The glass stretched from floor to ceiling, a monolithic windowpane framing Brockton Bay like a museum exhibit. Theo analyzed his reflection: a pale smear against urban decay, the mana field rippling around him in precise geometries. Silver eyes tracked motion patterns below—pedestrians flowing like particles in a fluid dynamics simulation, each trajectory predictable, mappable.
He traced the flow of power through his body, a quiet exercise in control. Mana pooled in his core, responsive but contained, like mercury under glass. Two weeks of practice had taught him the value of restraint. Point five percent leak rate per minute.
Acceptable. Sustainable.
For now.
The position was calculated—spine straight (vertebral alignment optimal), shoulders squared (scapular tension distributed evenly), stance wide enough for stability but not aggression (center of mass perfectly aligned). One week and four days of practice had taught him the value of precision.
Numbers as armor.
Data as shield.
The equations helped steady him, gave structure to the raw potential of the blue humming beneath his skin. Even his mass—a point of shame before—now registered merely as a variable in his personal force equations. Fascinating how perception altered reality: fat cells that once drew mockery now served as excellent mana insulators, their high lipid content perfect for allowing him some enhanced control, even as his body rapidly burned through them.
From this height, the docks looked almost tranquil—cranes frozen mid-motion, the water cutting black veins into rusted skeletons. A grid of decay and commerce, laid out with deceptive simplicity.
The illusion of order.
Theo knew better. The same way he knew the precise moment his father would—
"...and Greg? How's the boy been?"
His father's voice struck the air like a tuning fork, each syllable precision-engineered to provoke response. Theo heard them: micro-variations in tone suggesting calculated interest masking genuine disdain.
A performance, Theo cataloged, adding the data point. He barely tolerates me.
The man treated conversation like combat, every other crafted sentence a thrust seeking weakness. Maximum efficiency dictated playing along, but something in him—perhaps that spark of teenage rebellion Greg kept encouraging—suggested a different approach.
"Fine," he replied, voice modulated to just a fraction below his father's volume. The monosyllable hung in the air, its deliberate inadequacy a tiny revolution. Through the glass, he tracked his father's reflection, calculating the precise moment irritation would overcome control.
Three. Two. One.
"Fine," Max repeated, the word dripping with disdain as he leaned back in his chair. The leather creaked—expensive, Italian, a sound designed to draw attention like everything else in this office. Theo didn't need to look to see his father's expression—a faint smirk, the sharp angles of his jaw tightening with condescension.
The reflection in the glass provided enough data: sixty-degree head tilt, right hand drumming a precise rhythm on the armrest. "Is that your assessment, or just a lack of effort to think critically?"
Theo's silver eyes flicked to the docks, tracing the jagged geometry of the waterfront.
Derelict ships dotted the harbor like toys abandoned by a careless giant, shadows stretching long in the late afternoon sun. The weight of his father's gaze pressed against his back, but he refused to turn. He couldn't afford to let the man see the disgust simmering beneath his practiced indifference. Control the variables. Maintain the equation.
A crane swung into motion below, breaking the stillness. The movement drew his attention, a welcome distraction from the psychological chess match playing out behind him. Greg. Sparky. Theo thought of the two boys—his godbrother's unrelenting energy, bouncing between topics like a rubber ball in a vacuum chamber, Sparky's acerbic wit cutting through pretense as easy as breathing. They'd become constants in his life, grounding him in a way he hadn't expected. But they didn't know.
Couldn't know.
The Empire's shadow loomed over every interaction, a dark variable he hated but couldn't eliminate from the equation. How do you tell your friends the truth when the truth could destroy them?
The thought tasted bitter, like copper and failure. Sparky, his train of thought shifted. The other boy was interesting, in comparison to himself. His powers, though purely physical, were simplistic in ways Theo envied somewhat.
But, in truth, the chubby boy would rather have his fingernails removed than ever give up mana.
Strange, Theo thought, how natural the word "mana" had started to feel in his vocabulary. Greg had said it casually, like someone naming an old friend, and Sparky had followed suit with his usual mix of sarcasm and conviction.
Theo had rolled his eyes at first, silently debating the semantic accuracy of it all. The term felt primitive, almost childish—like naming a complex mathematical principle after a cartoon character. He'd spent hours constructing alternative taxonomies, each more precise than the last. Energy manipulation. Matter resonance.
But in the end, he couldn't deny the evidence.
The equations balanced, the patterns resolved. Mana existed.
