Rain fell in relentless sheets over Northern New Eden, washing the streets in fractured neon. The city smelled of wet steel, ozone, and the faint tang of frying street food. Towering skyscrapers loomed like jagged teeth against the stormy sky, their facades fractured by neon holo-ads that flickered advertisements for cybernetic upgrades, synth-food, and nightly entertainment. Steam hissed from vents along the rooftops, curling into spirals and vanishing into the storm.
Dante crouched on the edge of a catwalk suspended between two buildings. His coat, stitched with crimson fiber-optic threads, rippled in the wind, wet hair plastered to his forehead. Tall and lean, he moved like a predator poised for strike, every muscle coiled, every sense alert. In his hand, The Lament of Sol hummed faintly, the plasma edge reflecting neon streaks from the city below.
Below, an alley stretched between two mega-buildings, puddles reflecting fractured light like broken mirrors. A group of three criminals moved with predictable arrogance, carrying crates of stolen tech. Their cybernetic augmentations glinted in the neon glow: a heavyset man with vibro-forearms, a wiry woman with electrified whips, and a smaller, fast man with hydraulic legs.
Dante's jaw tightened. The rain muted their shouts, but he could hear the tension, the slight hum of their augmented limbs. He shifted, feeling the flow of essence around him, measuring angles, timing, trajectories. This could end before it begins—or it could get messy.
A streak of light shot across the rooftops, landing gracefully beside him. Milo Vant. His new powers manifested as kinetic energy manipulation: he could charge objects with explosive motion, sending them flying or bending trajectory midair. Instead of fire, his gloves now glowed faint teal, veins of energy tracing the air after each movement. His hair was golden and wet, eyes sharp, mischievous, a wide grin plastered across his face.
"You're late," Dante muttered, already moving toward the alley.
"Fashionably," Milo said, charging a loose pipe with kinetic energy. It quivered and hummed as he twirled it, sending it rocketing at the heavyset man's head. The pipe spun unnaturally fast, twisting midair and slamming into the man's helmeted skull with a satisfying clang.
Dante dropped from the catwalk, boots landing silently on wet concrete. His coat flared crimson with essence, and he swung The Lament of Sol in a precise horizontal arc. Sparks erupted as the plasma edge met the vibro-blade. The heavyset man staggered backward, cables and metal groaning from the impact.
Milo bounded across crates, charging each step with kinetic energy, flipping a trashcan lid into the wiry woman's whips. She yelped as the lid deflected her strike, sending her momentarily off balance. Milo landed a light kick on the smaller man, sending him skidding across puddles while maintaining perfect control of the motion, guiding him precisely without overexerting force.
The three criminals scrambled to regroup, but Dante and Milo moved as a single unit. Dante's strikes were surgical; Milo's interventions chaotic but controlled, bending the momentum of every object, every step, every minor hazard in the alley to their advantage. Wet reflections, sparks, and fractured neon created a dizzying tableau of motion, light, and sound.
Seconds passed. Then the last thug yelped, tripping over a crate Milo had sent spinning with charged motion. Dante's blade hummed, lightly grazing the man's shoulder, enough to incapacitate without excessive harm. The alley fell silent, rain washing away the traces of chaos.
Dante straightened, scanning the area. Milo grinned beside him, hands crackling faint teal energy, breath heavy from exertion. "Semantics," Milo said with a flourish. "Victory by teamwork."
Dante didn't argue. His gaze drifted upward, toward the massive skyline of Northern New Eden. The city pulsed with life, danger, and unspoken stories. Tonight was calm—but calm never lasted long.
The alley had quieted, but Dante didn't lower his guard. Rain pattered steadily, each drop hitting the steel and concrete with a crisp, hypnotic rhythm. The neon glow from the nearby mega-buildings painted long, fractured shadows across the puddles, stretching and twisting as if the city itself were watching.
"Too quiet," Dante muttered, voice low. His boots slid silently on wet concrete as he moved toward the street above, scanning for anomalies. Milo bounced alongside him, kinetic energy flowing through his gloves, faint teal sparks tracing his every movement. "Quiet is boring," Milo said, grinning. "Boring is when people die. We prefer excitement."
The two climbed a fire escape to reach the street above, emerging onto a slick overpass that arched over the neon-lit thoroughfare. Cars—hovercars now, engines humming in bright blues and reds—zipped by, their reflections fractured in the puddles below. Pedestrians scuttled under umbrellas, unaware of the danger looming just above them.
