The man’s breath clawed at his throat.

Cold tore into his lungs every time he inhaled, drying his mouth until his tongue felt like leather. The layers of clothes did nothing. He glanced down at his hands mid-step. His fingertips starts yellowing, stiffening, skin pulled tight as wood. Minutes, or maybe less, frostbite was already biting.

Still, he didn’t stop.

Driven by blind loyalty, he dragged himself up the stairs, one hand clutching his knee, the other scraping along the wall for balance. Each breath pulled in the stench of piss-soaked concrete, moss creeping along cracked tiles, and something metallic that coated the back of his tongue, whether the smells of rust, or blood. He can't be sure. It mixed until he couldn’t tell which was which.

“Shit… just a little more…”

His shoes slapped against the corridor floor beside the teacher’s office, the sound sharp and wrong in the empty school. Each step echoed too long, bouncing down the hallway like it was mocking him. His heart hammered against his ribs, wild and uneven, panic keeping pace with his stride.

He's looking at his back, again and again.

Darkness swallowed the corridor behind him, thick and absolute. As the sun dipped lower, red light bled through the glassless windows, painting the floor in stretched, crooked shadows. Beyond the frame of the window, Argon City spread across the horizon, distant and unaware. He caught the sight and smirked despite himself.

“Almost… almost…”

He burst through the end of the hallway and took the next stairs two at a time. His lungs burned, legs shaking violently. It had been like this since yesterday. Hauling kerosene, silencing his comrades one by one, twisting their bodies until bones screamed and joints folded the wrong way just to make them fit inside wooden boxes. He could still hear it: the shrill, wet screaming as limbs bent, the dull crack when something finally gave.

When the screaming stopped, the real work began.

All he had to do now was reach the rooftop. After that, peace. He would meet him. He would be rewarded. Everything would finally be worth it.

But suddenly, a soft hiss kissed his left ear.

The world tilted.

Something wet and heavy struck the floor at his feet, bouncing once before coming to rest among moss and grime. Pain detonated inside his skull a heartbeat later, sharp enough to steal his breath.

“AAAAAH!”

He clawed at his head, fingers digging desperately into hair and skin, searching for something that wasn’t there anymore. His palm came away slick. His eyes widened as the visual of red comes to his eyes.

Blood.

His left earlobe was gone.

A clean cut. Too clean. When he looked down, he saw it lying there. Small, pale, already losing heat against the filthy floor.

“FILTHY WHORE!!!”

He spun wildly, head snapping left and right, breath tearing in and out of his chest as adrenaline flooded his veins. The air stank, heavy and choking, but there was nothing. No footsteps. No shadow. Just darkness pressing in from every direction.

His eyes strained until they burned. Nothing moved.

“Shit!”

He didn’t have time for this. If he stayed, he died. If he ran, maybe—just maybe—he’d still make it. So he pressed his blood-smeared palm against the wall.

Thump.

The sound was deep, unnatural, like the building itself had been struck in the gut. He twisted his wrist forward, muscles screaming as his gift answered.

The concrete rippled.

The wall buckled inward, dragged by invisible force, folding and curling into itself as if it were soft clay instead of reinforced stone. Cracks screamed outward in a spiraling pattern, tiles popping loose, plaster tearing free as the surface warped violently under his hand.

That power was why people bowed before him. A gift that deformed anything he touched into a violent spiral. Walls, bones, bodies, anything he wants. <The Twister>, and it was the reason he stood above the rest of the thugs.

The reason they feared him, and the reason someone was hunting him now.

"This should do it."

His Gift answered obediently. The shattered wall beside the teacher's office groaned, chunks of broken concrete dragging themselves together as if pulled by invisible hands. Stone folded, twisted, and re-formed into a rough barricade that sealed the corridor behind him. It wasn't elegant. It wasn't strong. But it stood.

For a second, he breathed easier.

He knew better than to think it would stop them. People who crossed cities just to hunt one man wouldn't even pause at a wall like that. Still, if it bought him one heartbeat—one breath—he would take it.

"That ear seems hurt, mister."

His body jerked violently.

He spun back toward the corridor and nearly slammed into the wall he'd just made. A girl stood there, close enough that he could see the faint frost clinging to her lashes. She smiled at him like she'd just found a lost pet.

"Whoa!"

His composure shattered for a blink—just one—but it was enough. He forced himself upright, jaw tightening as he took her in. Tanned skin. Short, messy hair. Hiking clothes, worn and practical. No armor. No weapon. No visible threat.

And yet, she was there.

No footsteps. No sound. No presence.

Cold sweat crept down his spine.

No sane kid wandered into this building. Everyone knew what this place was. Junkies, smugglers, corpses in boxes. Yet she stood relaxed, hands loose at her sides, smiling like fear had never occurred to her.

