Kaelen crouched low, inching toward the doorway that led back out into the main warehouse floor. He moved with precision, each step silent, his senses honed from years of training in the facility. The dark, open space stretched out before him, crates and machinery casting long shadows in the dim light. He could hear the murmur of voices nearby, the heavy clinking of chains, and the shuffling of boxes.
Peering around a stack of crates, he saw gang members huddled together, talking in low voices, their attention drawn to something on the other side of the warehouse. For a moment, he considered slipping by, keeping his exit quiet and unnoticed, but then his gaze fell on the figure standing in the center of the room.
The man radiated a strange energy, his skin crackling faintly with a metallic sheen. He wore a battered leather jacket, his hands adorned with silver rings that seemed to glint unnaturally. Tattoos snaked up his arms and neck, pulsating with a dull blue glow that hinted at his power—a Krystal-powered superhuman, just like the man before, but one who had tasted the Cosmic Krystal's energy long before.
This must be the boss, he thought, tightening his grip on the pipe.
The superpowered man barked orders at the others, his voice a low growl that echoed across the room. "Make sure the shipment is packed up tight. We're moving it out tonight. And if anyone sees that little rat snooping around here, shoot first, ask questions later."
Kaelen suppressed a grim smile. Too late.
He shifted his weight, edging around the crates, inching closer. The bag of cash and Krystals at his side felt heavier with every step, as though it were screaming to be discovered. He knew he'd have to be fast. The man's power was still unknown to him, and he couldn't afford to make any mistakes.
Just as he took another step, the crate beneath his foot creaked, a sharp, piercing noise that echoed in the silence.
The superhuman snapped his head in Kaelen's direction, his eyes narrowing as he locked onto him. "Who's there?"
Kaelen didn't hesitate. He darted out from behind the crates, launching himself at the man with a speed born of desperation and training. His body moved on instinct, honed by years of brutal drills and unrelenting practice. He swung the pipe, aiming for the man's temple, hoping to take him by surprise.
But the boss was fast, faster than Kaelen anticipated. He ducked, the pipe whistling just inches above his head. In the same breath, he lashed out with a punch, his fist glowing with that strange, metallic sheen as it connected with Kaelen's ribs.
Kaelen staggered back, pain exploding in his side where the punch landed. He tasted blood, but he didn't have time to dwell on it. The man advanced on him, grinning, his eyes filled with a dangerous glint.
"You got guts, kid," he sneered, flexing his fists as they crackled with power. "But you're way out of your league."
Kaelen spat blood, his own grin twisting with dark defiance. "I've dealt with worse."
He launched himself forward again, feinting with the pipe before dropping low, sweeping his leg in a powerful kick that struck the man's knee. The boss stumbled, his stance faltering, and Kaelen seized the opening. He swung the pipe with all his might, catching the man in the side of the head with a sickening crunch.
The boss stumbled, blood trickling from his temple, but he didn't fall. Instead, his grin widened, revealing a set of teeth stained crimson. "Not bad. But let's see you handle this."
Before Kaelen could react, the man's hand shot out, grabbing him by the throat. Kaelen gasped, struggling as the boss's grip tightened, crushing the air from his lungs. The man's fingers glowed, energy pulsing through them, sending waves of pain coursing through Kaelen's neck.
In that split second, Kaelen's training took over. He jabbed his fingers into the man's wrist, finding the nerve and digging in hard. The boss yelped, loosening his grip just enough for Kaelen to twist free. He hit the ground rolling, coming up with his fists clenched, his gaze locked onto his opponent.
They circled each other, tension coiling in the air like a loaded spring. Kaelen could feel the burn in his lungs, his vision blurring slightly from the lack of oxygen. He couldn't afford to keep this up much longer.
The boss lunged, and Kaelen dodged, sidestepping with a brutal efficiency. He lashed out, his fist connecting with the man's ribs, followed by an elbow strike to his jaw. He moved like a machine, each attack calculated, relentless, unforgiving.
But just as he felt himself gaining the upper hand, he heard the unmistakable click of guns behind him.
He turned, and there they were—the gangsters, pouring into the room, weapons raised, faces twisted with fury. In an instant, the warehouse erupted in gunfire. Bullets tore through the air, ricocheting off metal, splintering wood. Kaelen ducked behind a crate, his heart pounding as he clutched his wounded side, breathing heavily.
This was bad. Very bad.
The boss, meanwhile, laughed, wiping blood from his mouth. "You think you can just walk in here and take what's ours? You're dead meat, kid!"
Kaelen's mind raced, adrenaline flooding his veins. He had to think, had to move, had to survive.
Kaelen slipped out of the warehouse under the cover of darkness, every movement a carefully calculated blend of speed and stealth honed by years of brutal conditioning. His chest heaved, the rush of adrenaline still pounding in his ears, but he forced himself to stay calm, to be methodical. His shoulder throbbed from the grazes and bruises he'd sustained in the fight, and every inch of his body ached from the punishment he'd endured. Yet, even as the pain coursed through him, he felt a strange, quiet satisfaction. He had survived—again.