Then the chaos began.
A gang of four had cornered a family of three in the middle of the overpass. One man wielded a crowbar tipped with plasma, two others had cybernetic fists that glowed faintly with magnetic energy, and the last carried a small drone armed with incendiary rounds. The family huddled against the railing, terrified.
Dante dropped into motion first. He rolled toward the nearest assailant, plasma edge humming. Sparks erupted as his blade met the magnetic fist with a sharp clang, sending arcs of electricity scattering across the wet surface. The man staggered, giving Milo the opening he needed.
Milo extended his hands, charging a nearby trash can with kinetic energy. With a flick of his wrist, it spun like a top, hurdling toward the plasma crowbar. The man barely deflected it, stumbling backward onto the railing as Milo rolled, landing behind another assailant. He sent a volley of precise kinetic bursts toward the drone, knocking it off balance without destroying it. Sparks and smoke hissed from its circuits as it spiraled out of control.
The air was alive with motion. Dante pivoted, catching the second man's punch with the flat of his blade, letting the kinetic energy surge harmlessly into his essence. Milo ricocheted off a lamppost, sending his momentum into a spinning kick that disarmed the third assailant. The family screamed but began to back away toward the safety of the sidewalk, guided by Dante's calm gestures.
Rain splashed into their eyes, lightning flashed in the distance, and the neon signs flickered as if reacting to the storm and the fight. Every movement was measured, precise, but the chaos threatened to spiral.
Then came the first hint.
From the corner of Dante's eye, a shadow flickered along the edges of the rooftop across the street. Just a shimmer—a distorted reflection of movement that shouldn't have been possible. Milo noticed it too, pausing mid-motion, hands crackling with teal sparks. "Did you see that?" he muttered, brow furrowed.
Dante's gaze hardened. "Stay focused," he said, though his instincts screamed that this was something more than a gang fight. That shadow… it moved like it was anticipating them.
The last assailant, seeing the tide turn, hurled an incendiary round toward the family. Milo reacted instantly, charging the projectile with kinetic energy and sending it spinning harmlessly into the neon signage above. Sparks rained down, sizzling in the puddles. Dante surged forward, slicing the man's arm with the edge of his blade, forcing him to drop the drone. It spiraled uselessly into a nearby billboard, harmlessly.
The family stumbled back to safety as Dante and Milo stood side by side, surveying the empty street. The gang was neutralized, the immediate danger gone—but the flickering shadow on the opposite rooftop hadn't moved. It lingered, subtle, watching.
Rain continued to pour. Neon reflected in endless fractures across wet streets. The air was thick with tension, as if the city itself was holding its breath.
Dante's voice was low. "That wasn't just a gang." His eyes narrowed. "Something's coming. Something… smart."
Milo's grin had faded slightly, replaced with a rare seriousness. "I don't like smart shadows," he muttered. "I like things that hit me in the face. Shadows… shadows are scary."
Dante didn't respond. He scanned the skyline, calculating, analyzing, waiting for the next beat. The storm and the neon city around them whispered a warning: this night was far from over. And whatever had been watching… was only the beginning.
The storm had grown heavier, wind slashing across rooftops and scattering loose debris. Neon reflections fractured into jagged ribbons in the puddles, distorted by rain and shifting surfaces. Dante moved cautiously along the edge of the overpass, every step calculated, eyes scanning the rooftops and alleyways. Milo followed close behind, hands crackling with teal energy, now using it to propel himself off slick surfaces, bouncing with precision over puddles and vents.
Below, the city murmured in static chaos—hovercars zooming past, sirens wailing, distant shouts echoing through the storm. Yet above the noise, something else threaded through the air. Dante felt it first—a subtle warping of the world around him, as if reflections in puddles blinked an extra time, shadows moved independently, and distant neon lights bent ever so slightly toward a point he couldn't see.
"Saint," Milo said, his voice a whisper over the wind. "Do you feel that? Like… like the city's breathing differently?"
Dante didn't answer. He had felt essence like this before—a wild thread, unpredictable, not belonging to any known element. His coat fibers flared crimson as he slowed, crouching behind an air vent for cover.
