Johnathan stumbled through the cold streets barefoot, his soaked clothes clinging to him like a second skin. Every step felt heavier than reality, as if his body was suddenly too strong for the world around it, like he might break something just by breathing wrong. His lungs burned with ocean salt, yet air filled him with a strange lightness, like he could run forever if he chose to.
He didn't know whether he was alive… or something else.
They killed me.
The memory stabbed harder than the icy wind. Lex's hands around his throat. Marie's voice. That panicked plea.
"We can't let him call the police!"
Johnathan clenched his jaw to stop himself from shaking from everything boiling inside him.
He turned into a narrow alley to avoid the street lights. His hearing was sharper than usual. Every drip of water, every distant car engine, even the heartbeat of someone walking around the corner of it all hit him at once. A pounding orchestra inside his skull.
What's happening to me?
He leaned against a brick wall to steady himself. The wall cracked….cracked under his palm.
Johnathan jerked his hand back in horror.
"What the….?"
A faint vibration spread through his skin, like static electricity dancing under it. Something inside him pulsed… responding. Alive.
That was when he heard footsteps. Not one pair but several, synchronized, too calm to be regular pedestrians.
Johnathan turned slowly. Figures in black suits stood at the entrance of the alley. Their silhouettes stretched long behind them under the streetlight, heads turned directly toward him.
There was no hesitation nor surprise. They were waiting.
Jonathan's breathing quickened, but instinct whispered one thing to him 'run'.
He turned to bolt the other way.
"Target confirmed. Engage."
Their voices were low, like trained soldiers.
Johnathan sprinted. His legs moved faster than he expected. The world blurred around him; wind hissed past his ears. He wasn't running he was gliding, propelled like a machine built for escape. His feet barely made noise hitting the pavement.
Behind him, heavy strides thundered, but they weren't catching him. He was leaving them behind.
Then another voice echoed from somewhere above him, steady and calm:
"The Collin Bloodline has finally resurfaced."
Johnathan froze mid-step and crashed clumsily into a garbage bin. Pain shot through his ribs, but his bones didn't feel fragile like before. They felt… reinforced.
Collin Bloodline?
He had never heard anything about being part of a bloodline, much less one that sounded like a myth. His mother never talked about anything but running from debt collectors and surviving paycheck to paycheck. His childhood was filled with cheap apartments and hand-me-down clothes. Nothing royal. Nothing rich.
What bloodline?
Johnathan stumbled to his feet just as one of the operatives dropped down from a fire escape with impossible agility. He didn't attack, he just raised his hands patiently.
"Johnathan Collin ," he said, voice slick and controlled. "We've waited thirty years for your return."
Johnathan stepped backward, panic slicing through him. "Stay the hell away from me."
"We're not your enemies." The operative's tone was convincing, but his eyes were stiff, emotionless.
Johnathan didn't believe him.
He turned to run again, but a flash of metal caught his eye another operative blocking the other end of the alley. More shapes appeared on the rooftops. They surrounded him like wolves circling prey.
One reached forward, slow and deliberate. "Fear is natural. Your awakening must be overwhelming, but…."
Jonathan's vision blurred, and the world pulsed like it had a heartbeat. His muscles moved without his permission. A burning sensation surged through his chest, the same place the DestralCore Seal had exploded awake underwater.
The operative hadn't touched him yet but Johnathan reacted.
BOOM!
A shockwave erupted from him, blasting outward like an invisible explosion. The air shuddered, trash cans flew, brick cracked, and the suited man was thrown backward into the wall like a ragdoll.
Johnathan gasped and staggered.
He did that.
He caused that.
"What….what did I just do?!"
His hands shook uncontrollably. Light flickered beneath his skin for a split second, pale blue, like a star buried inside his veins. Then it disappeared.
More operatives rushed in, but slower, cautious now. They weren't looking at him like prey anymore. They looked at him as if he were something dangerous, more like a radioactive.
Johnathan backed away. "Don't come near me, I….don't know what's happening."
He bumped into something solid.
A figure.
Not rough like the operatives, not tense or armed. A soft presence stood behind him, frozen in emotion.
Johnathan turned slowly.
A woman stepped out of the shadows.
Silver hair cascaded over her shoulders, her coat elegant but battle-worn, eyes shimmering like storm clouds holding rain too long. She was regal, rich, powerful, commanding without saying a word. But her expression… was cracked open with disbelief. With longing. With grief.
Tears welled instantly in her eyes as if she had waited forever for this moment.
"Jonathan…" her voice broke like glass, trembling.
"My son."
The world stopped.
Jonathan's breath caught. His heart still newly reborn thundered painfully in his chest.
"I….I don't know you," he whispered, voice hoarse.
But the woman didn't step closer. She simply stood there, shaking as if she were afraid he would disappear again.
The operatives dropped to one knee behind her, heads bowed.
Johnathan stumbled backward, overwhelmed.
Mother?
He remembered being three years old, waking up alone on a staircase, neighbors asking where his mother went, foster homes, the long years of not belonging to anyone.
He had buried that pain. Now it looked him directly in the eyes.
No. No, this couldn't be.
"You were stolen from me when you were an infant," the woman said, voice fragile yet heavy. "And now the world wants to steal you again."
Her tear finally fell.
Johnathan didn't know what to run from anymore, these strangers… or the truth.
Jonathan's knees shook, torn between escape and answers, as the operatives raised weapons not at him, but toward the darkness behind him, where new footsteps approached, slow and menacing.