Once he was a few blocks away, Kaelen found a secluded alley and leaned against the cold wall, catching his breath. He needed to regroup. He had managed to swipe some cash from a few fallen gangsters before he left—small bills, enough to buy him a few basic necessities and perhaps some untraceable clothes. Nothing flashy, nothing that would attract unwanted attention. For now, he was just another shadow in the city, nameless and faceless.
The Voice, lingering in his mind, murmured approvingly. "You're resourceful, Kaelen. Just a little more, and you'll have everything you need."
"Just a little more…" Kaelen repeated under his breath, as though trying to convince himself. He knew the Voice wasn't a figment of his imagination; it was something deeper, a part of himself he both feared and relied on. But it had been right about the gang warehouse, and he couldn't deny that.
After a few minutes of rest, he pushed himself off the wall and made his way to a cheap motel on the city's outskirts. He paid cash, no questions asked, and settled into the musty room. The walls were thin, and he could hear the muffled arguments of his neighbors, the constant hum of the city beyond the broken blinds. He peeled off his bloodied shirt, examining the bruises and cuts in the cracked mirror. He'd need to tend to his injuries, but that could wait until morning. For now, he allowed exhaustion to take over, collapsing onto the bed and closing his eyes.
But sleep did not come easily. Images flashed behind his closed lids—visions of the facility, of missions past. He remembered a mission when he was fifteen, sent into a war-torn city to eliminate a rebel leader. The memory was hazy, but he remembered the fire, the screams of innocents caught in the crossfire, and the blood that stained his hands by the end of it. His orders had been clear: no survivors.
A cold sweat clung to his skin when he finally awoke, the faint morning light seeping through the blinds. He ran a hand over his face, trying to shake the nightmares. They never truly left him; they were as much a part of him as his own flesh and blood.
But he couldn't let them control him now. He had work to do. Today, he needed to blend in, find a way to become part of the city's undercurrent. He needed clothes, a cover story, and perhaps an alias. If he was to survive in this place, he had to build a new identity.
---
Meanwhile, across town in a lavish high-rise suite, a man known as Victor "Vortex" Ruiz sat in a leather armchair, flipping through a dossier handed to him by one of his underlings. Vortex, a towering figure with an aura of authority, had earned his nickname for his terrifying superpower: the ability to generate powerful vortexes of wind and gravity, capable of crushing opponents or sucking them into oblivion. He was not a man to be trifled with, and he held sway over the Red Serpents, one of the most feared criminal organizations in the city.
Victor's expression was one of cold anger as he read the report. The Red Serpents ran a tight operation, overseeing everything from smuggling and racketeering to underground arms dealing. The warehouse Kaelen had attacked was one of their storage sites—a small-time operation but important to keep the gears of the organization moving smoothly. And now, some nameless outsider had waltzed in, taken out several of his men, and robbed him without so much as a whisper.
"Any idea who this punk is?" Vortex asked, his voice a low rumble.
His lieutenant, a man with unnaturally sharp eyes, shook his head. "No ID, no trace. But the way he handled our guys…he's not your average thug. Could be military, or some kind of freelancer."
Victor narrowed his eyes. "Doesn't matter who he is. No one crosses the Red Serpents and walks away. Spread the word. I want every informant, every underling, keeping an eye out for anyone who doesn't belong in our city. And when you find him…" A dangerous smile crossed his face. "Bring him to me alive. I want to see this little upstart myself."
The lieutenant nodded and hurried out, leaving Vortex to brood in silence. He tapped his fingers on the armrest, deep in thought. There were plenty of people who thought they could make a name for themselves by challenging the Red Serpents, but most lacked the nerve—or the skill—to pull off what this mystery assailant had. Vortex couldn't afford to ignore a threat like that.
With a flick of his hand, he created a small vortex above his palm, the air twisting and churning with deadly energy. It calmed him, in a way. Reminded him of his control, of the power he held over this city. And he would make sure that whoever dared to cross him would know it too—painfully, intimately.
---
Back in his motel room, Kaelen finished patching himself up and pulled on a set of plain clothes he'd acquired on his way over. He needed to figure out his next move. The Voice had been quiet since last night, but he could still feel its presence, lurking just beyond his conscious mind, watching.
"Alright," he muttered, staring into the mirror. "You had a plan. Let's hear it."
The Voice chuckled softly, almost approvingly. "You need money, don't you? A new identity. Maybe even some equipment. Those thugs will be searching for you, Kaelen. They won't let this go easily."
"Let them search," he replied, a hard edge to his tone. "I'm not running."
"Oh, I know you're not." The Voice's tone was almost…proud. "But you need allies, connections. This city thrives on secrets and shadows, and I can help you navigate them."
Kaelen exhaled, his mind churning with the implications. He'd dealt a blow to a powerful gang, drawn their attention—he was in their crosshairs now. But maybe that was a good thing. Maybe he could use the Red Serpents to his advantage, find a way to make himself indispensable or untouchable in the criminal underworld. Or maybe he would just tear them apart, piece by piece, until he got what he needed.
For now, he needed to lie low, gather more information, and perhaps do a little more damage where they least expected it.
A slow smile crept across his face as he formulated his plan, the glint of challenge and defiance in his eyes unmistakable. He wasn't just a pawn anymore. He was free, and he was about to show this city that Kaelen was a name they would not soon forget.