When Toric’s team got there, Sector Thirty-Six was burning. Ash particles swirled in the air, falling like snowflakes.

Kael moved up alongside Toric, crouched low, the beads of sweat catching her temple. “This is not just a standard sweep.”

“No,” Toric muttered. “It’s a slaughter.”

Through the scope, he witnessed what should have been a standard government patrol failing in on itself. Soldiers were dropping their rifles, some were running away,  and some were just shooting into the smoke not understanding who they were shooting at.

Then he saw it — the cause of the confusion. Just a blur, shrouded in smoke and wind.

Vox. Floating purposefully, decisive, above the crowd. None of the bullets that were aimed in his direction hit their target. He waved them off like pests, and they simply stopped midair, dropping like trailing ash from a cigarette.

Toric did not give the order to stop. But his entire squad stopped anyway.

Kael was the one the first to say it. “It’s him.”

The plan was to intercept the supply lines. They hoped to obtain food crates, munitions, perhaps even ordnance. They had stumbled into something else entirely.

Toric was focused—he wouldn’t let an appearance from Vox distract him from their goal. 

He rose and signaled forward with a simple flick of two fingers, to shake the rest out of their trance. Instead, a glimmer of light scattered out to his left, and Kael ducked for cover. 

Toric cursed, barely comprehending his body moving. 

He launched forward and—met him.

Vox slid into position in front of Toric like smoke becoming solid. And in that split second, as Toric lifted his rifle, it was gone. The hot metal was pulled from his palm through an invisible pull, and tossed across the debris.

Toric pulled in a shuddering breath, and took one step backwards. Unable to look away from staring into those ghostly, lifeless eyes.

Vox was taller than he recalled. Or perhaps it was the way he carried himself with loose-limbed ease. Causal even. This man was in no hurry.

Vox didn’t say a word as one unmarred gloved hand reached for Toric’s jacket.

Toric flinched. “Don’t—”

Resounding behind them, the brawl fumed. Toric heard the popping of rifles, the stomping of boots, and Kael’s voice screaming over comms in his absence. Another flare liquidated through the smoke.

Toric was rising into the air, heels no longer touching the ground.

The wind kicked up around them as Vox lifted them both into the air, effortless and impossible. His long cloak snapped like a flag.

Toric didn’t resist, because he couldn’t. If he fell, it wasn't like he could fly. And they were moving through space that had nothing Toric could grapple onto if he did fall. 

Holding tight to the only thing keeping him from feeling like he might slip free, his jacket riding up high, exposing the skin of his back to the cutting wind. 

It was just the two of them, flying through the air. Their eyes locked — silver-sage against fire — and the heat of it cut straight through him, sending a streak of gooseflesh down his arms.

Toric had spent his life bringing down tyrants, shattering symbols and dragging gods from their pedestals. But something in this silence felt different. It was something personal. And he didn’t like the idea that anyone was trying to see through him. 

Toric wasn’t the rebellion’s highest rank, its sharpest strategist, or even its most decorated fighter. He was just a man that worked hard, and bled for what he believed in.

But why him?

Wind roared in his ears, grit stinging his face as the city dropped away beneath them. Toric’s grip stayed locked around Vox’s wrist out of necessity, not trust, with every instinct telling him to twist free. Except—there was nowhere to land but the ground, five-hundred feet away.

“What the hell are you doing?” Toric shouted over the rush. “What do you want with me?”

Vox didn’t bother answering him. He was unaffected by the wind, his coat had lost all disturbance, like gravity itself had chosen to give way. Toric hated the fact that it looked so effortless.

They floated down into the hollow shell of a once-grand building with cracked stone archways and faded murals watching from high, shadowed walls. The doors hung slightly crooked on their hinges. It looked like a defunct place of worship. 

Toric scanned the space automatically. He saw no guards or weapons in sight. And there was no sign of life beyond the two of them. Near the center, a long wooden table stood beneath a fractured skylight, the surface crowded with crates and baskets. Fresh fruit, bundles of vegetables, and wrapped confections still bearing the stamp of high-end shops sat perfectly stacked, badly out of place in the ruin.

Vox’s grip slightly loosened and Toric landed hard, boots skidding on the marble.

“What is this?”

The goods were stolen, every bit of them.

Vox walked to the table and removed his gloves, setting them aside with care. He still didn’t speak. He gave no gesture for Toric to sit at the table either.

The silence stretched, thick enough that Toric could hear the distant groan of the building settling, and the faint creak of old beams overhead. His pulse was loud in his own ears.

