The scent of cinnamon rolls drifted through the air. Sweet, warm… comforting.
Too comforting.
Mason stepped through the front door, sweaty from his run, earbuds still buzzing with a synth beat, his hoodie clinging to his back. The moment he saw Grandma Jean standing at the stove, apron on, wooden spoon in hand, he stopped cold.
"You only bake when someone's dead," he said, wiping sweat from his brow.
Jean didn't answer.
Instead, two people turned their heads from the kitchen table—two strangers in sharp, black suits, both unnervingly composed. The man was clean-cut, hair parted like a government brochure. The woman, tall, sharp-eyed, and radiant in a no-nonsense kind of way, had legs that could probably kickstart a motorcycle.
Mason raised a brow. "Not men in suits again."
He looked at the woman and grinned, cocking his head.
"Though... finally, someone upgraded the welcome committee. I mean—if I'm gonna be interrogated, at least let me enjoy the view first."
The woman's lips twitched. Not quite a smile. More like a silent calculation of where to break his jaw.
Jean shot him a glare. "Mason."
He shrugged and dropped his duffel bag. "Sorry. I joke when I'm nervous."
The man in the suit stood. "You should be."
His voice was low. Controlled. The kind of voice that filled interrogation rooms and classified recordings.
"We're here about the surge."
Mason tensed.
"The green energy signature you released—three hours ago, eight blocks east. That kind of burst leaves a footprint. And wakes old ghosts."
Jean stepped forward, eyes sharp now. "You're early."
"We're never early," the woman replied. "We're just efficient."
Mason's fingers curled into loose fists. "Well, 'efficient' lady, maybe next time call first."
The woman blinked once. "We don't call. We extract."
And then everything went to hell.
The First Strike
The woman moved like lightning—almost too fast for Mason's eyes to track.
From her sleeve, a metallic rod snapped into her hand with a click. She spun once and fired a bolt of blue electricity straight at Jean.
CRACK.
It hit her square in the ribs. Jean flew backward, crashing into the countertop with a sickening thud, pots clattering to the ground.
"NO!"
Mason didn't think. He ignited.
A column of green fire erupted around his body—hot, volatile, pure instinct.
The suited man lunged at him with a baton humming with static, but Mason caught the movement. In one fluid motion, he rolled sideways over the kitchen island, slid across its surface like a parkour athlete, and landed behind it.
The counter exploded with electric sparks as the baton struck it, sending ceramic shards and hot oil into the air.
Mason sprang up. With a twist of his palm, green energy arced forward like a whip, slamming into the man's chest. The agent flew backward, shattering the bookshelf behind him, books tumbling like rain.
The woman was already back in motion.
Her baton spun like a propeller in her grip as she launched herself off the wall, flipping midair. She landed inches from Mason with impossible grace, baton slamming toward his head.
CLANG.
He raised both arms, manifesting a shimmering green shield just in time. Sparks exploded from the contact, blinding for a second.
She twisted again, sweeping low with a kick. Mason jumped—a slow-motion moment where his body spun, cloak of fire trailing behind him like a comet's tail.
He landed behind her.
His fists glowed—not with light, but with rage.
He swung.
BOOM.
His punch collided with her shield, sending her skidding across the tile floor, heels screeching.
She rolled back to her feet, breathing hard now, hair loose around her face. She looked at him, eyes narrowing.
"No record of you in the Archives," she said. "Who trained you?"
Mason wiped blood from his lip.
"Me. And cartoons."...
The male agent returned, face bloodied, baton crackling. He charged again.
Mason extended both hands. The air rippled with heat.
FWOOSH.
Twin jets of fire burst from his palms, forcing the agent to dive behind the kitchen table, which instantly ignited, becoming a fireball.
The woman lunged through the flames, using the smoke as cover. Mason caught the shimmer of motion too late—
She struck.
Her baton slammed into his ribs. Mason gasped and stumbled back, but his body responded on its own. The fire around him flared like a living beast, lashing outward and sending her flying through the kitchen window with a violent crash of glass.
The cold air rushed in.
Silence.
Mason panted, holding his ribs, energy pulsing like a second heartbeat.
Then—
Click.
He froze.
Behind him, the male agent had dragged himself upright, one eye swollen shut, gun raised.
"Mason, NO!" Jean groaned weakly from the floor.
BANG.
The bullet ripped through the air.
Mason turned with the fire, trying to catch it—but he was too slow.
It missed him.
It didn't miss her.
Jean gasped. Blood bloomed across her side.
She collapsed again.
Mason caught her, lowering her slowly to the floor, panic washing over him in tidal waves.
"Grandma—stay with me."
She smiled faintly. "Pop-Tart boy... can punch…"
Her hand gripped his wrist. "Don't waste it. Don't waste this gift."
"Don't talk like that—"
"I always hated cinnamon. Too sweet." She chuckled weakly. "You're gonna burn so bright, kid…"
Then her eyes closed
She opened it slightly after a moment and added "and get a girlfriend that knows how to give a good blowjob "...
Her grip loosened.
She exhaled.
And didn't inhale again.
***
Mason stood.
The temperature dropped—then rose. Reality seemed to distort.
The fire around him darkened, turning from green to black with hints of violet. It coiled upward like smoke from a divine furnace.
He turned to the man with the gun.
The agent tried to lift the weapon again, but his fingers trembled.
Mason's voice was no longer his own. It was layered—low, ethereal, ancient.
"im gonna do enjoy this."
He raised his hand.
