Rubble crashed all around me as guns roared and grenades exploded, tearing the room to shreds. Dust choked the air, and for a moment I thought this was it. When the smoke cleared, I stood uninjured, only my clothes burnt off. My muscles were toned, my beautiful dark skin gleaming in the fractured light. The gang men were bewildered, but mostly in awe as they saw the perfect male body.
I created new clothes in the blink of an eye.
"I'm loving this," I murmured, savoring the ridiculousness for a second. "I didn't expect things to escalate this far." I let my voice slide through the wreckage. "Like your boss says— all of you will die here."
"Boss, what's with him? He's supposed to be dea—" the man began, but a swift slash cut him off. His head went flying, a crimson arc punctuating my sentence. I didn't let him finish.
"Now he won't get to say what he wants, and you guys won't be able to tell correctly what he had planned to say. Too bad," I said, almost bored.
A brief, cold thought: this is Envy's physical ability—manipulating flesh and motion. I had always envied Envy for that grace. Now, it felt useful.
Fear erupted into action. The gang members opened fire. Bullets spat and ricocheted; of course, they didn't affect me. My skin drank the heat and spat it back. I stepped through the hail like it was a breeze, hand shifting—bones twisting—morphing into invisible blades that sliced the air with a deadly whisper. Screams peeled across the room as heads fell, blood darkening the floor like ink spilled over a broken dream.
The gang boss snarled, fumbling for a hidden gun, but my blades were faster. I closed for the final strike when a distant siren shattered the night's silence.
Police.
Shadows moved, and then she emerged: Maestress Biondh. She stepped from the black like a proclamation. Her presence was commanding and cold. The air bent faintly around her as if reality itself recoiled. Her bright grey hair framed a young face that shouldn't have carried such authority—mid-twenties, hard and exact. A transparent aura gleamed about her, a fine shimmer that hinted at power beyond uniforms and badges. Even from a distance I felt the storm of psyche energy woven into her like a second skin.
"Freeze! Drop your weapons and surrender!" Her voice cut through the chaos, sharp as a blade.
I took a tense step back. The raw power she radiated was a danger I wasn't ready to face. For a slip-second I considered standing my ground. Then sense—prudence—won. I melted into the darkness, becoming smoke among ruins.
Biondh and her officers moved like tide and spear. They swept the clubhouse with practiced efficiency. Broken tables. Bodies. Scent of iron heavy in the air.
"This ends now," she said, calm and unwavering. "Arrest the gang leader immediately."
A young recruit—Folly—tugged at her sleeve and whispered, eyes huge. "Maestress, what exactly happened here? Who was that… person?"
Biondh's gaze hardened. Her voice dropped to a grave whisper. "Not now, Folly. This is too delicate, not to be discussed in public. Patience is the only answer." Folly blinked, clearly not understanding—then resumed her duty, obedient and nervous.
The police sealed the area. Officers catalogued and cordoned, and as the first sweep finished, Biondh allowed herself to breathe once—just enough for the quiet to swallow her words. Then she barked orders, and the scene split into movement, lights, and routine.
Later, at the Juvenile Detention Academy—a grim place where lost and misunderstood teens gathered—the tension was palpable. Rumors moved faster than facts. The outcasts whispered behind closed doors, eyes flickering with a mixture of fear, fascination, and the small currency of gossip. Word travelled of a silhouette that had walked through fire and left death in tidy lines. Shapes in the dorms turned their faces to where the muted televisions broadcast the brief clips of broken glass and a grey-haired woman moving like cold light.
Maestress Biondh and her officers arrived at the academy that night. Staff and guards assembled on the asphalt as a low rain began to dot the air. Biondh scanned faces, measured reactions, and then commanded: "Folly, assemble the council. We have a meeting."
The recruit hustled away, the image of midnight violence already knitting into the academy's tapestry of fear.
— — —
A different night, a different silence. I walked home at 2 a.m., mind sharp but soul drained. My allies were deep in the psyche world; my own power—once fierce—had slipped away. My mood was fraying at the edges. The moment I crossed my threshold the weight of exhaustion pulled me down; I collapsed into sleep, body surrendering fully. My vessel was tired.
While I slumbered for two whole days, Lust roamed the psyche realm—relentless, curious. She traced pale fingers along the ancient Neutco statue, absorbing its vast reservoir of experience. Memory and sensation poured into her: echoes of battles, whispers of old loves, the taste of death twice lived. Anger rose in her as she brushed through those fractures—bitter for the lives taken, sharper for the lessons retained.
At the edge of that trance, a knock at the door shattered the silence.
She slid back into my body and forced me to the doorway. Standing there was Quilt—the class rep—persistent despite my absence that Monday. He looked tired, earnest, a schoolbag slung like armor.
There was a pause. Quilt called, "Will? You in there? It's Quilt."
Through my mouth, Lust spoke with icy precision. "What do you want, Quilt?"
Quilt's tone stayed calm, almost awkwardly polite. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay. We missed you at school."
Lust's lip curled. She muttered inside my mind, "I've avoided him, but he keeps coming." Then she let the venom leak into voice: "Your concern is wasted. Say what you came to say, or leave."
Quilt hesitated—caught—but his voice didn't break. "Right. Uh—if you need anything, contact me. Take care, Will."
The door clicked shut behind him. His footsteps faded. Lust lingered, gaze cold, unblinking. A chill settled in the air; frustration boiled. Killing him seemed the simplest, cleanest release.
She stepped away from the door, and for a breathless second the idea of staining the floor with student blood tasted like sweet certainty. Then she tilted her head, considering. Not now. Not tonight.
Still—she wasn't done with him.
"I'll see him," she said finally, almost to herself. "Hold on."
She opened the door and called after Quilt, voice a careful knife. "Quilt—wait."
He turned, a half-step, expression immediately defensive but curious. He walked back. "Yes?"
I opened my mouth—Lust used it—trying to wrap a performance around what was real. "Do you know why I've changed?" I asked. The voice was Will's, but colder, threaded with something else.
Quilt blinked, then let out the breath he'd been holding. "That's the reason I came," he answered quietly.
"Is that so?" I asked, letting a cunning smile curve my lips. The apartment smelled faintly of smoke and adrenaline.
"Well, you see," Quilt said, voice trembling slightly now, "I thought maybe talking would help. If you—if you can listen."
"Before I kill you—" I began, the cruel joke in the air, but Quilt flinched at the word. He tried to smile and failed, then chuckled softly at the absurdity and said, "Killing? No. I'm not stupid. I just—" He looked at me, measured, searching for the Will he knew.
"I'm not the Will you know," I said, letting the cold light of Lust ring clear. "I am Will, but not him at the same time."
A beat of silence hung heavy. Quilt swallowed, the air thick between us. He found his footing, answering slowly: "Do you know about psyches?"
"Psyches?" I echoed. The word tasted accurate and strange. "You mean… as in minds and consciousness?"
Quilt nodded. "People talk about them—rumours. About voices. Different parts of a person. I didn't think—" He stopped, eyes honest. "I didn't think they could be like you."
The words fell into the room like a fragile truce.
Lust's expression softened not with mercy but with calculation. "Thank you for coming," she said, quiet and empty. "Now go home, Quilt. Keep your curiosity for another day."
He hesitated, then nodded. "If you ever need me—really—call me." His hand hovered for a second as if to touch my shoulder, then fell to his side. He left.
When the door closed, the hush returned. Lust watched his retreat until the hallway swallowed him. For a long moment she simply breathed—slow, controlled—then whispered to the room, "Patience. He'll be useful."