The slums stank like rotting trash and burnt grease—same as always. But to Jace, it was background noise. Something you stopped noticing after enough time.

  The streets were alive: vendors shouting over each other, kids darting between stalls, and a man selling hotdogs that were probably made from an animal no one could name.

  Jace was at it again—his new training plan was working him to the bone. Sweat dripped from his chin. His arms trembled under his weight. One more pushup—and he nearly puked. But he kept it down.

  Across the street, two men in black watched him. Still. Silent. He didn’t even notice.

  Later, at the supermarket, the old man was puffing on a cigarette when Jace walked in.

  “Well, guess the brat lives. You holdin’ up, kid?”

  Jace paused, composed himself. “It’s been rough… but I’m still standing.”

  The old man nodded, handed him an apron, and said nothing else.

  Walking home after his shift, Jace spotted the same two men again—hoods up, leaning against opposite walls.

  His stomach twisted.

  Them?

  He took a detour, but they moved fast—cutting him off. A clean pincer move. No escape.

  His fists curled, his muscles tense.

  “You assholes again?” he muttered.

  One of them stepped forward and chuckled. “Yo, calm down. We ain’t the guys who jumped you that day. I get the confusion, but we’re different. We saw you training. Our boss wants a word.”

  Jace squinted. “What for?”

  The other one pulled down his hood. “We’re powered, kid. I’m mid-tier buff. My buddy back there’s a light buff. You’re not winning this fight. Come peacefully—we don’t gotta hurt you.”

  Jace’s instincts screamed no, but his gut told him something else. So, after a long breath… he went with them.

  They led him to a cracked building full of rust and rebar. Iron rods jutted out of walls like broken bones. Inside, smoke and music danced in the stale air.

  A man emerged. Slick hair. Crooked smile. Cigarette stuck to his lip.

  “So this is the brat?” he asked, flicking ash onto the floor.

  Jace said nothing, but his stance was tight—ready for anything.

  The man—Victor—studied him like a stray dog. “You’re powerless. But you’re training like someone who thinks he can win. Why?”

  Jace didn’t flinch. “To become strong. That’s all.”

  Victor smirked. “Gutsy. I like that.”

  Back at Riley’s place, sparks flew from her latest gadget. She glanced at the screen showing Jace’s tracker and froze.

  “…the fuck’s he doing in Victor’s den?”

  She scowled, yanked her goggles off, and sighed. “Idiot’s either trying to get himself killed or make friends with a mob boss.”

  She didn’t run after him. Victor wasn’t that kind of scum. Not yet.

  Instead, she pulled up his latest body scan.

  His vitals were fluctuating. Bone density shifting. Muscle fibers regenerating at strange rates—not healing, exactly, but something else. Something… changing.

  “I swear, if you turn into some freaky lizard-man, I’m not fixing your skin.”

  Meanwhile, Jace was bleeding. Badly.

  Laid out on the floor, a boot pressed against his ribs. Victor leaned in, grinning.

  “You really tried to take on powered thugs, you little shit? What’d you think would happen?”

  “I wasn’t gonna do your dirty work,” Jace growled through clenched teeth.

  Victor chuckled. “Too bad it wasn’t a question. You got guts. You’ve got moves. You’re mine now. Whether you like it or not.”

  Jace wiped the blood from his chin, spat to the side… and said nothing.

  But later, he agreed. A few jobs here and there. “Dirty work,” he called it. Survival, more like.

  He staggered through Riley’s door, shirt ripped, knuckles raw.

  She looked up from her work, raised a brow.

  “Well damn. Victor really worked you over, huh?”

  Jace didn’t answer. He just limped past her, into the bathroom, and shut the door behind him.

  Riley leaned back in her chair, staring at the blood trail he left behind.

  “…what the hell are you turning into, Jace?”