Jordan Academy
Periun, Kettlia
Ashtarium Nation
North American continent
November 22nd 2019
After Carrie and the others had left, Jack lingered at his locker. He moved like a shadow, quiet and measured, reaching for the latch without urgency. But beneath his stillness, something stirred—something cold and focused.
With a breath, he summoned his Zone.
The energy shimmered invisibly, stretching outward until it enveloped the entire school like a silent dome. If it could cover a museum, it could easily smother these hallways, the classrooms, the back lot. And with it, Jack's awareness expanded—each heartbeat, every whisper of movement, each shifting emotion on the edge of aggression or fear... he could feel it all.
His attention locked onto a familiar cluster behind the gym building.
Joe and his gang. Smoking. Laughing. Swearing.
Joe clutched his bruised hand, still fuming, spitting Jack's name like a curse. "That freak... who the hell does he think he is?" he snarled. "Next time I see him—"
"You don't have to wait."
Jack's voice sliced through the tension like a blade.
He appeared in front of them without warning, the Zone snapping closed behind him like a vanishing ripple. Joe and the others flinched, eyes wide, frozen in that moment of primal shock.
"You…" Joe stammered, his swagger crumbling. "How the hell did you—What are you doing here?!"
Jack's grin was quiet. Unapologetic. "I'm here to kick your ass."
Joe blinked. "What?!"
One of his boys—a hulking brute trying to save face—charged. "You're dead meat, freak—!"
Jack pivoted cleanly and drove an elbow into the thug's gut. The air whooshed out of the man in a choked gasp as he crumpled, froth bubbling at the corner of his lips.
"What the hell—" Joe's voice faltered.
Jack was already moving.
He blurred between them like a storm given form—strikes landing with a gravity that defied physics. Every punch struck like a hammer made of compressed force. The gang couldn't follow him, let alone block him. They dropped, one by one, collapsing in broken heaps, groaning or unconscious.
Jack stood over the unconscious heap of bodies, his breath steady, controlled. There was no rage left in him—only clarity. The predator in him had awakened, and unlike before, he wasn't running. Not anymore.
His gaze shifted.
Joe.
The so-called king of the school now cowered in the corner like a kicked dog, wide-eyed and trembling. It was the first time Jack had seen fear written so clearly across his face—raw and unfiltered. Jack stepped forward, each movement deliberate.
Joe scrambled back, heels slipping against the gravel. "Leave me alone… you freak!" he cried, hurling a jagged stone with a shaky hand.
Jack tilted his head, letting the stone sail harmlessly past. A cruel, crooked smile tugged at his lips. The helplessness etched into Joe's face was a kind of justice he hadn't dared imagine until now. Jack moved in. He knelt, gripping Joe's greasy hair and yanking him forward until their faces were inches apart. Joe's breath hitched, eyes darting in panic.
"You've been a cancer," Jack said softly, his voice laced with quiet venom. "And what do you do to cancer?"
He didn't wait for an answer.
"You cut it out—before it infects everything else."
With a breath, Jack summoned his Zone.
The world shimmered and bent around them as space warped to his will. In an instant, they were airborne—high above the school, suspended in a silent sky painted with cold wind and gathering clouds. Jack held Joe by the head, his fingers digging into his scalp. The air howled around them, but Jack's presence was unnervingly still.
Joe screamed. His body flailed uselessly, his voice a raw, broken screech as he realized how far there was to fall. He pissed himself, legs twitching in sheer panic. Jack watched him. Expression unreadable. Then—he let go. Joe dropped like a stone. The scream stretched into the open sky… until it cut off—abruptly—as Jack raised his hand. In a flicker, Joe reappeared, gasping, choking, now suspended in Jack's grasp by the throat.
Jack landed with a thud on the grass behind the gym, his boots crushing the damp earth beneath them. Without another word, he flung Joe across the field like discarded trash. The bully hit the ground, rolling to a pitiful stop. Jack turned his back to him.
"Stay the hell away from me," he said, voice cold and final. "And from my friends."
****
The sun had begun its slow descent behind the skyline, spilling gold and crimson over the horizon. From the rooftop of the school, the city shimmered in hues of amber and rust, the rooftops like scattered bones beneath a bleeding sky. Jack stood at the edge, wind tousling his hair, his hands resting on the cold railing. Below, cars moved like silent insects, their horns faint and distant—part of a world that felt increasingly foreign to him.
His heart was no longer pounding. His hands no longer shook. But something inside him wouldn't quiet down. He exhaled slowly, his breath curling into the wind. I did it, he thought. I finally stopped him. But the victory felt hollow.
The moment replayed again and again—Joe screaming, flailing in the air, pissing himself in pure terror. Jack remembered the way his own fingers had clenched around Joe's throat. How effortless it had felt to make him vanish, to make him fall. He closed his eyes.
A hallway smeared with locker paint and torn flyers. Eli's books scatter across the ground as Joe shoves him into a locker.
"Watch it, dork," Joe snarls. Jack, too afraid to speak, helps him gather his books after Joe walks away laughing.
The cafeteria. Mark tries to sit down with his tray—only to have it flipped onto his lap. The gang laughs. Sarah screams at them to stop and ends up with soda poured over her head. Jack sits frozen. His fists clenched under the table, unable to move.
The back of the school. Jack himself—held down while Joe punches him in the ribs. "You're weak," Joe whispers like it's truth. "You'll always be weak."
Jack opened his eyes.
"I'm not weak," he whispered. But it didn't feel like a triumph. It felt like a confession. He looked down at his hands. They weren't bleeding, but they ached. Not from strain—from restraint. He could've dropped Joe. Let him fall. Let him break. And for a moment, he wanted to. That was what scared him most.
