbeat of inevitability. "He's smart, but he's not invincible. We hit what he cares about. He'll break. Doubt he's gonna be on his best game when mommy ends up car bombed."

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

The headphones came off with a faint click, the sound swallowed almost immediately by the still night air that hung heavy over the docks. His fingers lingered in place, hovering in empty space as the weight vanished from his palm, until Takeshi's hands—careful, hesitant movements that betrayed his nervousness—reached out to take them away. The exchange barely registered through the static filling his head, vision tunneling as his eyes locked onto the warehouse looming ahead: a hulking block of shadow in the half-lit industrial sprawl, its aluminum siding punctured by weak yellow light that bled through gaps like infected wounds.

The word kept echoing, sharp and serrated, cutting deeper with each repeat.

Car bombed.

Not shouted in anger or sneered with hate—just said.

Casual. Offhand.

Like ordering fries at a drive-thru or asking someone to pass the salt. The kind of tone that made it clear this wasn't the first time, and wouldn't be the last.

The laugh in the merc's voice made it worse, that barely-restrained amusement riding under his words. The sound of someone who found the whole thing funny, who got off on other people's fear.

Slique.

The kind of man who thought killing people was worth a good laugh.

Who treated murder like a punch line.

Car bombed.

It hit harder the second time, third time, fourth—each echo carrying fresh weight as the implications sank in. His jaw tightened until his teeth creaked, the pressure building behind his eyes as something cold and razor-sharp crystallized in his chest: He knows who I am. He knows about my mom.

The world went quiet, sound dropping away like someone had hit mute. Not real quiet—he could still hear Takeshi shifting nervously beside him, sneakers scuffing concrete, the electric drone of distant street lamps humming through the night—but the kind of quiet that came from pressure. From focus. A muted roar filling his ears as his awareness narrowed to a single point: that warehouse and the five bodies inside it.

Five distinct voices he'd heard through those headphones.

Five separate threats to eliminate.

The rage simmered just below the surface, a constant low boil in his veins, but not enough to make him explode.

Not yet.

A soft, hesitant voice broke through the pressure. "...Boss?"

Hardkour blinked, his mind snapping back like an over-stretched rubber band finally giving way. He turned his head slightly, the motion mechanical as he glanced at Takeshi. The older teen just stood there, wide-eyed with his mouth hanging slightly open, like he was waiting for the punchline to a particularly bad joke that he already knew would hurt.

Hardkour stared at him for a long beat, the question hanging unanswered in the air between them.

"Oh," he said finally, voice flat and empty. "You're still here."

It wasn't meant as a threat.

Not at all.

But the way Takeshi flinched, stepping back as if Hardkour had raised a hand instead of his voice, made it clear how it sounded. His lips moved silently, searching for words that wouldn't come as sweat began to bead at his temple.

Hardkour tilted his head, an almost birdlike motion, and blinked behind the red sheen of his helmet's visor. His voice came quieter this time, just a little softer around the edges. "That wasn't a threat. I just forgot you were here."

Takeshi froze, like he wasn't sure if that was better or worse. "Oh," he managed after a beat.

"Yeah." Hardkour nodded once, turning back to the warehouse. "Relax."

"...Right." Takeshi tried to straighten up, but his posture stayed hunched. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "Sure."

Hardkour didn't look at him again, attention sliding back to the target ahead with laser focus. "I can't order you to relax," he added, the words drifting out almost as an afterthought. "I'm just saying you should try."

"Uh...okay."

The other kid's nerves radiated off him in waves, but Hardkour couldn't spare the focus to play therapist. His attention tunneled inward, sinking into the deep well of cold rage thrumming through his veins. This wasn't the kind of anger that burned—it froze, crystallizing into something sharp and deadly in his chest. His breathing stayed measured, controlled, each inhale and exhale carefully counted like he'd practiced, but the technique felt hollow.

Pointless, with those words still scratching at the back of his skull like rats in the walls.

Car bombed. His mother.

The sting behind his eyes wasn't tears—it was transformation.

The familiar pressure built as his pupils contracted, narrowing to predatory slits that caught every flicker of movement, every shadow. His teeth ached as they sharpened, pressing against the inside of his lips. Another deep breath did nothing to slow the changes. His fingers curled inward, joints popping as claws threatened to emerge.

Rage wasn't enough. Rage was a liability, a path to mistakes he couldn't afford. These weren't just enemies to defeat—they were threats to eliminate. Walking time bombs aimed at everyone he cared about, everyone unlucky enough to be caught in the blast radius.

Power hummed beneath his skin as Hardkour shifted his stance, an electric current racing through taut muscles. His fingers twitched, power begging for release. The urge to charge in screamed through his blood—to play the hero, to tear through walls and bodies until nothing remained but wreckage and red mist.

But recklessness meant risk. One survivor was all it would take, one merc living long enough to make a phone call. To pass on what they knew. To put a target on his mother's back.

Unacceptable.

This wasn't going to be a fight. Fights had rules, had limits. Had survivors.

This was going to be an execution.

"Takeshi."

The teen's posture snapped straight, headphones still clutched in his hands like a shield. "Yeah, boss?"

"Step back."

Each word fell like ice, precise and sharp. Not a request—a warning.

Hardkour kept his gaze locked on the warehouse, tracking the shadows that shifted behind thin walls, cast by sickly yellow light that flickered like dying fireflies. His knuckles cracked as he flexed his hands, feeling the burn of claws pushing against skin, begging to emerge. The rage had crystallized now, a glacier in his chest that wouldn't melt until the threat was eliminated.

Time to get to work. He squared his shoulders, stance widening as he studied his target. The warehouse squatted at the street's end like a diseased toad, corrugated walls streaked with rust that looked more like dried blood than oxidized metal. Shadows danced across warped aluminum siding, thrown by the weak light bleeding through gaps in the walls.