"Tch!"

He slammed his palm against the wall again, forcing his gift to answer. White fog burst from his mouth as he concentrated, muscles straining to pull the concrete into another violent spiral.The girl's smile widened.

Her eyes opened fully, and red irises stared that man down. So rich and saturated, as if blood had been smeared across her pupils and never wiped away.

"You really are easy to guess, mister."

"What—"

Too late.

The realization came an instant before the pain.

His hand wouldn't move.

He looked down and saw ice blooming outward from his palm, racing across the wall in jagged veins. The concrete beneath his hand was no longer stone—it was a frozen mass, his skin fused to it instantly. Cold bit through flesh, past bone, straight into his nerves.

He felt it lock.

Felt his skin seize.

Felt moisture flash-freeze.

Felt his muscles refuse to answer as his hand became part of the wall itself. 

When he tried to pull back, something tore inside him, a deep, sickening resistance that told him if he forced it, flesh would stay behind.

"AAAAAA! MY HAND!! MY HAND—AAA!!"

He thrashed, boots scraping uselessly against the floor, but the ice didn't budge. It held him with absolute indifference. His terror bored her. She didn't even bother to smile wider. His screams ricocheted down the corridor, raw and cracking. He yanked again, harder, panic drowning thought. Pain exploded up his arm, sharp enough to make his vision blur.

The girl sighed and covered her ears with exaggerated annoyance.

"You're loud," she muttered, unimpressed.

"It gets dull after a while," she said lazily. "Don't you think so, Flo?"

A shadow dropped from above.

The boy landed from the rooftop opening with bent knees, absorbing the impact smoothly. Frost mist curled around him as a bright white halo flared above his head, his silvery-blue hair glowing faintly in the dim corridor. He straightened after a few seconds and stretched his arms, joints popping like he’d just finished a long shift.

“Don’t lump me in with you,” he said flatly. “I’m not a psycho.”

The girl snorted and nudged his arm with her elbow. She tilted her head up at him, pouting just a little—he had a few centimeters on her.

“That’s rude to your senior,” she said. “What, taking Louis’ path now?” 

“I’m not taking anyone’s path.”

Flo walked closer, boots crunching softly over frost and debris. From inside his jacket, he pulled out a folded photo and held it up beside the man’s face, comparing them with a slight tilt of his head.

“So you’re the one they call Regan?” Flo squinted. The man in front of him barely resembled the image—his cheeks were hollowed, skin stretched thin and grayish, eyes bulging too prominently from their sockets. His hair had grown long and stringy, clinging to his scalp in damp strands. And of course, his left ear was gone, the wound crudely sealed by frost and blood. It was like looking at a corpse that had forgotten to lie down. “You fasting or something? You look nothing like this photo from a week ago.”

“That’s because his gift eats calories.”

The voice came from behind. Flo glanced back as two figures approached through the corridor’s gloom. One walked with easy confidence, red hair catching what little light remained, a relaxed smile carved permanently into his face. The other was taller, broader, his short gray hair barely moving as he advanced in silence. Louis Eliana Doyle, and at his side, Klaus Nala Raferty. The captain of Wild Dogs and his right-hand.

“Good work, Rosa. Flo.” Louis’ tone was light, almost cheerful. “Or should I call you GreenEyes and ColdRain?”

“What’s the point now?” Flo replied flatly. He straightened, then walked past Louis without waiting for permission. “The rest is your playground. Bad cop time, right?”

“Of course,” Louis said brightly, though the smile never reached his eyes. “You’re free to leave. Or you can stay and watch.”

Flo paused for half a second. “I’ve got nothing better to do.”

Louis nodded once and stepped forward.

He moved slowly, deliberately, boots dragging faint lines through grime and ice, like a wolf that knew its prey couldn’t run anymore. The smile never left his face, but there was nothing warm behind it. Only intent. Everyone in the corridor felt it pressing down, heavy and suffocating.

Regan, however, laughed.

It came out dry and broken, an old man’s chuckle rattling through a ruined throat. His sunken cheeks made the sound look pathetic rather than brave, and for a moment, pity flickered in the air, and then died just as quickly.

“Never thought I’d get jumped by a bunch of brats,” Regan rasped, eyes rolling until they locked onto Louis. “Red hair. Silent steps. That disgusting smile. Didn’t think I’d ever meet a celebrity in person.”

Louis tilted his head slightly. “I wasn’t aware I’d become famous.”

“Don’t bullshit me,” Regan hissed. “My men talked about you. The one who doesn’t kill, but never shows mercy either. For you, death’s the kindness, right? You leave people breathing, broken, crawling. And every time someone asks who you really are, you give them one word.” His cracked lips pulled into a grin. “Isn’t that right, Howler?”