# Chapter 29: The Wound's Echo
The scent of antiseptic vanished, replaced by the acrid stench of smoke and burning plastic. A woman's face, her features blurred by terror, flashed in his mind. Her scream echoed not in the warehouse, but in the deepest, most broken part of his soul. The Wound. It opened.
The sterile white of the medical bay bled away, replaced by a kaleidoscope of orange and black. Relly was no longer on a gurney in a Brooklyn warehouse. He was kneeling on a cheap, scratchy rug, the fibers digging into his knees. The air was thick, choking, each breath a searing drag of superheated poison. A wall of fire, a roaring, living thing of orange and crimson, consumed the far side of the room, licking at the ceiling with greedy, black-tipped tongues. The heat was a physical weight, pressing down on him, blistering his skin, stealing the moisture from his eyes and mouth.
And in the center of it all, a silhouette against the inferno. A woman. Her hair, a wild halo of dark curls, was backlit by the blaze, and her face, a mask of pure, undiluted terror, was turned toward him. Her mouth was open, a perfect O of sound he couldn't hear over the roar of the flames, but he felt it in his bones. A scream. His name? A warning? A curse? He didn't know. He only knew the sound was meant for him. Her hands were outstretched, not in supplication, but as if to push something away. To push *him* away.
Failure. The word wasn't a thought; it was a physical sensation, a cold, heavy stone in his gut. He had done this. He was responsible. The fire, her terror, the world ending—it was his fault. He tried to move, to crawl through the suffocating heat toward her, but his limbs were leaden, useless. He was a spectator to his own damnation.
Back in the warehouse, the change was instantaneous and catastrophic. The low hum of Relly's nascent power, which had been a gentle thrum in the air, erupted. It was a soundless scream of raw energy, a violent, discordant chord that shattered the room's fragile calm. The glass vial in his hand didn't just crack; it atomized. The luminescent dust within, meant to be coaxed into inertness, detonated outwards in a wave of pure, untamed force.
Pres, standing a few feet away, felt the shift a split second before it hit. Her centuries-honed instincts, honed by assassinations and corporate takeovers, screamed a single word: *danger*. She didn't think. She moved. Her body, a blur of impossible speed, pivoted and dove behind a heavy steel workbench. The motion was fluid, economical, a testament to a predator's grace.
The concussive blast hit the bench a moment later. The screech of tortured metal ripped through the air as the three-inch-thick steel buckled and warped, its surface dimpling as if struck by a giant's fist. Tools and equipment were thrown into the air, clattering and smashing against the concrete floor. The overhead lights flickered, their hum rising to a panicked whine before several of them popped, showering the room in a rain of sparks and plunging half the space into strobing shadow. The air itself seemed to thicken, to warp, the smell of ozone sharp and acrid, a phantom storm contained within four walls.
Silence descended, heavy and absolute, broken only by the tinkle of falling glass and the frantic, ragged gasps of the man on the gurney.
Pres rose slowly from behind the mangled workbench, her eyes wide. A thin line of blood trickled from her hairline where a piece of shrapnel had grazed her, but she paid it no mind. Her gaze was fixed on Relly. He was slumped forward, his hands clutching his head, his body trembling violently. The raw, untamed power that had just torn through her sterile laboratory was still coiling in the air around him, a chaotic miasma of energy that made her teeth ache.
She had expected resistance. She had anticipated failure. She had not expected this. This was not the clumsy surge of a novice. This was the explosive, uncontrolled outburst of something primordial, a force of nature lashing out in pain. She felt a flicker of an emotion she hadn't experienced in decades: fear. It was cold, sharp, and utterly intoxicating. Beneath it, however, was something else, something far more powerful and familiar to her: scientific fascination. This was a data point of immeasurable value. This was the key.
Relly was lost in the echo chamber of his own mind. The fire raged, the woman's silent scream continued, and the crushing weight of his failure pressed down on him, threatening to shatter him into a million pieces. The physical pain of his body was a distant, insignificant hum compared to the psychic agony of the memory. He was drowning in it, being consumed by the ghost of a moment he couldn't escape.