"Is that what I am now?"
The question drifted into the open air, unanswered—consumed by the silence that followed like a slow-burning fire.
Jack reached into his back pocket and pulled out an old, weather-softened photo. The edges were frayed, the colors faded with time, but the memory it held was vivid: four kids in a sunlit park—himself and his three closest friends. Mark had ketchup smeared on his cheek. Eli was caught mid-blink, awkward and endearing. Sarah, ever the rebel, stuck her tongue out at the camera. Jack stood at the center, all of them frozen in a moment untouched by pain.
They were smiling. Unbroken. Whole. He stared at the photo like it was a relic from another life—one that belonged to a boy who hadn't yet learned fear, hadn't tasted humiliation or been forged in cruelty. A boy who hadn't needed power. A boy who hadn't become this.
"I just wanted to protect them," Jack whispered. "And now… I can."
The words felt right. Grounding. He clung to them like a lifeline. This power—this strange, terrifying, wondrous force—had come to him for a reason. That reason was them. Mark, Eli, Sarah, Carrie and his mother. He wouldn't run anymore. He wouldn't freeze. Joe would never lay a hand on them again. He had made sure of it.
The wind stirred, soft and spectral, slipping across the rooftop like a forgotten voice. It tugged at his clothes, rustled his hair, and whispered through the cracks in his armor. Somewhere below, distant laughter echoed—light, careless, full of life. The sound stung more than he expected. A reminder of a world still moving forward. Still innocent.
Jack remained at the edge, the photo pressed tight in his hand, eyes locked on the horizon as the sun bled out of the sky—its last light catching the glass towers and casting long, golden shadows. In that fading light, he stood between the boy he was and the being he might become.
****
Nico stepped through the narrow door of the butcher shop, the bell above it chiming with a sharp, metallic clang that cut through the stale air. The scent of blood, brine, and smoked meat clung thick in the dim space—an olfactory signature of the Bedlam neighborhood's more grounded enterprises. The shop was utilitarian, cluttered with hooks and trays, its walls lined with tile stained by years of work. Behind the counter, a woman hefting a heavy steel tray paused mid-motion and turned at the sound. Nico recognized her instantly.
"D'Angelo. You finally show up," Yomen said, setting the tray down with a dull thud. Her frame was stocky and strong from years of labor, long brown hair tied back in a simple knot. Her face was worn but not unkind, framed by the faint lines of hard work.
"Where's Jacien?" Nico asked.
His tone was far from warm. Grim, even. A stark contrast to Yomen's tired but familiar expression.
"In the back," she said with a shrug.
Nico gave a small nod and made his way past the counter. The narrow hall behind it led deeper into the shop, where butcher tables gleamed under cold, flickering lights. Massive slabs of meat hung from iron racks, some still dripping faintly. The floor was slick in places, streaked with water and old blood. Workers, clad in aprons and stained gloves, labored in silence, the rhythmic chop of cleavers punctuating the air like a mechanical heartbeat.
He moved through them without a word, boots echoing dully on the tiled floor until he reached a steel-reinforced door near the back wall. He paused for only a moment, then knocked once before pushing it open.
Inside, the light was warmer, the air quieter. The office was cramped but orderly—piles of ledgers stacked beside a humming datapad, a dull amber glow bathing the room.
Jacien sat in a leather chair, his back to the doorway until it slowly turned with the creak of old bearings. When his eyes landed on Nico, a grin spread across his face.
"Well, well," he said. "If it isn't Nico D'Angelo the Saint."
Nico stepped in and quietly closed the door behind him.
"Jacien."
"You finally came home," Jacien said, his voice laced with dry amusement—but there was weight behind it, buried like rusted iron beneath a smooth surface. "Now what in tarnation would bring the crow back to its nest?"
"Jack Ryan," Nico replied, lowering himself into the chair opposite the desk.
Jacien's brows rose. "Huh? I thought you were done with the kid."
"And I thought you were supposed to be watching him."
Jacien scoffed and leaned back, fingers tapping lazily against the worn arm of his chair. "I've been watching Jack Ryan since he was nine years old. The boy's clean. No ties to our world. If he was gonna awaken to who he really is, it would've happened by now. Some bloodlines just run dry."
Nico's gaze sharpened. "He awakened. Just recently. Manifested an Ability Factor. The boy's become an Ascendant."
Jacien froze, expression flattening as the words sank in.
"Well, I'll be damned," he muttered. "Wait... is he a—?"
"No," Nico interrupted. "Not yet. At least... not that I can confirm. I've been watching him closely. There's no sign of resonance. No feedback. Nothing suggesting he's one of them. Not yet."
Jacien rubbed his jaw, his voice lower now. "So, what're you gonna do?"
"The Association dispatched me after the surge," Nico said. "A spike in spirit energy—too dense, too refined for an ordinary awakening. It shouldn't be possible for someone like Jack to generate that much unless..."
"Unless there's something else in play," Jacien finished for him, eyes narrowing. "You're not going to tell them, are you?"
Nico said nothing for a moment. Then: "No."
Jacien's face darkened. "I don't know what arrangement you have with this Jack boy, or why you're sticking your neck out for him, but don't play blind, Nico. Have you already forgotten what happened nine years ago? To this neighborhood?"
"I haven't forgotten," Nico said quietly. The words fell like ash.
The butcher shop's low hum filled the silence, distant and dull. Somewhere beyond the door, a cleaver struck bone. Rhythmic. Final.
"But Jack is different. He's not like the others."
Jacien's eyes gleamed beneath the dim amber light, studying him. "And you saw this... with those cursed eyes of yours?"
Nico met his gaze evenly, his crimson irises glowing faintly in the half-shadow.
"Yes," he said. "I did."