The doorbell rang.

  Riley groaned, dragging herself from her workbench. Jace stirred on the couch, eyes fluttering shut again before he could register what was happening.

  When Riley opened the door, two sharply dressed men in black suits stood before her, a silver briefcase gleaming in the midday sun.

  “Riley Quinn?” one of them asked, all business.

  “Yeah, that’s me,” she replied flatly.

  “We represent a private investor,” he said, flicking open the briefcase. Inside were neat compartments of glowing cores, credit chips, and polished prototype components. “We’d like to fund your technology. Weapon development. Full-scale contracts.”

  Riley blinked, then raised an eyebrow. “You want me to make weapons for you?”

  “For a better future,” the man smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes.

  Riley thought for a moment.

  Then slammed the door in their faces. “You two can fuck off. I’m not selling.”

  Angry murmurs buzzed from outside, but they didn’t linger. Riley walked away, scowling, muttering under her breath as she returned to her half-finished prototype. She flipped on the radio without thinking.

  “…powerless support dropping to 39% amid the recent tragedies in the slums,” the broadcaster droned. “Meanwhile, the rising PWRON party continues gaining traction, now polling at 32%. Demographic shifts show the powerless population slipping to 40%, marking the steepest decline in decades…”

  Click.

  Riley turned the radio off, heart thudding faster. The air felt heavier. Before she could process it—

  A sharp whirring.

  Then a high-pitched whine.

  Her eyes widened just in time to see a drone slam through the workshop window—strapped with a blinking red light.

  “Shit—!”

  Boom.

  The explosion rocked the room, glass and fire flaring in a blinding instant. Riley hit the floor, a swarm of her tiny repair drones rushing to shield her body. Their metal limbs melted and sparked, but they absorbed the worst of it.

  Another whine. More drones.

  Jace jerked awake, already running toward the blast. “Riley?!”

  “I’m okay!” she coughed, smoke curling around her. “Mostly.”

  “Behind you!”

  Jace lunged, snatching a second drone mid-air and hurling it out the broken window. The explosion went off mid-flight, shaking the wall but sparing them.

  No time.

  He grabbed Riley by the arm and pulled her out the door as more whirrs echoed in the distance.

  She looked back, eyes wide, voice cracking. “My workshop—my tech—it’s all gone…”

  The tears came fast and quiet.

  They ran until they reached Victor’s territory—bloodied, breathless, and smoke-streaked.

  Victor met them at the gate, arms folded and unimpressed.

  “So you were in that explosion that could be heard?” he asked casually.

  “Yeah,” Jace panted. “Can we stay here?”

  Victor raised an eyebrow. “I don’t do charity.”

  “We’ll work,” Riley said quickly. “He takes more duties, I give you tech. Small stuff only.”

  Victor smirked. “Now that sounds fair.”

  Weeks passed.

  Living under Victor was a special kind of hell. Jace worked like a dog, hauling crates, dealing with smugglers, and cleaning blood off concrete. Riley holed up in a spare room, salvaging scraps to rebuild something—anything.

  One night, after a particularly nasty errand, Jace collapsed beside her.

  “Hey, guinea pig,” she said, nudging him. “How come you came as a two-for-one deal? You’re not just a lab rat anymore—you’re a guard dog.”

  He groaned. “Guard dogs get fed better.”

  She snorted. “You say you wanna be strong, but you couldn’t even save my house.”

  “That’s low.”

  “True, though.”

  They might’ve kept joking, but Victor walked in.

  “Enough bonding,” he said, waving them off. “Jace, lookout duty. Now.”

  Jace climbed the rusted watchtower overlooking Victor’s sector. Hours passed. Boring. Quiet.

  Too quiet.

  Then something moved.

  A blur.

  He blinked—then saw it. A figure leaping from a rooftop, faster than anyone should move. Jace raised the alarm, but it was too late.

  The man landed like a meteor.

  Crushed the first thug beneath his boots—bones splintered with a wet crunch. Blood sprayed in a perfect circle.

  Titanfist.

  A registered hero. Heavy-tier buff. Special ability: Kinetic Impact.

  He was a monster in spandex.

  The gang scattered in every direction, but Titanfist hunted them down like cattle.

  One tried to run—Titanfist grabbed him by the head and squeezed. The skull caved in with a horrifying pop. Another tried to fight. Titanfist punched through his chest—spine and guts sprayed out behind him.

  A third got cleaved in half mid-sprint, entrails dragging behind like wet ropes.

  Jace stared, frozen, bile rising in his throat. It wasn’t a fight. It was a message.

  Blood painted the streets. The walls. The sky.

  And then—just as fast—Titanfist was gone. A single leap carried him away, disappearing into the smoke of the city.

  Jace vomited off the side of the tower.

  Back inside, Victor was hiding behind his reinforced desk. Even he knew better than to challenge a hero like that.

  Riley sat beside him, pale and silent.

  They said nothing when Jace entered.

  Nothing needed to be said.

  Later that night, they sat in silence watching the news.

  “…Hero Titanfist brings order to the slums,” the anchor chirped. “An impressive show of justice. Seven criminals neutralized, no civilian casualties. Public support for powered enforcement continues to rise…”

  Riley muted the screen. No one looked away.

  Victor sipped his drink.

  “This is what being criminals gets you,” he muttered.

  No one argued.

  Jace lay awake that night, staring at the cracked ceiling, sleep nowhere in sight.

  He didn’t just want strength anymore.

  He needed it.

  Or he’d be another stain on the sidewalk.