“Why am I here?” Toric said finally, voice low but sharp.

Vox only looked at him, turning his attention away from his own palms, now exposed, his pale eyes unreadable.

“My men need me,” Toric pressed. “They’re still in the field. I don’t have time for this.”

Vox still didn’t answer, and it had begun to feel unnerving. The quiet between them stretched, long and taught, settling down on Toric like a hand at his throat.

Vox stepped closer to the table but didn’t reach for anything. His eyes scanned the crates and baskets like they might hide the real reason Toric had been brought here.

“Sit,” Vox said at last. It came out calm and measured, not quite like an order. “You won’t lead anyone if you drop from exhaustion.”

His voice was clear and deep. Huskier than Toric expected from a man with pale skin and a lithe, fragile celestial form. His accent was sharp and scholarly. It was the voice of a man who rarely spoke, but when he did, everyone listened.

Toric stayed standing, eyebrow twitching. “I don’t eat until my team eats.”

“They will,” Vox said evenly. “But I’ve seen what you’re living on. Thin broth. A scrap of bread. You’re feeding them before yourself. Starving the one person they can’t afford to lose.”

“That’s the job,” Toric said flatly.

“It’s needless martyrdom,” Vox replied, waving a pale hand, nodding toward the table. “I’ve acquired fresh fruit. Vegetables. It’s the kind of food that’ll keep you standing. Rest assured, I’ve taken from the Unified private stores, not from the people you’re protecting.”

Toric’s stomach growled before he could stop it. He tried to ignore it, and swallow it down. Clenching his jaw tight.

Vox’s voice shifted, taking on a softer tone. “We don’t have to be enemies, Toric.”

Toric’s eyes narrowed at the use of his name. The way his lips softened around it. Spoken with a kind of intimacy that bristled Toric to the core. 

Who the hell did this meta think he was?

Like he could just say his name like that — like he knew him.

“You think offering me a piece of fruit changes anything?”

“No,” Vox said. “But it might keep you alive long enough to matter.”

A pause hung between them. Then, with deliberate slowness, Toric dragged out a chair and sat, the legs scraping against the marble. Vox didn’t take the opposite seat just yet, remaining standing at the far end with nimble hands resting lightly on the table’s edge.

Toric reached for an apple, its skin polished and cool in his palm. He bit into it with more force than was necessary, the tart juice sharp against his tongue. Vox’s mouth tilted slightly, as if he was pleased, but he said nothing to indicate it.

The apple crunched between his teeth, juice cutting through the dry taste of days-old rations that lingered on his tongue. Toric chewed slowly, keeping his eyes on the table instead of the man watching him.

“Is this your play?” he asked finally, inquisitive. “To feed me stolen luxuries, and hope I forget what you are?”

“What I am?” Vox repeated. The words came out calm, but a shadow of something flickered behind them. It wasn’t anger, it was something more akin to a bruise. “You mean a metahuman.”

Toric’s throat bobbed, and his mouth pulled into a harsh line. He didn’t deny the accusation.

“I’ve heard that tone before,” Vox said, eyebrow quirking. “Usually from the people who thought they owned me.” He paced slowly along the length of the table, with one hand brushing the edge in passing. “Solen fears what we might do without his leash.”

Then he glanced toward the fractured skylight, his voice steady but now, stripped of warmth. “They kept me contained. Every heartbeat was measured against what they could turn into a weapon.”

His gaze returned to Toric, level and unblinking. “You can call me dangerous if it makes you feel safer. But understand — I’ve seen the system from the inside. And I know exactly what needs to be torn out by the roots.”

Toric leaned back slightly, the apple still in his hand. His tone was accusatory now. “And then what? You sit on the throne they leave behind?”

Vox’s mouth curved faintly. It wasn’t due to amusement, but some private thought. “No. I only want to make sure no one else lives and dies in a cage.”

The words were suspended in space, and neither of them moved. The silence pressed down until Toric bit again into the apple, the crunch deafening in the stillness.

Toric couldn’t fault Vox; there was truth in what he said. However, Toric could see the fury swirling under the calm, and the unvoiced promise of violence in it. Rage like that didn’t stop when the first chains snapped.

“You’re playing savior without anyone asking you to,” Toric shot back. “Just you deciding who lives and dies.”

“Would you rather I wait around for permission while the regime takes back another sector?” Vox’s voice stayed measured, though something sharper edged in at the sides. “I’ve got the power to stop them. And they’ve already made me a myth.”

