"Checkmate," the young man declared, his voice dripping with playful arrogance as he leaned back in his chair. Across from him sat a cloaked figure, his form shrouded in shadow, save for the faint gleam of silver rings adorning his gloved fingers. The figure let out a slow, weary sigh.
"You've won again," the elder muttered, his tone a mix of irritation and reluctant acceptance. With a wave of his hand, a scroll materialized out of thin air, unfurling lazily in the air between them. The parchment pulsed with an otherworldly glow, each letter etched in golden light.
"As promised," the cloaked man said, his voice tight, "you may add another clause to the contract."
The young man—sixteen or perhaps seventeen, with a tousle of golden-blonde hair and sharp blue eyes that gleamed with mischief—leaned forward. A grin stretched across his face, wide enough to be maddening. Around him, flickering numerals floated and shimmered like a digital aura, shifting constantly as if reacting to his mood.
"For an almighty being," Cain quipped, his grin tilting into a smirk, "you sure lose a lot. Maybe you need practice. Chess lessons, perhaps?"
The cloaked figure stiffened, his gloved hands curling into fists beneath his robe. His voice was low, almost a growl. "You'd do well to watch your tongue, boy. One day, I'll twist the timeline just enough to make you regret this."
Cain's smirk only widened, his confidence as infuriating as it was unshakable. "Oh, come on. Don't be a sore loser. Now, for my next clause..." He rested his chin on his hand, pretending to think, though the glint in his eye suggested he already knew exactly what he wanted. "How about this? For Clause Forty, I, Cain, should be able to manipulate the space-time continuum as I see fit."
The cloaked man froze. There was a long, heavy pause, the kind that stretched like a shadow creeping across the ground. Then, with a curt nod, he raised his hand. "Agreed."
The scroll shimmered brighter, as though reacting to the enormity of what had just been added. A booming voice, deep and resonant, echoed through the void around them:
"The contract has been completed. The Author shall bless His creation."
The scroll unfurled fully now, glowing symbols blazing with divine authority as they etched themselves into the fabric of existence:
Contract of Games
Clause One: Gods shall be unable to detect the Contractor.
Clause Two: Temporal causality shall be nullified for the Contractor.
Clause Three: The Contractor shall exist as a singularity, unbound by alternate realities or timelines.
Clause Four: The Contractor's actions shall remain undetectable by any higher-dimensional being.
...
Clause Six: The Contractor shall be immune to cosmic-level interference.
Clause Seven: The Contractor's creations shall operate independently of divine influence.
Clause Eight: The Contractor shall rewrite the laws of physics at will within his domain.
...
Clause Twelve: Death and rebirth cycles shall be controlled at the Contractor's discretion.
Clause Fifteen: Alternate versions of individuals may coexist and compete within the Contractor's domain.
...
Clause Forty: The Contractor is granted unrestricted mastery over the space-time continuum, enabling total dominion over its flow.
The radiant words seared themselves into the parchment before dissolving into the air, their power rippling outward. Reality itself seemed to quiver as the terms bound themselves irrevocably to existence.
The cloaked figure lowered his hand slowly. Though his face was hidden, the faint lift of his head suggested he was now looking skyward. Above them, the void churned, and countless eyes—golden, red, blue, and colors that had no name—blinked into existence, watching, judging. Their scrutiny was palpable.
The figure straightened, addressing the silent watchers. His voice was smooth but laced with something sharp—pride, or perhaps defiance. "Witness the rise of my greatest creation," he proclaimed. "Let the Contract of Games begin."
Cain, leaning casually in his chair, snapped his fingers. The floating numerals around him pulsed in response, flickering wildly as if celebrating his victory. His grin was a little sharper now, his energy electric.
me where chaos and laughter rule..." He tilted his head, blue eyes gleaming with mischief. "Let's make it fun."
The scroll disintegrated into a cascade of shimmering lights, scattering like stars into the infinite void. For a brief moment, silence reigned.
And then the cosmos trembled.
...
Euuuu. Euuuu.
The shrill wail of sirens echoed through the night as ambulances rushed toward the burning tower. Flames licked the sky, consuming the building in a hellish inferno.
"My name is J. Jonah Jameson," an old man declared, standing in front of the chaos with a news camera trained on him. His face was grim, his eyes narrowed as he pointed at the blaze behind him.
"Look at this! I'm sure #### is responsible for this destruction!" he shouted, his voice a mix of anger and desperation. "When will justice step in? Who will stop that criminal?!"
With that, the broadcast abruptly cut off, the camera shutting down as the scene continued to unravel.
Bang!
A loud crash resounded as something fell from the burning building. A teenage boy tumbled to the ground, flames licking at his clothes. His golden hair shimmered like molten gold through the firelight.
"Ambulance!" Jameson roared, rushing toward the boy. For all his bluster and selfishness, there was still a shred of humanity left in the old man. He knelt beside the teenager, his usually harsh face softening.
Hours later, inside a quiet hospital corridor, a doctor stepped out of a ward to speak with Jameson.
"He doesn't seem to be in any immediate danger, Mr. Jameson," the doctor said.
Jameson's expression tightened. "I see. What about the boy's parents?"
The cop standing beside the doctor lowered his eyes before answering. "Both are dead. One suffocated other burned to death."
Jameson's shoulders sagged slightly, though he quickly straightened. "Does he have any other relatives?"
The officer nodded reluctantly. "Yes. He's related to the Osborn family."
Jameson frowned, glancing toward the ward. "I see," he muttered. "Then it's time for me to leave." Without another word, he turned and walked away, his coat trailing behind him.
Minutes later, a convoy of black SUVs pulled up outside the hospital. A tall man in a crisp green suit stepped out of the lead vehicle, his sharp gaze sweeping over the scene.
"He's my nephew," the man announced as he approached the front desk.
The receptionist glanced up nervously. "Yes, sir. One of his parents is indeed your relative," she said, "but we won't know more until the boy wakes up."
The man nodded curtly. "Harry," he called, turning to a teenage boy who had followed him inside.
"Yes, Dad?"
"Take care of him until I return," Norman Osborn instructed.
Harry nodded. He didn't say much—he never did—but if the boy was truly his cousin, he would make sure he had everything he needed.
Hours later, the boy stirred. His golden hair was damp with sweat, and he groaned as his eyes fluttered open, the harsh hospital lights stabbing at them like needles. He flinched and then froze as memories flooded back in a blinding flash:
His name was Cain. Cain Wilson—or Cain Osborn, depending on which parent he followed. His parents had been fighting, their voices rising with every heated word. The argument had turned into a physical brawl, and during the chaos, the gas connection had loosened.
Gas had leaked into the air.
And then... bang.
His house. His family. Gone.
Cain blinked, trying to make sense of where he was now. White ceiling? Check. IV tube? Check. Hospital equipment? Check. He was alive, though the thought felt almost foreign.
He tried to sit up, but a firm hand pressed against his chest, stopping him.
"Whoa, easy there," a calm voice said.
Cain turned his head, his blurry vision focusing on a teenage boy sitting beside him. The boy looked a couple of years older than him, his features sharp but kind. He smiled softly before introducing himself.
"My name is Harry Osborn," he said. "What's yours?"
Cain hesitated for a moment before answering. "Cain Osborn," he said finally. Using the Osborn name felt right. He had to survive in this new world, and survival sometimes meant adapting.
Harry's smile widened slightly. "Well, Cain, I guess that makes us family."
For the first time since the fire, Cain felt a flicker of something other than pain or confusion. Family. Maybe that was enough.