By day, Damien Thorne fought his greatest enemy yet: academics.
He slouched in his seat like it was a battlefield, eyes half-lidded, fingers drumming against the desk. Equations blurred into nonsense. History dates refused to stick. Even basic cybernetics theory made him want to put his head through a wall.
But sitting beside him was someone who refused to let him spiral.
Mila Evermeere. Top of the robotics class. Daughter of an engineering family. Known for her precise logic, clean code, and zero tolerance for mediocrity.
She had no patience for Damien's wild energy, sloppy handwriting, or half-baked answers. But she owed him.
Two months ago, a malfunctioning rogue automaton broke containment during a campus tech trial. It went berserk. Most students ran.
Damien ran toward it.
He saved her with nothing but a broken chair and a rage-fueled tackle. Didn't even know her name. Just shrugged it off and walked away.
Now she was his tutor. Begrudgingly.
Her eyes flicked to his paper. "That's not the answer," she said flatly.
"Sure it is," Damien replied.
"You drew a tank."
He shrugged. "It's a nice tank."
Mila pressed two fingers to her temple like she was holding back the urge to throw the pencil at him. "Damien, focus."
"I am focusing."
"On what? Doodling your way into academic probation?"
His smirk was infuriating. "Hey, at least the turret has proper recoil alignment. You should be proud of me."
She ignored him and dragged his pencil back to the formula. "You need this grade if you want to stay in the Academy. I am not wasting my time tutoring someone who's aiming for 'barely functional' as a career goal."
He leaned back. "Don't worry, I've got other career options."
Her eyes narrowed. "Like what? Street fights?"
He infuriated her. But slowly—painfully—he got better.
Mila's frustration melted into cautious respect. He might not understand circuits, but he could memorize pressure systems. He couldn't recite the God King's timeline, but he could quote every street fight he'd been in like gospel.
Grades: rising. Still messy. But above average now. That was a miracle.
But that was only during the day.
At night, Damien became someone else.
When the lights of Xyprus dimmed and the city's arteries pulsed with illegal activity, he donned his mask once more. Not for money this time—but for something else.
Fusion criminals were growing bolder. Underground labs producing unstable fighters, experiments gone wrong. Street-level enforcers enhanced beyond reason, preying on the weak.
Damien hunted them.
He didn't ask why they turned. He didn't care who sent them. All he knew was that someone had to stop them—and the police didn't show up fast enough.
He didn't wear armor. Just wraps. Cloth mask. Golden eyes.
The streets began to whisper: "The boy with the broken halo." "The Thorne in their side." "He doesn't fight for money anymore."
He wasn't a hero. Not yet. But something was taking shape in the dark.
Meanwhile, Mila noticed.
"You're hurt again," she said one morning, not looking up from her datapad.
"Just training."
"Training doesn't leave scorch marks."
He met her gaze. "Depends who you train with."
Mila's eyes narrowed. She knew designs. She knew weapon damage. And the marks on Damien's arms weren't from any Academy sparring session.
She didn't push—yet. But every time she handed him a corrected formula, she studied him like one of her machines.
He came to class limping. Bruised. Distracted.
And when she asked, he always replied the same way:
"Just training."
But she was a technologist. She read movements like schematics. And Damien's secret? Wasn't going to stay buried forever.