The air crackled with heat as Kael faced the villain, a towering brute wreathed in molten chains. The street was a warzone—cracked asphalt, shattered windows, the acrid stench of smoke. Kael's hands flexed, his Empathic Resonance humming beneath his skin. He lunged, fingers grazing the villain's arm, pushing a surge of fear into the man's mind. For a moment, the chains faltered, glowing dimmer.
Then the villain laughed—a guttural, unhinged sound—and swung. A molten whip lashed out, catching Kael across the chest. Pain seared through him, white-hot, and he stumbled, breath ragged. He tried again, grabbing the villain's wrist, amplifying desperation this time. The brute roared, eyes wild, but his fist came down anyway, smashing Kael into the pavement.
The world spun. Blood pooled beneath him, sticky against his cheek. He clawed at the ground, fingers brushing the villain's boot—one last push, a flood of panic. The chains flared brighter, and a kick cracked his ribs. Darkness swallowed him as the villain's laugh echoed, triumphant.
Kael woke to the sterile beep of a hospital monitor. His body was a map of pain—bandages tight around his chest, a cast on his left arm, bruises blooming purple across his legs. He groaned, blinking against the fluorescent light, the room a blur of white walls and antiseptic stink. The bed creaked under him, a thin mattress doing little to dull the ache.
The door swung open, and a man stepped in—broad-shouldered, graying at the temples, his suit crisp despite the late hour. Supervisor Harris. His face softened with something like pity as he pulled a chair close. "You look like hell, Kael."
"Feel like it too," Kael rasped, voice hoarse. He shifted, wincing as his ribs protested. "Did I get him?"
Harris sighed, rubbing his jaw. "No. He's in custody, but not because of you. Lightning Lass took him down after you went out." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Kael, you need to stop this. Give up the hero gig."
Kael's jaw tightened. "No. I can do this. I just need—"
"What?" Harris cut in, sharper now. "Another broken arm? A cracked skull next time? You're B-rank, Kael, and you've been stuck there for years. The odds of you hitting A-rank before you're dead are slim to none."
"I've taken down villains before," Kael shot back, heat rising in his chest. "My power works. I can—"
"Barely," Harris interrupted, his voice firm but not unkind. "Your success rate's abysmal. You end up here more often than you win. I hate seeing you like this—limbs busted, blood everywhere. You're not cut out for the front lines."
Kael glared, fists clenching despite the pain. "I'm not quitting. I can handle it. I just need to train harder, figure out—"
"Figure out how to die slower?" Harris stood, pacing to the window. "Look, I get it. You want to make a difference. But this isn't it. You're not invincible, kid. You're a liability out there."
"I'm not a kid," Kael snapped. "And I'm not giving up."
Harris turned, eyes tired. "Then what? Keep fighting until some psycho caves your head in? Use that power of yours somewhere else. Get a desk job—clerk, accountant, hell, open a massage parlor. Touch people, make 'em feel good, cash in. Beats bleeding out on the street."
Kael snorted, bitter. "A massage parlor. Real noble."
"Better than a coffin," Harris said flatly. He grabbed his coat from the chair. "Think about it, Kael. You're out of chances." The door clicked shut behind him, leaving silence and the steady beep of the monitor.
Days bled together on that hospital bed. No visitors came—no friends, no family, just nurses with clipped words and cold hands. Kael stared at the ceiling, thoughts churning. Harris's words gnawed at him—B-rank, liability, give up. His body ached, a constant reminder of his failure. But quitting? That stung worse.
He flipped through TV channels, restless. News replayed his defeat—grainy footage of him crumpling under those chains. He muted it, scowling, and landed on late-night porn. A woman moaned on screen, arching under deft hands. Kael smirked, half-amused, half-bitter. Touch people, make 'em feel good. Harris's dumb idea echoed, absurd but sticky.
Discharge day came, his cast traded for a sling, bruises fading to yellow. He left the hospital with a limp and a fire in his gut—not rage, not anymore, but something else. Purpose. He wasn't done fighting crime. He'd just do it his way.
The city's edge had a forgotten corner, a stretch of cracked streets and empty lots. Villains had torn through years back—fires, floods, chaos—and no one returned. Buildings sagged, windows boarded, but one caught his eye: three stories, brick chipped but sturdy. The ground floor was for rent, dirt cheap. Fear kept the price low, and Kael had just enough saved to snatch it.
He stood in the empty space, dust motes swirling in slanted light. Bare walls, cracked tiles, a faint echo of abandonment. His sling hung loose, his good hand tracing the air. This was it—his shot. Not a clerk, not a masseuse, but something real. Something his.
Crime didn't stop with fists and fire. It festered in hearts, in minds—places he could reach. His power wasn't brute force; it was deeper, subtler. He'd turn it into a weapon, not for battle, but for something bigger. A rehab center. A place to take villains—broken, wild ones—and fix them. Bend them. Make them his.
Kael's lips quirked, a dark laugh bubbling up. The idea hit him on that damn hospital bed, half-delirious, watching some oiled-up porn star writhe. Touch people, make 'em feel good. Harris meant it as a jab, but Kael saw the thread—pleasure as power, control as redemption. Villains didn't need cages; they needed chains they'd beg to wear.
He pictured it: women—because, hell, the fantasy skewed that way—collared, tamed, their chaos turned to craving. His hands could do that, his resonance could break them down and build them back. Not just a rehab center—a haven, a forge. Crime would shrink, one shuddering moan at a time.
The building loomed around him, quiet but alive with possibility. He'd start small—ground floor, a few rooms, a sign. The Haven. Dramatic, sure, but it fit. Kael stepped to the window, staring out at the deserted street. His reflection stared back—battered, determined, a man with nothing left to lose.
"Something noble," he muttered, voice low, almost reverent. "Something mine." Then he grinned, sharp and wicked, the porn-fueled absurdity sparking in his eyes. "Let's see how they like being rehabilitated."