Victor sat alone in his office, surrounded by the lavish décor he had amassed over the years of political power. The dim light from his desk lamp cast shadows that accentuated his features, giving him an air of contemplation as his mind darkened with a singular thought: Zephyr.
He was not his son. Zephyr was the fruit of Evelyn's past-a violent page Victor couldn't blot out. He wasn't his kin. He wasn't one of them. Yet there he had to live and breathe, in his very house, an eternal reminder of everything Victor despised.
Zephyr's powers, originally light-based, were a scathing reminder of the man who had hurt Evelyn—someone whose bloodline ran through Zephyr's veins. That man possessed powers, and so did Zephyr. The powers were pure; they were created to be protective, yet in Zephyr they warped into something dark, sinister. It made Victor sick. How could he ever welcome a child borne of such violence? Not even a child born to him?
Victor leaned back in his chair, the weight of his thoughts pressing on him. His fingers drummed against the wooden armrests of his chair as memories of Zephyr's childhood resurfaced.
Victor remembered when Zephyr was just a boy, barely ten. The child had been weak, and Victor had been ruthless. He could see Zephyr's face even now, so fragile, his eyes full of fear and uncertainty. But Victor had no patience for that weakness. If Zephyr was to live under his roof, he would learn to obey. He would be shaped into something useful, something to reflect Victor's ambitions. If he had to break the boy to do that, so be it.
One evening, Victor had raised his hand, delivering a sharp slap across Zephyr's face. The child had staggered back, eyes wide with shock. "You are nothing," Victor had snarled. "You will never amount to anything. You're not even worthy to be here."
Zephyr had remained silent, fear mixing with confusion in his eyes. His mother, Evelyn, hadn't even looked his way. She stood as she always did—aloof, indifferent.
Victor had always been the one to punish Zephyr, never Evelyn. To him, it was plain that Evelyn did not love her son, nor feel any sympathy for the child she had given birth to. For her, Zephyr was a reminder of her mistake. And for Victor, Zephyr was a nuisance.
Another memory surfaced, unbidden and raw. Zephyr knelt on the polished marble floor of the Ashbourne estate's training hall, his light flickering weakly around him. He was drenched in sweat, his breaths ragged.
Victor stood over him, a dark figure silhouetted against the glaring lights. "Again," he commanded, his voice icy.
"I… I can't," Zephyr stammered, clutching his side where a bruise was already forming. "I'm tired."
"Excuses!" Victor bellowed, striking him across the face. The slap echoed in the cavernous hall.
Zephyr didn't cry—he had long since learned not to—but the light in his eyes dimmed ever so slightly. "You think the world will go easy on you because you're tired?" Victor sneered. "Do you think your enemies will show you mercy? Weakness is a disease, Zephyr."
As Zephyr hit his teens, everything seemed to deteriorate further. His powers had made themselves more evident, the defiance sharper. He wasn't that timid boy who was afraid anymore. And with every powerful stroke that he exhibited, Victor grew in callousness. In many ways, he seemed to perceive Zephyr's growing as a challenge - an attack on his influence.
"You'll never be good enough," Victor had sneered one night, when Zephyr had dared to challenge him. "I don't care how strong you get. You'll always be my disappointment."
Zephyr, now a teenager, had stood his ground. "I'm not your disappointment. I'm not your failure," he had said, his voice steady.
But Victor had snapped, pushing Zephyr's powers to the edge. The boy's light-based abilities had shifted, and from that moment on, Zephyr had embraced the shadows that had always lurked beneath the surface. And as the shadows overtook him, Victor had only seen the failure of his own attempts at control. Zephyr had grown into something darker, more dangerous.
And Victor, frustrated and angry, had attempted to snap him again, only to be met by the thrusts of Zephyr's resistance. That night birthed the villain; at least, he who will no longer bend to the desires of Victor.
Victor clutched the arms of his chair, his mind still drenched with the memory of that night. Zephyr had been molded from something more than just some boy to be used at his whim. The truth in all this was that Zephyr was a threat - he could never be let to exist, not to this world that Victor constructed.
Victor shook himself out of the memory, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached. The past didn't matter now. What mattered was making sure that Zephyr wouldn't destroy everything Victor had built. He had already tarnished the Ashbourne name once; Victor wouldn't let him do it again.
He took a deep breath before opening the locked drawer in his desk and pulling out the slick, unmarked phone. The number dialed had been memorized for those transactions that even the black market would blush about.
He rang through, a gravelly voice answering.
"You have my attention, Mr. Ashbourne," he growled.
Straightening to his full height, his tone was as cold as it was precise. "I need your services. I have someone… whom I want eliminated.
The hitman on the other end chuckled softly. "Elimination isn't cheap, especially for someone of your stature. Who's the target?"
Victor curled his lip in contempt. "Zephyr."
He fell silent, following the sound of a soft whistle from the other line. There was a faint recognition within it. "Ah, the shadow manipulator. Bold choice. It's not just any man you go for, you understand."
Victor snorted impatiently. "I wouldn't need to be an idiot for that.".
"Depends on what's in it for me," the hitman said nonchalantly.
Victor leaned forward, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "Half of the community's budget. That's what's in it for you."
The hitman chuckled darkly. "Half the budget? You must really hate this guy."
"It's not hatred," Victor lied, though the venom in his voice betrayed him. "It's about protecting what's mine."
The hitman's tone turned serious. "Consider it done. You'll hear from me soon."
Victor ended the call, locking the phone away as though the act could seal his sins. He sat back, his gaze drifting to the family portrait on the wall. It showed a younger version of himself, Evelyn, and Zephyr. A family that no longer existed.
"Good riddance," Victor muttered under his breath.
Hidden from prying eyes, in a secluded city corner, Viper geared up for the hunt. The contract on Zephyr's life was not an ordinary job-it was a challenge, a test against a formidable opponent.
Viper studied the low-quality photo of Zephyr, noting the sharp angles that seemed to cut his face, and the unnerving intensity of his eyes. He unfolded a city map and marked places where people said Zephyr has been seen. It wouldn't be easy to search for someone who could melt in the shadows, but he liked a good challenge.
"This'll be interesting," Viper whispered, a sly smirk crossing his face.
He packed his gear—a collection of weapons and tools designed for silent execution. As he slipped into the night, he felt the familiar thrill of the hunt coursing through his veins.