The screen flickered, stabilizing against a backdrop of blue and silver, the BAY NEWS 8 logo rotating in the corner. The newsroom was a study in restraint—polished glass desks, sterile lighting, the steady hum of broadcast equipment filling the silence between words.

  The anchor, a man in his mid-forties with a neatly pressed suit and silver-threaded hair, faced the camera with controlled solemnity. His voice was level, practiced, the kind that carried weight without tipping into alarm.

  "We want to warn our viewers that the footage you are about to see is disturbing. Discretion is advised."

  The newsroom cut to black with a half-second delay. Then, the feed resumed; classic shaky, handheld phone footage. The image wobbled, grainy and unfocused, the person holding the camera breathing hard as he turned the view onto a highway.

  The highway was devastation.

  Twisted metal, shattered glass, the skeletal remains of vehicles still smoldering. Flames licked at the night air, reflecting off broken windshields and pooling gasoline. The ground was streaked red, multiple bodies scattered across the asphalt unmoving, limbs bent at angles they shouldn't be. Streetlights buzzed overhead, casting a stark, unnatural glow over the carnage.

  Distant sirens wailed, still too far to matter.

  The camera jerked, refocused, zoomed in on movement.

  A figure navigated the wreckage, unhurried.

  Red helmet-mask, white lenses blank and reflective in the firelight. Blond hair wild where it stuck out from the top. Black leather jacket, red gloves, red shirt beneath.

  He stepped over debris, boots grinding glass into dust. He moved with certainty, unfazed by the destruction around him.

  The person behind the camera sucked in a breath. "Holy shit."

  The figure approached an overturned black sedan, its frame warped from the crash, smoke curling from under the hood. The air around it shimmered with heat.

  The camera trembled as the figure reached out, fingers curling under the edge of the door.

  After only a moment's hesitation, metal screamed.

  The door tore free in a single motion. Not yanked, not pried—ripped.

  The figure flung it aside. It cartwheeled through the air, embedding itself into the wreckage of another burning vehicle.

  A whisper from the person filming. Barely audible. "No fucking way."

  A pause, thick with something between disbelief and something dangerously close to awe.

  The newsroom cut back in. The same anchor, the same controlled tone, layered over the footage.

  "It is believed that the figure in red is local Brockton Bay villain Hardkour," he said, voice measured, deliberate. "A known associate of the Azn Bad Boyz, the gang responsible for the violent series of attacks now being referred to as Red Week."

  The footage steadied as the figure in red reached into the wreckage, gloved fingers tightening around the collar of a man inside. A taller, older black man in a soot-streaked suit, fabric wrinkled and torn, his face twisted in something between terror and incredulous fury. He spoke, mouth moving rapid-fire, but his voice was lost beneath the layers of sound—fire crackling, sirens growing louder, distant traffic still fleeing the scene, the shallow, uneven breathing of the person behind the camera.

  Hardkour yanked him forward, dragging him out of the ruined vehicle like he weighed nothing. Coil's hands twitched, arms jerking as if to fight back, but there was no real strength behind it. His feet scraped against the warped interior, trying to find leverage where there was none.

  The news anchor's voice cut through the silence that followed, calm, professional.

  "At this time, the identity of the man being pulled from the vehicle is unknown, but sources suggest he was the primary target of the attack. Whether this was a gang-related execution or something else entirely remains to be seen. What happens next..." A pause. Just a breath. Then, evenly, "Is difficult to watch."

  On-screen, flames reflected off the smooth, opaque lenses of Hardkour's mask as he tilted his head, examining the man hanging in his grip. The fire cast his silhouette long against the pavement, twisting with the heat.

  Behind them, the wreckage groaned, metal warping under the strain.

  The fire surged.

  The explosion tore through the highway, a deafening boom from the car that swallowed everything in its path. The screen flared white.

  When the feed cleared, Hardkour was still standing.

  The blaze from the exploding car wrapped around him, his form wreathed in shifting orange, the red of his jacket barely distinguishable from the fire itself. His mask caught the light, reflecting the devastation around him.

  The man in his arms was not.

  His body hung limp as he was held off the ground, charred beyond recognition, blackened flesh peeling from exposed bone. The once-expensive suit was nothing but burnt remnants clinging to the ruined frame beneath. Smoke curled off him in slow, twisting tendrils.

  Hardkour stared at the body for a long moment. Then, without hesitation, he let it drop.

  The corpse hit the pavement with a sound that barely registered over the chaos in the background.

  Then he moved.

  The camera jolted as he vanished from the frame, a blur of motion too fast to follow. The person recording gasped, the sound barely audible, their voice cracking on something breathless and horrified. The words were lost, swallowed by the sound of the burning cars.

  The footage froze.

  The last frame lingered on the screen: the burning corpse in the foreground, the shattered wreckage behind it, and the empty space where Hardkour had been only moments before.

  The newsroom returned, the anchor's exhale measured, careful.

  "Law enforcement, neither police nor the Parahuman Response Team, has yet to make an official statement regarding tonight's events. Reports from emergency responders indicate that at least a dozen individuals have been found at the scene, many deceased or in critical condition. Whether Hardkour was acting alone or with assistance remains unclear."

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  The broadcast continued, but the sound barely carried in the boardroom.

  The television loomed over the table, the massive screen mounted against the far wall casting flickering light across the room's occupants.