From the adjacent building, a loud crash echoed. A metal billboard wrenched free of its supports, spinning and tumbling toward the street below. Milo reacted instantly, kinetic energy flaring from his gloves. He caught the spinning mass midair, redirecting it into an empty alley, where it smashed harmlessly against a pile of crates. Sparks and shards flew, reflecting in fractured light.
"Not normal gang activity," Dante muttered. "This… something else."
A second later, a window frame twisted, bending like soft metal as if reality itself had been tugged. Dante's instincts screamed: this was no ordinary foe. Milo leaped off the edge of the overpass, landing atop a loose scaffold, then hurled a steel rod with precise kinetic charge at the warped window. The rod bent midair unnaturally, spinning around an invisible axis before hitting the glass, which didn't shatter but recoiled, snapping back like elastic. Milo landed beside Dante, breathing hard.
"What is it?" Milo asked, glancing around. His grin was gone, replaced with rare unease.
"I don't know," Dante admitted. "But it's intelligent… and it's testing us.
As if in answer, a section of the overpass railing rippled, bending toward them like liquid metal. Dante leapt back, landing on a nearby support beam. Milo jumped beside him, flinging a crate toward the warped railing, kinetic energy guiding its path. The metal twisted harmlessly around the crate, forming a jagged, unstable barrier instead of striking them.
Rain beat down harder. Thunder rolled across the city like drums announcing war. The ambient neon flickered, as if reality itself was blinking. Dante's crimson threads flared violently, his senses screaming. The subtle distortions—the warped reflections, the bending metal, the shifting shadows—were all signatures of one force: playful, chaotic, and deadly.
From the corner of the overpass, a shadow flickered again. Not solid, not entirely formed—just a shimmer in the air, bending light and time around it. Dante froze. Milo's hands glowed brighter. "Yeah… that's not a shadow," Milo muttered. "That's… something else. I don't like this."
The disturbances escalated: a vent ripped free from the wall, spinning and hurling itself toward the street; neon holo-ads distorted into impossible patterns, glimpses of impossible geometry. Dante read each movement like a puzzle, anticipating where danger would strike. Milo acted instinctively, charging objects midair and redirecting them with kinetic precision.
Seconds stretched into eternity. Each pulse of essence around them throbbed with chaos. Each reflected surface teased them with distortions. Every instinct screamed: the real test was about to begin.
And somewhere, beyond their immediate senses, the entity that caused it all was watching, weaving reality into impossible threads—just out of reach, just out of sight. The storm, the city, the rain—they were no longer just background. They were part of the battlefield.
Dante gritted his teeth. Milo crouched, hands sparking. Both knew it: tonight, Northern New Eden wasn't just raining. It was alive.
From the corner of Dante's eye, the shimmer solidified. A figure stepped onto the slick overpass opposite them. Rain slid off her coat in rivulets, threads of living light shifting from deep violet to gold. Her boots, high and crystalline, clicked softly against wet steel—but each step seemed to bend the surface beneath her, leaving faint afterimages that lingered like echoes of motion.
Selene Voss, the Mirage Saint.
"You're tense," she said, voice melodic but sharp, slicing through the storm. Her iridescent eyes tracked them with unnatural precision, reflecting fractured neon in impossible angles. "I like tense. It makes movement… more beautiful."
Dante's crimson threads flared instinctively. He read the subtle distortions in the air—shadows folding, puddles stretching unnaturally, neon signs twitching. Her essence was here, fully manifested, and it warped reality around her.
Milo leapt forward, kinetic energy arcing along his gloves. "Saint or not, I still get to punch something, right?"
Before Dante could answer, Selene moved. She flicked her hand, and a vent panel beneath Milo erupted, hurling him backward. He twisted midair, energy flaring, and redirected his landing onto a nearby railing. Sparks scattered as the impact rippled into the puddles below.
Dante lunged, plasma edge humming. Selene's afterimages multiplied, overlapping with her real form. Every swing he made struck phantoms—echoes of her motion—but the real Selene flowed around him, twisting, ducking, vanishing into impossible angles.
She danced forward, coat threads blazing crimson, violet, gold—her movement rewriting space itself. Milo sent a spinning metal crate toward her, charged with kinetic energy. It bent mid-flight, orbiting her afterimages, before slamming harmlessly into a warped section of railing.
"You cage your essence, Saint," she said, voice teasing, almost intimate. "I let mine dance. Tell me… which of us is alive?"