He traced the curve of a crane's rusted arm far below, cataloging the molecular structure through his enhanced perception. The metal sang to him—a symphony of stress points and material fatigue, crystalline structures degrading in precise patterns. The word still felt a bit foreign on his tongue, but the concept had become as natural as breathing. Every object, every person, every breath felt interconnected in ways Theo couldn't unsee now. The air itself pulsed with potential, a lattice of invisible forces waiting to be reshaped.
A gull wheeled past the window, and Theo tracked its trajectory without thinking. Mass: approximately 1.2 kilograms. Velocity: 12 meters per second. Mana signature: negligible but present. He still wasn't entirely sure how the term fit into the broader taxonomy of parahuman abilities, but it didn't matter.
It worked.
And wasn't that what mattered most?
There was something oddly satisfying about it—like finding a perfectly shaped puzzle piece in a chaos of mismatched edges. The energy responded to his will with mathematical precision, yet required no conscious calculation. Mana bent to intent like water over stone. Effortless. Instinctual. Theo found himself marveling at its elegance—how the invisible threads tied everything together, how a single shift in pressure could reshape the flow. Complexities reduced to intuition, like a savant solving equations without understanding the underlying math.
It was better than any equation, cleaner than any calculation. No messy variables, no error margins to account for.
Control made tangible.
Pure intent translated directly into effect, bypassing the crude mechanics of physical interaction. A part of him found it ironic, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly at the thought.
The Protectorate cape Myrddin, with his staff and robes and ridiculous theatrics, had always been a joke to Theo—a man playing wizard in a world of science and logic. The cape's proclamations about magic had seemed delusional at best, an embarrassing affectation at worst.
But now, sensing mana flow through the world like currents in an invisible sea, Theo wondered if Myrddin had the last laugh. Perhaps the joke was on him. The thought settled uncomfortably in his mind, challenging years of carefully constructed assumptions.
"It's been... educational," Theo said finally, picking his words as carefully as his father picked his suits. Each syllable measured, weighted for maximum impact with minimum revelation. "Greg is... direct. Different from what I'm used to."
The understatement felt like armor, deflecting the sharp edges of Max's attention.
Behind him, his father exhaled sharply, a sound of faint amusement that carried more condemnation than any outright criticism. Theo could hear the faint rustle of papers, the deliberate shuffle of work being handled with machinelike efficiency. The sounds painted a picture: Max seated at his mahogany desk, documents arranged in perfect right angles, every movement a performance of power and control.
"Direct," Max echoed, as if the word were a slur. His tone carried decades of cultivated superiority, sharp enough to cut. "Well, I suppose that's a kind way of putting it. His father was the same. A loud brute who thought force alone could solve any problem. Charming in its own way, I suppose, but ultimately useless. No subtlety. No vision."
The words fell like precise knife strikes, each one calculated to wound.
Theo clenched his jaw. His reflection flickered in the glass as he shifted his weight, the tension in his posture betraying his calm facade. The mana around him rippled in response to his agitation, a microscopic disturbance in the field that he quickly suppressed.
He knew what Max was doing. Greg wasn't just his godbrother—he was the specter of Rowan Veder, the man Max had once called a friend.
Max had built an empire, while Rowan had settled for brawls and bravado, and was liked more despite it all. The stark contrast defined their paths: one man ascending to corporate heights while maintaining a facade of respectability, the other content with simple pleasures and dishonest relationships.
Greg, Theo knew, was a constant reminder of that gap.
And Max hated reminders.
"You spend enough time with someone like that," Max continued, his tone light, almost conversational. The shift in his voice carried practiced charm, the kind that had won over board rooms and bought silence. Through the glass, Theo watched his father's reflection adjust his platinum cufflinks—a habitual gesture that preceded his most cutting observations. "And you start to see the limits of brute strength and bluster. Useful in a crisis, sure. But as a foundation? It crumbles under pressure. The same way his father did."
The words sliced through the air with surgical precision. Theo felt the mana inside him shift, responding to the tension building in his core. Power spike: 0.02%. Negligible. Contained. He focused on the numbers, letting them anchor him against the rising tide of irritation.
"Greg's not his father," Theo said quietly. The statement emerged perfectly neutral, each word stripped of emotional weight through careful calibration. It wasn't a defense, not really. Just an observation.
But it hung in the air, heavier than he'd intended.
The afternoon sun caught his silver eyes in the reflection, making them flash like mercury. Greg wasn't his father, and that was precisely why Theo trusted him. Rowan Veder had been a hammer, loud and unsubtle, smashing through problems with raw strength. Greg, for all his bravado, carried a spark of creativity his father had lacked—a willingness to think around corners instead of charging straight through them.
Sparky too.
Theo smirked faintly at the thought, the expression barely visible in his reflection. Sparky, with his biting wit and pragmatic streak, balanced Greg's raw pure energy in a way that felt... inevitable.
