Kael paced the gray-tiled floor of The Haven, the off-white walls catching the flicker of a single bulb overhead. Three days had passed since his deal with Liss—three days of waiting, of checking the cot's blue sheet, of running his fingers along the desk's edge. His savings were a dwindling shadow in his mind, but the silence broke with a sharp knock at the door.
He opened it to Liss, her A-rank suit glinting faintly in the dusk. Behind her, bound in superstrength belts—thick, black straps that hummed with containment tech—stood a figure, collared and gagged. The villain's wild crimson hair streaked with ash spilled over her shoulders, her lean frame jerking against the restraints. A superpower-suppressing collar gleamed dull around her neck, muting whatever fire once burned there.
Liss shoved the captive forward, stepping inside. Her electric blue eyes swept the room—the sparse desk, the gray partitions, the cot—and she let out a low whistle. "Damn, Kael. You've actually made something out of this dump. Props for trying to polish trash like her into anything worthwhile."
Kael's gaze flicked to the villain. He knew that hair, those burn scars snaking across her pale arms and throat. Flame-Warden—B-rank, rising fast. The villain directory had her pegged as a pyrokinetic loose cannon, last seen meditating in a volcano to juice up her flames. Posters warned of her heat, her rage. Now, she glared through the gag, amber eyes blazing at Liss.
Liss caught the look and sneered. "What? Still mad I roasted your ass?" She turned to Kael, a greedy glint in her grin as he handed over a thick wad of cash—seven grand, crisp and heavy. She thumbed through it, smirking. "Caught her fresh off her little volcano retreat. Thought she'd be hot shit after all that meditating, but she's still weak. Trash-tier, honestly."
Flame-Warden thrashed in her belts, a muffled snarl vibrating through the gag. Her wiry frame strained, muscles coiling, but the straps held tight. Liss stepped closer, her hand cracking across the villain's cheek—a sharp, stinging slap that echoed off the walls. Flame-Warden's head snapped to the side, but her eyes stayed locked on Liss, molten with fury.
"Keep squirming, you little arsonist," Liss spat, venom dripping from every word. "You torched half a district, killed who knows how many, and for what? You're nothing. A spark I snuffed out in ten seconds flat." She slapped her again, harder, and Flame-Warden jerked upright, chest heaving, amber eyes promising murder if the collar ever came off.
Liss turned back to Kael, brushing her hands like she'd touched filth. "Good luck with this one. Don't die before I bring you the next pile of garbage, yeah?" She pocketed the cash, gave a mock salute, and strode out, the door clicking shut behind her. The room fell silent, save for the villain's ragged breaths.
Kael studied her for a moment—tall, lean, all sharp edges and defiance. Then he grabbed her arm, dragging her deeper into The Haven. She stumbled, belts creaking, but he steered her to a chair by his desk. He sat her down, her bound hips pressing against the edge, and settled across from her. With a slow tug, he pulled the gag free, letting it dangle around her neck.
The floodgates opened. "You fucking bastard!" she roared, voice hoarse but searing. "Let me go, you piece of shit, or I'll burn this shithole down with you in it! I'll melt your goddamn face off, you—"
Kael leaned back, arms crossed, letting her rage crash over him like a wave. She spat curses—creative ones, he'd give her that—her scarred hands flexing uselessly in the belts. "—cowardly prick, hiding behind that bitch Liss, I'll roast you both—" Her amber eyes blazed, her crimson hair a tangled halo of fury.
He waited, silent, until her tirade sputtered out. Her chest heaved, sweat beading on her brow. Only then did he speak, voice low and even. "You done? Good. Because whether you like it or not, this is home now. Until you're rehabbed."
She barked a laugh, bitter and sharp. "Rehabbed? What, you gonna fix me? I'll kill you first."
Kael shrugged, unfazed. "Maybe. But I'm not here to cage you like some prison would. You'll get treated better here—food, a bed, a chance. Way better than rotting in a cell or frying on death row."
Her lips curled, skeptical, but he pressed on, leaning forward slightly. "I'm Kael. That's step one. What's your name?"
She glared, amber eyes narrowing. "Why the fuck should I tell you?"
"Because I asked," he said, simple as that. His hand moved, slow and deliberate, brushing the side of her neck—just above the collar. His Empathic Resonance hummed, not for him, but for her. He reached into her storm of rage, found a thread of exhaustion, and amplified calmness.
Her skin warmed under his touch, a faint flush spreading. The sensation shifted—her heartbeat slowed, her shoulders eased, the fire in her chest dimming to a flicker. It wasn't peace, not yet, but a whisper in her nerves: He's not hurting you. He's steady. Maybe… safe? Her breath hitched, a flicker of confusion crossing her face as the amplified calm nudged her toward doubt.
"Name," he prompted again, voice soft but firm, his fingers lingering.
She hesitated, lips parting, then muttered, "Rhea." It came out grudging, reluctant, but there—a crack in her armor.
"Rhea," he repeated, nodding. "Good start." He pulled his hand back, the resonance fading, leaving her with that lingering whisper of calm. She blinked, frowning, like she wasn't sure what just happened.
Kael stood, grabbing her arm again. "Come on." He led her to a small room off the main space—gray walls, a narrow bed with a blue blanket, a tray of food waiting on a rickety table. Bread, a slab of meat, some greens—simple, but more than prison slop. He shoved her inside, her belts clanking, and stepped back.
"Night one," he said. "Eat. Sleep. We'll talk tomorrow." He shut the door, the lock clicking into place. A faint hum sounded—the belts' tech disengaging remotely, set to release once he was clear. He lingered a moment, listening, then walked away.
Inside, Rhea froze as the belts loosened, falling to the floor with a dull thud. Her hands flexed, free at last, and her amber eyes darted around—bed, tray, walls. No windows, no escape. She snarled under her breath, pacing once, twice, her bare feet scuffing the tiles. The collar stayed tight, her fire locked away, but her fists clenched anyway.
Then her stomach growled, loud in the quiet. She glared at the tray like it insulted her, but hunger won. She snatched the bread, tearing into it with sharp teeth, then grabbed the meat, ripping off a chunk. Grease smeared her fingers as she ate, fast and messy, the greens ignored. She didn't sit—stood there, chewing, glaring at the door like Kael might burst back in.
He didn't. The Haven was still, the bulb in the main room buzzing faintly. Kael sat at his desk, elbows on the wood, staring at the wad of cash he'd handed Liss—now a memory. Seven grand gone, more to come. His savings were a threadbare net, but Rhea—Flame-Warden—was here. The first test.
He pictured her in there, eating, seething. His touch had planted a seed—calmness, a flicker of trust she didn't want to feel. It wasn't much, but it was an opening. His power didn't touch him—no rush, no thrill—just a tool, cold and precise. He'd amplify her cracks, widen them, turn her fire into something he could shape.
Rhea finished the meat, tossing the bone back on the tray. She wiped her hands on her scorched shirt, the leather jacket creaking as she moved. The bed stared at her, and she scowled, kicking it once. But exhaustion tugged—days in a volcano, a fight with Liss, now this. She dropped onto it, springs creaking, and lay back, amber eyes fixed on the ceiling.
Her mind churned. Rehabbed. Treated better. Kael's words stuck, irritating, but that calm—he'd done something. She rubbed her neck where he'd touched her, frowning. No burns, no pain, just… quiet. She hated it. Hated him. But the food sat heavy in her gut, the bed held her weight, and for a moment, she didn't move.
Outside, Kael leaned back in his chair, the night stretching long. Flame-Warden—Rhea—was his. Step one: crack the shell. Tomorrow, he'd stoke the fire—just enough to bend it.