Pres took a cautious step forward, her heels clicking softly on the debris-strewn floor. The air around Relly shimmered, distorted by the residual energy. She could see the physical toll it was taking on him. A fine sheen of sweat covered his pale skin, and the muscles in his neck and jaw were locked tight. He was fighting a war inside his own head, and she had just handed him the weapon.
"Relly," she said, her voice carefully modulated, devoid of the command she had used earlier. It was a tone she might use to calm a spooked animal. "Relly, look at me."
He didn't respond. His eyes were squeezed shut, his face a mask of torment. A low, guttural moan escaped his lips, a sound of pure, unadulterated pain.
She moved closer, stopping just outside the shimmering perimeter of his personal storm. She could feel the emotional residue radiating from him: guilt, terror, and a profound, soul-crushing sorrow. It was a psychic wound, festering for years, and she had just ripped it wide open. This was the source. The Wound. It wasn't just a psychological scar; it was the lock on his power, and the key at the same time. His abilities weren't just tied to his emotions in a general sense; they were intrinsically linked to this specific, catastrophic trauma.
The realization hit her with the force of a physical blow. The grimoire spoke of alchemy requiring a clear mind and a steady heart. It was a lie. Or, at least, it was only half the truth. For him, for the last of his line, power was born from pain. Control would not come from suppressing his emotions, but from understanding them, from facing the very event that had broken him. It was a paradox of the highest order. To make him a weapon, she first had to make him whole. To teach him control, she had to let him break.
"Relly," she tried again, her voice softer still. "The fire isn't real. It's a memory. You're here. You're safe."
The words were useless. He was too far gone, lost in the labyrinth of his past. The energy around him began to spike again, a warning tremor preceding another earthquake. The air crackled. Pres knew she had seconds before he unleashed another blast, one that might not miss her this time. She could retreat, seal the room, and let him ride it out. It was the logical, safe option. It was what a CEO, a warden, would do.
But she was also a scientist, and the specimen before her was too precious to risk damaging further through neglect. She also felt something else, a pang of something she refused to name as empathy. She saw not just an asset, but a man being torn apart from the inside.
Making a decision that went against every instinct for self-preservation, Pres stepped forward, into the shimmering, chaotic field of his power. The energy washed over her, a nauseating wave of psychic static. It felt like sticking her finger in a light socket, a jolt of pure, unfiltered emotion. It was vile and painful, but she pushed through.
She reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder.
The contact was like a lightning strike. The full force of his psychic agony slammed into her, a tidal wave of sensory input. For a fleeting, disorienting second, she saw it through his eyes. She felt the searing heat, smelled the burning plastic, and heard the phantom scream of the woman in the fire. She felt the crushing weight of his failure as if it were her own. It was overwhelming, a glimpse into a hell she had never known.
Relly's body jerked at her touch, his eyes flying open. They were wild, unfocused, the pupils dilated to black pools. He didn't see her. He saw the fire. He saw the woman. He saw his failure.
"It's my fault," he choked out, the words torn from his throat. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
The energy around him collapsed inward, no longer exploding outwards but imploding, sucking all the light and sound from the room. The pressure dropped, and Pres's ears popped. Relly's body went rigid, his back arching, and then he slumped forward, all the tension gone. He was unconscious, his head lolling to one side, a single tear tracing a clean path through the grime on his cheek.
The room was still. The warped steel bench stood as a silent testament to the power he had unleashed. Pres stood over him, her hand still on his shoulder, her own body trembling slightly from the psychic backlash. She stared down at his unconscious form, her mind racing.
The equation had just changed. This was no longer a simple matter of training an asset. This was far more complex, far more dangerous. His power was a double-edged sword, forged in the fires of his trauma. To wield it, he would have to walk back into that fire. To control it, he would have to confront the ghost that haunted him.
And she, Pres Sanchez, the pragmatic, calculating CEO, had just volunteered to be his guide. She looked from his pale, peaceful face to the mangled bench, a flicker of something unreadable in her ancient eyes. He was a weapon of unimaginable potential, yes. But he was also a bomb, and his trigger was a memory. A memory she now had to help him defuse before it destroyed them both.