Dante pivoted, plasma edge cutting through afterimages. Sparks rained as reality warped around each strike. Milo ricocheted off a lamppost, flinging a kinetic burst at a flickering reflection. It struck an echo-image of Selene—again, harmless—but forced the real her to stumble slightly, a rare break in her fluid grace.
The storm intensified. Neon holo-ads fractured further, reflecting shapes that shouldn't exist. A section of overpass railing warped upward like liquid, forcing Dante to leap just to avoid falling. Milo extended both hands, slamming the railing with a kinetic pulse, straightening it long enough for them to reposition.
Selene laughed, a melody in the storm, dissonant yet hypnotic. She flicked her wrist, and the reflections in the puddles twisted violently. Milo's trajectory-altering kinetic bursts spiraled, colliding into warped air pockets before rebounding uselessly. Dante spun, slicing through another afterimage, feeling the ripple of her essence hum against his blade.
"You're good," she said softly, circling him like a predator. "But predictable. Always predicting, always measuring. I… just exist."
The rain beat down harder. Sparks, reflections, and kinetic arcs collided in a dizzying tableau. Every second stretched unnaturally as Dante and Milo fought not just her, but the very world she bent around them.
A distant rumble of thunder sounded almost like applause. And through it all, Selene's eyes gleamed with impossible colors, aware of every movement, every thought, every strategy.
The storm had become a relentless beast, wind slashing through neon towers, rain driving in sheets that stung like needles. Dante's crimson threads flared violently, plasma edge humming in tandem with his racing heartbeat. Milo's gloves glowed teal, kinetic energy arcing through his veins as he bounced across warped railings, debris spinning unpredictably beneath his feet.
Selene Voss stood at the center of the overpass, coat threads a living storm of shifting violet, gold, and crimson. Her iridescent eyes gleamed with impossible light, afterimages dancing around her, each one a teasing echo of the real motion.
"You're impressive," she said, voice lilting, almost playful, almost cruel. "But let's see how you handle… this."
With a flick of her wrist, reality fractured violently. Puddles twisted into deep pools of inverted reflections, railings melted and reformed like molten metal, and neon signs snapped and spun in midair. Milo leapt backward, energy flaring as he redirected a spinning lamppost mid-flight, saving a pedestrian from instant decapitation. Dante pivoted, slicing through a phantom of Selene's afterimage, plasma sparks flying, but the real Mirage Saint had vanished only to appear behind him, smirking.
Her laughter cut through the storm, melodic, dissonant, and terrifying. She stepped lightly across warped steel, leaving a trail of afterimages that lingered like fragments of a broken mirror. Milo hurled a kinetic blast, guiding a crate midair toward one of her duplicates—but it phased harmlessly through, striking only its own echo.
"You try to predict me," Selene said softly, circling Dante. "But I am neither cause nor effect. I am…" she paused, letting her coat flare crimson, "…chaos."
Dante lunged, plasma edge humming, meeting her hand mid-strike. The impact rippled outward, bending the overpass floor, cracking concrete, sending sparks and shards of metal flying. Milo fired another kinetic blast, spinning a lamppost like a top at her—but she twisted in impossible angles, her afterimages splitting and overlapping, phasing the weapon harmlessly away.
The city itself groaned under the stress: neon holo-ads flickered, puddles distorted reflections, wind tore at loose debris. Dante and Milo moved as one, surgical and chaotic simultaneously, but for every strike, Selene countered, bending reality to evade, leaving traces of fractured neon and warped steel behind.
Then, with a subtle hum that vibrated through the overpass, she stopped. Her eyes gleamed, and the afterimages multiplied until they became almost suffocating—reflections, echoes, fragments of herself filling every puddle, every neon panel, every warped railing.
"This was fun," she said, voice melodic but chilling. "But I grow bored of playgrounds."
A pulse of pure essence radiated outward, bending the storm. The air shimmered violently. Dante felt his boots slip on the warped steel; Milo grunted, throwing all his kinetic energy into stabilizing a falling lamppost.
And just like that, Selene vanished.
No warning. No trace. Only afterimages faded into puddles. The neon flickered once, twice, then returned to normal—or as normal as Northern New Eden ever looked in a storm.
Dante's chest heaved, plasma edge humming faintly, crimson threads dimming. Milo's gloves sputtered, teal sparks dissipating, and he slumped onto the wet surface. "She… just… left?" Milo asked, voice tight with disbelief.