  In one chair, a man sat rigid, brown-haired, bearded, his expression unreadable, eyes locked onto the screen.

  Across from him, an olive-skinned woman leaned back, fingers drumming lightly against the table. A bandana with an American flag pattern covered the lower half of her face. She wasn't watching the footage. She was watching him.

  He refused to face her.

  Behind them both, near the edge of the room, an overweight blonde woman in a tailored pantsuit stood tense, fists pressing against the table's polished surface.

  Her breath left her in a single word, quiet, furious.

  "Fuck."

  "More updates will follow as the sit—"

  – o – o – o – o – o – o – o –?

  "—uation develops."

  The TV clicked off. The silence that followed wasn't clean. It pressed in heavy, thick, a waiting thing, not empty but full.

  The air inside the warehouse was warm, the heating system doing its very best, but somehow it felt colder.

  The hum of dead air buzzed against Sparky's skin, too close, too tight. His own footsteps filled the space, sneakers scraping concrete in an endless rhythm, back and forth, back and forth, pacing that hadn't stopped since the broadcast began.

  He ran a hand through his hair, tugging, nails scraping against his scalp. His breathing was off, too fast, too uneven, but he couldn't fix it. The images were still there, burning behind his eyelids. Fire, wreckage, bodies, Greg.

  Greg.

  His throat felt too tight. He exhaled hard through his nose, forced out a word that tasted like metal. "Fuck."

  Theo still hadn't moved.

  Hadn't spoken.

  He stood there, arms folded, shoulders squared, a perfect fucking statue. His expression gave nothing, but his eyes—too sharp, too clear, too focused—hadn't left the blank screen, like it still had something left to say.

  Sparky turned on him, too fast, too sharp, his voice spilling out before he could stop it. "Tell me I'm not crazy." His tone cracked at the edges, but he didn't care. "Tell me I didn't just watch Greg get his head fucking blown off, and now he's out there playing DOOM on the freeway."

  Theo blinked once, slow. "I don't know what you want me to say."

  Sparky let out a sharp, humorless laugh, all teeth, no warmth.

  "Oh, I dunno, man! Maybe something normal! Like, 'Yeah, bro, this is fucked!' Or, 'No, you're not crazy, this is actually happening!' Or maybe even, just maybe, 'Holy shit, our best friend just committed mass murder on live fucking TV!'"

  Theo's jaw tightened. "I see it."

  Sparky stared at him, heart hammering in his chest, disbelief curling hot and sharp behind his ribs. Then he gestured hard at the TV again, voice breaking as he shook with something too raw, too big. "Then say something!"

  Theo's fingers curled against his sleeve. "What do you want me to say, Axel?"

  "I don't fucking know!" The words were too loud, his hands shaking where they curled into fists, rage and frustration and annoyance making his heart pound in his chest. His body felt like it was running too hot, his pulse pushing at the edges of his skin, trying to move, move, move. He dragged a hand down his face, breath coming hard and uneven. "Jesus Christ."

  The words left him on an exhale, barely above a whisper. "We need to do something."

  Theo tilted his head, just slightly. "And do what?"

  Sparky froze. His mouth opened, then closed. His fingers flexed at his sides, digging into his palms, and fuck, fuck, fuck—he had nothing.

  No plan. No next step. No clue how to deal with this.

  Theo watched him, gaze steady, too measured, too knowing. Then, finally, slowly, he said, "We have two options. Wait for Greg to come back… or go home and pretend this never happened."

  Sparky's head snapped up. "That's it?" His breath hitched. A laugh, sharp and bitter, forced itself past his teeth. "Those are our options? Seriously?"

  Theo didn't respond.

  The air stretched between them, thick, heavy, charged with everything unsaid. And then—

  The warehouse door creaked open.

  Sparky flinched. His stomach turned inside out as he whipped around, every muscle locking up.

  Greg stepped inside.

  His hair was wet, plastered to his forehead, sticking to the side of his face. His clothes were clean. Too clean.

  A fresh set of jeans, a black hoodie, smooth fabric, untouched, like it had never seen smoke or blood or asphalt. Like he hadn't just walked out of a massacre.

  Something was wrong.

  Sparky's breath caught. His instincts flared, his body tensing, his mind screaming at him to pay attention.

  Blood.

  Seawater.

  Something else. Something thick, wrong, something that curled in the back of his throat like a warning, like a scream trapped in his ribs.

  Then his eyes landed higher, and everything inside him went still.

  Greg's skull was still open.

  Not bleeding. Not dripping. Just open. Skin split, jagged, not yet sealed, the edges struggling to knit back together but failing.

  His brain…

  His actual fucking brain—

  Was still visible.

  Sparky's breath hitched, his chest locking up, his head suddenly too light and too heavy all at once. Theo was stiff beside him, but Sparky caught the way his fingers twitched, the way his jaw locked just a fraction too tight.

  Greg stared at them.

  He didn't speak. Didn't move.

  Then, he started slow, voice thick and hoarse, slurred at the edges, he said, "My birthday's tomorrow. Sweet s-sixteen." His throat worked as he swallowed, blinking slow, one eye before the other. "I… Y…You g-guys gonna be there?"

  The room felt stretched too thin as Theo and Sparky met each other's eyes, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.

  Then, overlapping, voices shaky, uneven—

  "Yeah."

  "Of course."