Kael stood in the gutted ground floor, hands on his hips, dust swirling around his boots. The place was a shell—cracked tiles, peeling paint, a faint musty smell of neglect. His savings—years of B-rank hazard pay—were about to take a hit, but this was step one. He rolled up his sleeves, the sling gone but his arm still stiff, and got to work.
First, the walls. He hauled in cans of paint, a crisp off-white to banish the gloom. The roller glided over the stains, each stroke erasing the past. He worked late, sweat beading on his brow, the hum of a portable fan his only company. By morning, the space glowed, sterile but promising—like a hospital ward, but softer, less clinical.
Next, partitions. He dragged in cheap drywall panels, hammering them into place to carve out rooms—a reception area, a holding cell, a "therapy" space. The nails bit into the studs with satisfying thunks, his bruised ribs twinging with every swing. He painted these walls too, a muted gray, calming but firm. Control, not chaos, would define this place.
Furniture came cheap from a secondhand shop—a desk, a few chairs, a cot with a thin mattress. He scrubbed them down, the tang of bleach sharp in the air. The cot got a dark blue sheet, practical but with a hint of intent. He stepped back, surveying it: functional, sparse, a skeleton of his vision. Two days of labor, and The Haven was born.
His phone buzzed as he wiped paint from his hands. A message blinked on the screen—from her. "Coffee tomorrow? Got your note. —L." Kael grinned, a flicker of old warmth cutting through the ache. Lightning Lass, A-rank now, but once his partner in grimy B-rank brawls. He typed back, "Usual spot. 10 AM."
The coffee shop was a hole-in-the-wall, all chipped mugs and sticky tables, tucked in a busy district far from his deserted haunt. Kael arrived early, claiming a corner booth. She strode in at ten sharp—tall, sharp-edged, her blonde hair pulled tight, electric blue eyes scanning the room. Her A-rank suit gleamed faintly, a subtle flex of her status. She spotted him and smirked, sliding into the seat across.
"Still alive, huh?" she said, voice dry but fond. "Thought that chain guy finished you."
"Barely," Kael replied, matching her grin. "Good to see you too, Liss."
A waitress hovered, and Kael waved her over. "Black coffee, two sugars, and a brownie—extra fudge." Liss raised a brow, amused. "You remember."
"Hard to forget," he said, leaning back. "Saved my ass enough times to know your fuel." The order came fast, steam curling from her mug, the brownie a gooey square on a cracked plate. She sipped, eyes narrowing slightly—waiting.
Kael took a breath, casual but calculated. "I need a favor, Liss. Big one."
She set the mug down, leaning in. "Spill."
"I opened a rehab facility," he started, voice steady. "Ground floor, out in the dead zone. Cheap rent, villain scars—perfect spot. I'm done scrapping with psychos on the street. Figured I'd fight crime smarter."
Her brow furrowed, intrigued. "Rehab? Like, for drunks?"
"For villains," he corrected, leaning forward now, earnest. "B-rank, C-rank, the ones too wild for prison but too useful to waste. I'll take them in, fix them up—turn them into something better. Maybe even heroes, fighting the good fight one day."
Liss snorted, biting into the brownie. "You? Playing therapist? That's a stretch, Kael."
"Not therapy," he said, a spark in his voice. "Recycling. My power—touch, amplifying what's in them—it's made for this. I can crank up their guilt, their hope, whatever's buried. Give 'em a shot at something more than breaking shit."
She chewed slowly, watching him. "Noble. Crazy, but noble. What's the catch?"
Here it came. "I need you to bring them to me," he said, voice low. "You're A-rank now—catching the big fish. Drop them off, anonymously. No paperwork, no hassle. I'll handle the rest."
Her eyes sharpened, the coffee forgotten. "That's risky, Kael. I'd be dodging protocol, sneaking around my own team. If it blows up, I'm toast."
"I know," he said, palms up. "That's why I'll pay you. Decent cash per villain—out of my pocket. And one more thing: superpower-suppressing collars. One with each drop-off. Keeps them tame while I work."
Liss leaned back, crossing her arms. "Collars? That's black-market territory. And cash? You're B-rank broke, last I checked."
"Got savings," he said, shrugging, though his gut twisted at the lie's edge. "Enough to start. Say… five grand per head, plus the collar. You're my pipeline, Liss. I can't do this without you."
She tapped her fingers on the table, electric eyes boring into him. "Five's low for the risk. Make it eight, and I'll think about it."
Kael's jaw tightened. Eight grand would gut his funds fast—faster than he'd planned. But he needed her. "Six," he countered, voice firm. "And I'll owe you a favor. Old times' sake."
"Seven," she shot back, smirking now. "No favors. Cold cash, Kael. I'm not your charity case."
He exhaled, sharp and short. "Seven it is. First villain seals it."
She nodded, finishing her coffee in one long gulp. "Deal. I'll sniff around—see who's ripe for your little experiment. But if this goes south, I never met you."
"Fair," he said, forcing a grin. "Wouldn't expect less."
Liss stood, brushing crumbs from her suit. "You're insane, you know that? Rehabbing villains with that touchy-feely trick of yours. Better hope it works."
"It will," he said, meeting her gaze. "Trust me."
She snorted again, but there was a flicker of something—respect, maybe—in her eyes. "Good luck, Kael. You'll need it." Then she was gone, her steps crackling faintly with static as she vanished into the crowd.
Kael sat back, the booth creaking under him. Seven grand a pop. His savings—already stretched thin from paint and drywall—shrank in his mind's eye, a ticking clock. The Haven was real now, walls up, purpose set, but it'd bleed him dry if he wasn't careful. Still, the plan was rolling. Liss would deliver—her word was solid, A-rank or not.
He pictured it: a villain in a collar, stepping through his door. B-rank, A-rank, didn't matter—his hands would find their edges, their cracks. He'd reshape them, bend their chaos into something he could wield. Noble, sure, but the real thrill—the real plan—simmered beneath. Pleasure as power, submission as salvation. His lips twitched, a shadow of a smirk.
The coffee shop buzzed around him, oblivious. Kael tossed a few bills on the table and stood, the weight of his gamble settling in. The first "lucky" villain was coming. He just had to wait—and be ready.