“That’s exactly why I don’t trust you,” Toric said, his jaw locked tight. “That’s how it always starts. Power first, excuses after.”

“And what you’ve got now—what you’re fighting for—is that freedom?” Vox’s gaze locked on him, steady and cold. “Is that freedom? Armed patrols at every corner. With rations so thin they starve you into obedience. It’s just another cage, painted red instead of gold.”

Toric’s chair creaked as he leaned forward, the apple still in his palm. “The difference is I’m not making myself king.”

Vox didn’t answer right away. Instead, he left the far end of the table, boots echoing on marble, each step measured. He was now at Toric’s chair, right behind it, the air feeling hotter, thicker.

“You’ve been in three sectors in the last month,” Vox said quietly, pulling into a kind of quiet thoughtfulness. “And you never sleep in the same place twice. Never basking in your victories. You leave the moment the people start celebrating. You never allow them to get too close.”

Toric’s shoulders tightened. “You’ve been watching me.”

“I observe everyone,” Vox said smoothly. “But you… you’re avoiding something. It’s not the regime. It’s something else, isn’t it?”

Toric turned his head slightly, enough to catch him in his peripheral vision as he lingered like a shadow over his shoulder. “You think you know me just because you’ve been keeping tabs?”

“I know enough,” Vox said, voice low, never flinching. “I know you’d rather sleep on concrete than share a bed with anyone. And you keep your men at arm’s length unless it’s life or death.” 

Vox paused, wetting his lips. “There’s a part of yourself you don’t let anyone see. Because you think if they did, they’d see weakness.”

“Stop talking,” Toric snapped, his grip tightening around the apple until it creaked under his fingers.

Vox leaned in slightly, not touching, the space between them charged. “It's not weakness. But you’ve convinced yourself it is. You’ve built a cell of your own mind and locked the door from the inside.”

“Stay out of my head.”

“I don’t need to go there,” Vox murmured, pulling back easily. “It’s written in every choice you make.”

Toric pushed himself away from the table so quickly the legs of his chair shrieked against the marble. The sound shattered the air and neither of them moved for a moment. His pulse raced in his ears, tightening his chest.

“You think you’ve figured me out?” The words came out ragged and half a growl. “You don’t know a fucking thing.”

Vox didn’t move far, but he stepped aside just enough to give Toric the space he needed. He stayed beside the chair, fingers trailing along its back. It was still far too close. He wasn’t touching him, but it was near enough that Toric could feel the pressure and heat of it.

“I know exactly what you are,” Vox said quietly. “Even if you’re not ready to name it.”

Toric’s breath stilled for a beat, then came back sharper. He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes.

 “So that’s it? You’ve been following me because you think you see something in me? Think I’m some—version of you? Or—you think I’d ever fall in line with you?” His voice cracked into something bitter. “You’re wrong.”

Vox blinked at him, saying nothing. The pause lengthened, long and intentional. 

Vox leaned a fraction closer, enough that Toric caught the faint scent of metal and smoke clinging to him.

 “You think I’ve been watching you because I need you to agree with me. Or because I need to change you.” There was a weight behind his voice that pressed between them. “I don’t. I’ve toppled whole sectors without your help.”

His hand brushed Toric’s arm as he shifted forward, their shoulders almost touching.

 “But you… you’ve built yourself into something people believe in. And you’ve done it without propaganda or spectacle.” His mouth curved faintly, unreadable. “If I were a different kind of man, I’d call that admirable.”

He let the compliment hang. It felt strange and ambiguous.

“And yet,” Vox continued, “you hide. You always move on before they can raise you too high, never letting them see more than what you choose. Always keeping the real fight locked behind your teeth.” 

Toric felt a sweat break out on the back of his neck, body locking up.

“I know what that means—I know what men are hiding when they do that.”

“You won’t admit it—maybe you can’t—but you’ve already confirmed it. Every time you look at me like I’ve said too much.” Vox stepped in that last inch, close enough that Toric could feel his breath when he spoke. 

“So no, I don’t need your loyalty. I follow you because I want to know how long you can hold out before you stop lying to yourself. And whether you’ll thank me…” His voice dropped to almost nothing. “…or hate me… when that day comes.”

Without another look, he turned toward the ruined archway that lead down a ruined staircase. The wind outside was sharp, cutting across the heat on his cheeks. His boots crunched over the grit that had drifted to the entryway.

Vox watched him leave, but didn’t call after him.