Like the two of them had been crafted as counterweights. Chaos and control.
And Theo? He was the fulcrum.
The pivot point.
They balanced him in ways his father could never understand. Greg's raw creativity sparked new pathways in Theo's mathematical framework, while Sparky's cynical pragmatism grounded their experiments in reality. Together, they formed a kind of human Euler diagram - three distinct approaches overlapping to create something greater than their parts. His place in the group served specifically by providing another focus for Sparky to vent his frustrations, adjusting the tension between him and Greg, while Greg looked to him as a new wall to bounce ideas off. The equation was elegant in its simplicity: Greg + Sparky + Theo = Stability.
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The air conditioning hummed, a steady undertone to the subtle power plays unfolding in the office. They didn't know about Theo's plans. Not yet. But they didn't need to. The thought settled like a weight in his chest, heavy but necessary.
Max hummed, a low, contemplative sound that Theo had learned to hate. The noise carried years of condescension, wrapped in a veneer of paternal concern. "No. He's not," Max said at last, the words trailing off like an afterthought. Theo could hear the faint click of a pen tapping against glass—a subtle signal of his father's impatience. The rhythm matched the building's security patrol schedule: three taps, pause, two taps. Always counting, always measuring. "And Susan? How's she managing?"
"Fine," Theo said again, his voice a shade sharper this time. The syllable escaped before he could fully neutralize its edge.
He regretted it instantly.
"Fine," Max repeated, slower, the syllable stretched into a blade. Each second of silence that followed was precisely calculated for maximum psychological impact. "It's funny how often you use that word, Theodor. As if it's a shield. Something to hide behind. Is it because you're afraid I'll notice if you say something real?"
Max's questions grated against Theo's thoughts like sandpaper, each one designed to strip away layers of defense. The mana currents around him swirled with barely contained agitation. He didn't need to be here. His time could've been spent refining the force-spell Greg had shown him or experimenting with the strange way his own mana seemed to refract through the air—a phenomenon that suggested fascinating implications about the nature of parahuman abilities. But no, here he stood, absorbing Max's condescension like a sponge. All part of the plan.
Every second he spent under his father's gaze was calculated, the same way he calculated the efficiency of a spell. An optimal input for maximum gain. The city stretched out below, a testament to similar calculations—every building, every transaction, every power play carefully measured and executed.
There was no other way to play this game, not with someone like Max.
So Theo listened, nodded, and waited for the man's expectations to align with his own designs.
His fingers tightened behind his back, knuckles pressing white against his palms. He forced himself to breathe, slow and measured.
The man saw only tools and weaknesses, never people. The realization crystallized in Theo's mind with mathematical certainty, each interaction a data point in an undeniable pattern. The mana currents around Max carried a signature Theo had learned to recognize—sharp angles and rigid geometries, lacking the organic flow that characterized most living things.
"I'll keep that in mind," Theo said finally, his tone so neutral it was almost acidic. The words emerged perfectly calibrated, each syllable stripped of emotion through careful modulation. The mana field around him remained steady, betraying none of the calculations running beneath the surface. His weight shifted, carefully distributed to maintain the precise posture his father often demanded.
Max chuckled softly, the sound as hollow as the city's abandoned warehouses. Theo's enhanced senses picked up the subtle artificiality in the laugh—a practiced performance, like everything else. "Do that," he said, the words punctuated by the sharp snap of a file closing. "You might learn something." The leather chair creaked as he shifted, a sound engineered to project authority.
Theo turned his head just enough to catch his father in the corner of his vision, analyzing the scene with detached precision. Max was hunched slightly over his desk, the sleek surface littered with neatly stacked papers and a single glass of water. His movements were precise, almost robotic, as he sorted through his work.
His father's movements were precise—too precise, Theo realized, a machine compensating for worn gears. The flex of Max's fingers, a faint hitch in his otherwise flawless rhythm, betrayed a man more fragile than he wanted the world to see. Micro-expressions flickered across his face: tension at the corners of his eyes, a barely perceptible tremor in his right hand. Max Anders, who cultivated an image of unshakable control, was riddled with cracks.
And Theo cataloged each one, mapping them like stress fractures in a failing support beam.
A younger him would've missed it.
The thought carried no emotion, just clinical certainty. Even six months ago, he might've written it off as an anomaly, lacking the framework to process what he observed. But now, the patterns were as clear as the lines on a graph.
Efficient. Methodical. Weak.
The thought startled Theo.
Weakness wasn't a word he'd have associated with his father before. But now, as he watched Max shift through the detritus of his empire, he saw it in every action. The way the man leaned too heavily on his systems, his subordinates. The way he dismissed anything he couldn't immediately control.