Dante's eyes scanned the skyline, narrowing. "She didn't leave," he said finally. "She chose to leave. That… was a test. And she knows we exist now."
Rain continued to pour, washing the streets in fractured neon, but the city felt heavier, alive with tension. Somewhere in Northern New Eden, Selene Voss watched. And Dante knew—this was far from over.
Milo exhaled, sitting back on his heels. "Saint," he muttered, voice low, "that was… insane."
Dante said nothing. He only looked at the stormy skyline, crimson threads fading, mind already racing through strategies. The Mirage Saint had arrived. And the real game… was only just beginning.
The storm had become a relentless beast, wind slashing through neon towers, rain driving in sheets that stung like needles. Dante's crimson threads flared violently, plasma edge humming in tandem with his racing heartbeat. Milo's gloves glowed teal, kinetic energy arcing through his veins as he bounced across warped railings, debris spinning unpredictably beneath his feet.
Selene Voss stood at the center of the overpass, coat threads a living storm of shifting violet, gold, and crimson. Her iridescent eyes gleamed with impossible light, afterimages dancing around her, each one a teasing echo of the real motion.
"You're impressive," she said, voice lilting, almost playful, almost cruel. "But let's see how you handle… this."
With a flick of her wrist, reality fractured violently. Puddles twisted into deep pools of inverted reflections, railings melted and reformed like molten metal, and neon signs snapped and spun in midair. Milo leapt backward, energy flaring as he redirected a spinning lamppost mid-flight, saving a pedestrian from instant decapitation. Dante pivoted, slicing through a phantom of Selene's afterimage, plasma sparks flying, but the real Mirage Saint had vanished only to appear behind him, smirking.
Her laughter cut through the storm, melodic, dissonant, and terrifying. She stepped lightly across warped steel, leaving a trail of afterimages that lingered like fragments of a broken mirror. Milo hurled a kinetic blast, guiding a crate midair toward one of her duplicates—but it phased harmlessly through, striking only its own echo.
"You try to predict me," Selene said softly, circling Dante. "But I am neither cause nor effect. I am…" she paused, letting her coat flare crimson, "…chaos."
Dante lunged, plasma edge humming, meeting her hand mid-strike. The impact rippled outward, bending the overpass floor, cracking concrete, sending sparks and shards of metal flying. Milo fired another kinetic blast, spinning a lamppost like a top at her—but she twisted in impossible angles, her afterimages splitting and overlapping, phasing the weapon harmlessly away.
The city itself groaned under the stress: neon holo-ads flickered, puddles distorted reflections, wind tore at loose debris. Dante and Milo moved as one, surgical and chaotic simultaneously, but for every strike, Selene countered, bending reality to evade, leaving traces of fractured neon and warped steel behind.
Then, with a subtle hum that vibrated through the overpass, she stopped. Her eyes gleamed, and the afterimages multiplied until they became almost suffocating—reflections, echoes, fragments of herself filling every puddle, every neon panel, every warped railing.
"This was fun," she said, voice melodic but chilling. "But I grow bored of playgrounds."
A pulse of pure essence radiated outward, bending the storm. The air shimmered violently. Dante felt his boots slip on the warped steel; Milo grunted, throwing all his kinetic energy into stabilizing a falling lamppost.
And just like that, Selene vanished.
No warning. No trace. Only afterimages faded into puddles. The neon flickered once, twice, then returned to normal—or as normal as Northern New Eden ever looked in a storm.
Dante's chest heaved, plasma edge humming faintly, crimson threads dimming. Milo's gloves sputtered, teal sparks dissipating, and he slumped onto the wet surface. "She… just… left?" Milo asked, voice tight with disbelief.
Dante's eyes scanned the skyline, narrowing. "She didn't leave," he said finally. "She chose to leave. That… was a test. And she knows we exist now."
Rain continued to pour, washing the streets in fractured neon, but the city felt heavier, alive with tension. Somewhere in Northern New Eden, Selene Voss watched. And Dante knew—this was far from over.
Milo exhaled, sitting back on his heels. "Saint," he muttered, voice low, "that was… insane."
Dante said nothing. He only looked at the stormy skyline, crimson threads fading, mind already racing through strategies. The Mirage Saint had arrived. And the real game… was only just beginning.