His movements were precise as he brought his hands together, one palm pressed flat against the back of the other, fingers spread wide. The air between them pulsed once, twice, then rippled with visible heat distortion. A spark ignited in the space between—tiny at first, a mere ember dancing with destructive potential. The flame swelled immediately, twisting and writhing like a living thing as it fed on the mana he channeled into it.

The sphere of fire grew rapidly, heat radiating outward in waves that prickled against his skin. Within seconds, it had expanded to the size of a basketball, its surface roiling like liquid glass. Sharp, erratic shadows leapt across the uneven cobblestones as the magical flame cast its deadly light.

"Holy—" The curse exploded from behind him as Takeshi stumbled backward, his voice cracking. "What the hell is—"

"Stay back," Hardkour said evenly, his voice a stark contrast to the violent chaos writhing between his palms. The words carried the weight of certainty—not a suggestion or warning, but a simple statement of fact.

Takeshi didn't need to be told twice. His footsteps scuffed against loose gravel as he scrambled backward, finally grasping the meaning behind Hardkour's earlier warning. The sound of his retreat faded into background noise, barely registering through the low thrum of power building in Hardkour's hands.

The air around the fiery sphere shimmered with distortion, light bending and warping into waves that rippled like heat haze over summer asphalt. Each breath Hardkour drew sent sharp, dry aches through his chest, the superheated air searing his lungs. The flame felt wild beneath his fingers, pushing against his control with predatory intent. Its weight pressed back against his palms with growing force, straining the muscles in his arms and shoulders until they burned, but he refused to give ground.

Instead, he drove his focus deeper, channeling his will into the writhing flame. The sphere fought him like a living thing as he began to compress it, but raw determination won out over magical resistance. Sweat traced burning paths down his temples, trickling along his jaw before vanishing into the fabric of his suit. The heat grew more intense with each passing second, the air around his hands starting to shimmer and distort.

The fire shrank gradually, its surface growing brighter and sharper as its mass compressed inward. Energy swirled within the sphere like a contained storm, held in check only by the iron grip of his will. By the time it had contracted to volleyball size, the ground beneath had blackened and cracked, giving off faint wisps of smoke. The air itself felt hostile, crackling with potential violence.

Another muffled curse drifted from behind him—Takeshi probably unaware he'd even spoken aloud. The sound barely registered through Hardkour's concentration as he continued to compress the volatile energy.

The sphere now vibrated with barely contained force, its surface an unstable fusion of molten orange and eye-searing white that reminded him of footage he'd seen of solar flares. Heat lashed out in waves, scorching the air around his hands until it wavered like water. The low hum of contained power drilled into his chest, resonating through bone and muscle.

His arms quivered under the increasing strain, but his stance remained solid as steel. His gaze never wavered from the warehouse, those distant moving shadows reduced to meaningless smudges against the singular focus of his purpose. No hesitation clouded his thoughts, no doubt weakened his resolve. His world contracted to two points of reality: the inferno straining against his grip, and the target waiting to receive it.

Another slight shift of his feet positioned him perfectly, weight settling with practiced precision. One more measured breath drawn through clenched teeth. The compressed fire responded by growing impossibly denser, its core darkening to deep orange while the edges blazed white-hot enough to leave afterimages dancing in his vision. The humming deepened to a bone-shaking Thrummm that seemed to ripple through the earth beneath his boots.

A final steadying breath. The weapon was primed.

Hardkour pulled the condensed sphere closer to his palm, exhaling sharply as the force of it tried to tear his arms apart. Fresh sweat rolled down his neck as the intensity peaked. His focus narrowed to a laser point, the rest of the world falling away into irrelevance.

Then, without hesitation, he thrust his leading hand toward the warehouse.

The fiery projectile ripped free from his grasp with a deafening roar, tearing through space fast enough to leave the air glowing in its wake. The backlash rippled outward in a visible wave, strong enough to make the ground buckle beneath his planted feet. Searing heat trailed behind it like a comet's tail as it streaked toward its target.

The impact was immediate and catastrophic.

The compressed sphere struck the warehouse's wall and detonated, unleashing a blinding explosion of flame and concussive force. Thunder cracked through the night air as the shockwave expanded outward. The building's exterior didn't simply break—it vanished, material flash-vaporizing under the overwhelming heat and pressure. The air itself seemed to catch fire, glowing in rippling waves of orange and white as the flames consumed everything within reach.

The warehouse collapsed inward as the inferno swallowed it whole. The walls buckled, the roof caving in before vanishing into the blaze. Whatever hadn’t already been turned to ash was lost in the roiling flames, the sheer heat warping the surrounding air into shimmering waves.

Hardkour stood motionless, his arms still extended, as the fire raged in front of him. The searing heat washed over him, the air thick with the smell of ash and burnt oil. He could feel the residual energy vibrating faintly in his chest, the aftermath of unleashing so much concentrated power.

The warehouse was gone. In its place was a near crater, edges glowing faintly with residual heat, the ground blackened and scorched. A faint breeze stirred the haze of ash, carrying the remnants of destruction into the night.

Pyrokinesis (Adept) Level Up x 6

14 → 20

+ 125000 XP

Level Up!

Lvl 37

+ 5 Acrobatics

+ 10 STR

+ 10 VIT

+ 5 SPD

+ 5 Electrokinesis

+ 5 Gunplay: Rifles

+ 10 Surface Adhesion

“Takeshi.”

Behind him, Takeshi’s voice cracked like a broken radio, squeaking and creaking like a rusty door hinge.

“...Y-y-yeah, boss?”

Hardkour didn’t move, his gaze still fixed on the crater. His voice came low, even.

“Call the fire department.”