The cracks were small, but Theo could see them.
And they disgusted him.
"You'll be spending more time with Greg," Max said abruptly, his tone signaling the conversation's end. A steel knife gleamed on his desk as he aligned it precisely parallel to the edge. "There's value in... learning to deal with simpler minds. It sharpens your own." Each word carried the weight of command, expecting no resistance.
Theo didn't respond.
He turned back to the window, letting the city's fractured skyline fill his vision. The docks stretched out below, a maze of containers and cranes that pulsed with potential energy.
The empire's king, blind to the very foundations of his throne.
The irony tasted like copper in Theo's mouth.
"Understood," Theo said finally, his voice as still and cold as the glass before him. The word hung in the air like frost, perfectly formed and utterly empty.
If Max wanted him to be an heir, fine. He would learn everything Max had to teach, absorb every lesson, not as a son but as an apprentice studying the flaws of his master. The mana around him hummed with contained purpose, responding to the crystallization of his resolve.
Behind him, Max muttered something inaudible and returned to his work, the scratch of his pen marking time. But Theo's focus was elsewhere—on the docks, on Greg, on Sparky. On the cracks he'd seen in his father's armor. Small cracks. But enough. Those cracks were not unique to him alone.
His father's empire was built on fear and obedience, on loyalty that was only skin-deep. Theo could see it now, clearer than ever. The weight of Max's expectations pressed down on his subordinates like gravity, and gravity, Theo knew, was a force that could be manipulated.
All it took was the right angle, the right leverage, and the whole system could collapse.
Mana worked the same way. A simple change in pressure, a slight adjustment in flow, and what seemed solid could shatter like glass. Theo's experiments had taught him that much.
Taught him enough to start breaking things apart.
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
Max Anders rose with the practiced ease of someone who understood the power of stillness, each movement a carefully choreographed display of dominance. His reflection in the floor-to-ceiling window caught the afternoon light: Italian wool suit (Kiton K-50, charcoal, $21,000) cut to emphasize the breadth of his shoulders without appearing ostentatious. The fabric whispered against itself—a thousand-dollar symphony of controlled power.
Beside him, the unaesthetic form of his son shifted, and Max's attention snapped to the motion with predatory focus. The boy's movements carried new weight, each gesture precise, controlled. Gone was the nervous energy, the desperate attempt to disappear into the background like prey sensing apex predators.
Instead: stillness. Calculation. Purpose.
Fascinating.
Max cataloged the changes with a careful eye: spine straightened to optimal posture, hands clasped with military precision, gaze steady with an unflinching calm that bordered on insubordination. A transformation that would have been impressive if it weren't so potentially problematic. The boy was learning—but was he learning the right lessons? Or merely perfecting the art of camouflage?
The thought settled like a splinter in Max's mind, irritating yet useful. After all, hadn't he done the same, all those years ago? Hadn't he learned to wear compliance like a second skin, right until the moment he'd taken control?
Theo stood in stark contrast to the boy he'd been weeks ago, the one who slouched and avoided eye contact as though the act itself might summon judgment.
There was judgment now, of course. Always.
The weight of expectation hung in the air between them, thick as smoke. But Theodor no longer seemed afraid of it. The realization settled in Max's mind like a newly placed chess piece, its implications radiating outward across the board.
Interesting.
"Theodor," Max began, his voice smooth, its deep timbre filling the room with practiced ease. He pitched the word precisely, letting it resonate off the glass and steel that surrounded them. He made no attempt to soften its edge. The boy needed to hear every syllable, every nuance.
This was instruction, after all.
"What do you see, son?" he asked, finally. “Tell me.”
The question was simple, deceptively so, a test disguised as curiosity. Max watched as Theo's gaze shifted to the window, eyes narrowing slightly as he focused in thought. The faint tightening of his jaw, the knowing way his gaze swept the skyline—it was deliberate. He's learned to wear masks.
"A city in decline," Theo said finally. His tone was low, even, but there was a precision to it that Max hadn't heard before. Each word emerged fully formed, considered. "A system... stretched thin."
A pause.
Calculated, Max noted.
The boy was choosing his words with care, weighing each one before releasing it into the space between them. The silence itself became a tool, wielded with unexpected skill. When did you learn this dance, Theodor?
"But not broken," Theo added, his voice sharper now. More certain. "Not yet."
Max allowed himself the faintest of smiles, though it didn't reach his eyes, just enough to suggest approval without granting it fully. "An optimistic view," he said, turning back to the glass. "Or perhaps just pragmatic."