The flame coiled into a shape. A sword.
Curved. Serrated. Glowing like molten metal.
The agent whispered, "God help me."
"No gods here."
Mason struck.
And the world burned.
A few moments later...
The house burned in silence now—no sirens, no shouting, just the low hiss of smoldering wood and the crackle of dying flames.
Mason stood alone in the wreckage, his hoodie half-torn, his eyes glazed. Blood clung to his hands, but it wasn't his. Jean's teacups lay shattered across the kitchen tiles. Her cinnamon rolls blackened in the oven. The walls were scorched, charred in strange patterns—like claw marks made of heat.
One symbol, scratched into the floor with something metallic and deliberate, glowed faintly through the smoke:
> "Ash Will Rise."
Then headlights pierced the smoke. Red and white.
Paramedics. Firefighters.
Mason didn't speak. He didn't fight them.
But when the EMTs tried to question him, he just looked past them—to where the bodies of the two agents had fallen.
Gone.
No blood. No weapons. No evidence. Just that single warning on the ground.
His jaw clenched.
And his power sparked again, low and angry, beneath his skin.
The next day...
Rain tapped against cheap umbrellas as the casket was lowered.
The grave was shallow. The crowd, even shallower.
A priest read scripture. Mason didn't listen.
The cemetery was quiet except for the wind, the rain, and the occasional crow perched on crooked tombstones like judges from another realm.
Mason stood still in black, hands in his pockets. Water dripped from his hair, mixing with the tears he refused to let fall.
Then he felt it—eyes on him.
Across the rows of graves, under a thick black umbrella, stood a tall man in an old-fashioned trench coat. His face was hidden, but something about him felt… known.
Not familiar. Just heavy.
When Mason blinked, the man was gone. Vanished like smoke on glass.
The pastor finished his words. People whispered condolences.
Mason said nothing.
The back of his neck burned faintly, like a warning.
His fingers trembled in his jacket.
His powers, always wild when his emotions surged, flared just beneath the surface. Steam curled from his palms. One of the umbrella poles near him melted.
And that was when Mason knew: he couldn't stay here. Not with these feelings. Not with this guilt.
Later that Night...
The city stretched beneath him—cold steel and yellow haze. From thirty stories up, Mason could see everything: traffic lights blinking in slow rhythm, lives moving like clockwork, unaware that his world had just cracked open.
He sat on the edge of the financial tower's rooftop, legs dangling over the abyss. His knuckles were scraped. His hoodie was still stained with soot and blood. The wind howled around him like a warning from the sky itself.
A half-eaten hot dog rested beside him—forgotten.
Jean was gone.
Ash Fall was real.
And he had no idea who he was anymore.
In his hand, a half-burned photograph of Jean flapped with each gust.
He blinked—hard.
Then, as if fate timed it with cruel precision, a massive digital billboard across the skyline flickered to life. Red. White. Stark lettering against a darkened background.
> "Order is earned by the few who dare to rise while others kneel."
—President Malloran
The image below the quote was even more telling: a clenched fist over flames, and the seal of the National Order Enforcement Agency—NOEA.
Mason's breath caught.
He stared at it. The words echoed in his chest.
"...while others kneel."
Jean had never knelt. She'd taught him to stand. Even when the world begged them to disappear.
His eyes began to glow—softly at first, then brighter, matching the hue of the flames in the billboard's background. The fire inside him, raw and untamed, roared louder than his grief.
> "I'm not kneeling," Mason whispered to the night. "Not anymore."
He raised his hand. The fire coiled around his fingers like a living serpent.
He tried to focus—shape the flame like Jean taught him.
But grief doesn't sculpt. It explodes.
With a roar of anguish, Mason slammed his palms into the rooftop tiles.
The stone melted.
Heat shimmered around him. A ring of fire spiraled outward, warping the air and casting twisted shadows.
From a distance, anyone looking up would've thought a demon had landed on the tower.
Mason screamed—not out of fear, but fury. Into the wind. Into the world.
Half an hour later…
Mason trudged through an alley, still blazing slightly—his shoes melting with each step. He finally stopped beside a rusted dumpster, panting.
"Fine," he muttered. "You want fire? Here."
He snapped his fingers. The dumpster detonated.
Flames shot upward like a firework. Shrapnel clanged against the brick walls. Rats screamed and vanished into drains.
Then came the voice:
> "OI! BETA! ARE YOU MAD?"
A door slammed open. Out stepped a man in a lungi, slippers, and a stained tank top. Middle-aged. Hair like an oil slick. Face scrunched in righteous rage.
He stomped toward the flames holding a garden hose that didn't reach.
> "You think fire is for free? This America but this NOT your baap ka gully, okay?! You come here with your glowing arms and make boom-boom in my alley—WALLAH, I CALL THE COUNCIL!"
Mason blinked, wide-eyed.
The man jabbed a finger at the smoldering trash can. "That was my third-hand microwave! Still worked on soup mode!"
Mason opened his mouth—then laughed. Just once. A short, cracked sound.
"I'm sorry," he said, still glowing faintly. "Bad day."
The Desi uncle stared at him, then squinted. "Are you that flaming TikTok boy?"
Mason grinned. "That's me. Hot Mess."
The uncle rolled his eyes. "Fix my trash can, Hot Mess. Or next time, you sleep in it."
And just like that, the fire simmered down. Mason sat on the curb, still smiling. The uncle disappeared inside, muttering curses in Urdu.
For the first time since the funeral… Mason didn't feel alone.