There was a silence then, thick with unspoken tension.
Max waited, curious to see how the boy would respond.
Weeks ago, Theodor might have stumbled over his words, scrambling to align his thoughts with what he thought Max wanted to hear.
But now, his reply came with measured precision.
"Pragmatism… it revolves entirely around understanding the pieces, sir," Theo said. "How they fit. How they fail. How to fix them… how to remove them."
The faintest flicker of surprise registered in Max's mind, though he didn’t show it. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, catching his son’s reflection in the glass.
Max turned fully, his blue eyes narrowing as he studied his son. Each movement was precisely calibrated—the quarter turn of his shoulders, the slight inclination of his head, the way his hands hung loose but controlled at his sides. The boy's newly acquired stillness carried echoes of boardroom power plays—a crude approximation, perhaps, but promising. Like watching a child mimic Machiavelli without understanding the full depths of the game.
The words hung in the air between them, sharp and deliberate. "And what pieces do you see in this room?"
The question was a trap, of course. A calculated probe designed to expose weakness, to force an error in judgment. Max expected a hesitant reply, something fumbling and insufficient, but instead, Theo met his gaze. The fluorescent lights caught the silver of the boy's eyes, lending them an unsettling clarity. There was no defiance in his expression, but neither was there submission. It was... blank. A mask, perhaps. One Max recognized all too well. Like looking into a mirror that's learned to look back.
"One," Theo said at last, his tone quiet but firm. The word landed with unexpected weight, each syllable measured and controlled. "The most important one."
The simplicity of the answer gave Max pause. He understands. His fingers twitched imperceptibly, the only outward sign of his recalculation. He searched Theo's expression for cracks, for any hint of the boy's intent, but found only the same infuriatingly composed neutrality. The afternoon light cast half of Theo's face in shadow, making his features harder to read. When did you learn to hide so well, Theodor?
"Go on," Max said, his voice a velvet blade. He kept his tone carefully modulated, letting just enough danger seep through to test the boy's composure.
"The only piece that matters," Theo replied. His hands remained clasped behind his back, his stance unmoved. "...is the one whose removal will upset the board."
Bold.
Too bold.
Max's lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn't look away.
His reflection in the window caught the gesture, doubling the impact of his displeasure. The boy's tone was deferential enough to pass scrutiny, but the undercurrent of confidence was unmistakable.
Had it been anyone else—one of the colorful idiots that served under him, perhaps, or even Kayden in one of her more insubordinate feminine moods—Max might have dismissed it as arrogance.
But from Theo? No, this was something else.
"Correct," Max said finally, his voice cutting through the silence like a scalpel. He let the word hang there, testing its weight. "The center defines the whole. Remember that." Each word emerged precisely spaced, a lesson wrapped in warning.
"Yes, sir," Theo said. The words were automatic, but Max caught the faintest tilt of his head, the slightest flicker of calculation in his gray eyes. It was unnerving in its familiarity.
Like watching a chess piece suddenly develop awareness of the board.
"Your posture has improved," Max observed, his tone shifting to something almost conversational. The change in topic was deliberate, a tactical retreat to gather more data. "No more slouching, I see."
"Thank you, sir," Theo replied, his voice even. A car horn sounded from far below, but the boy didn't flinch. "I've been... making adjustments."
Max's mind lingered on the final word, turning it over in his head.
Once.
And then once again.
My boy has changed. It wasn't dramatic—his soft frame, his cautious demeanor, all still intact. But beneath the surface? Something colder. Sharper. Like steel being tempered, emerging stronger from the forge.
Was this how father felt when I started applying myself? It went unsaid that it had all been towards the purpose of eliminating the man to take his place, but Max brushed that aside as he returned to the window, letting the conversation settle into silence. Theo didn’t have that in him, he knew that much. Despite Heith’s own streak of ruthlessness, she was nothing like his sister and Theo was… not like him.
To his side, the boy remained motionless, his presence steady,
"You'll be dismissed soon," Max said, his voice low, almost distracted. His hand rose to adjust his tie, though it needed no correction. "But before you go, Theodor... tell me. What is it you've learned?"
The reply was immediate, as if Theo had anticipated the question. No hesitation, no stumbling search for words. "That this city needs someone to save it, to control it," he said simply. "To rebuild it in an image of order and utopia."
Max's gaze shifted slightly, catching the boy's reflection once more. "Good," he said finally, the faintest trace of approval coloring his tone. He allowed himself a small nod, perfectly measured. "You're beginning to understand."
Gray eyes seemed to flash. "Thank you, sir."
The words were respectful, careful.
Unbidden, Maximilian Anders found a small smile growing on his face.