Riven was already on his way—but this time, without his brother.
That alone felt wrong.
Jordan had rushed off earlier, moving with an urgency Riven had never seen before. No jokes. No comments. Just purpose. Desperate purpose.
What's going on with him…? Riven wondered.
⸻
Riven reached his front door, heart hammering. The moment the key slid into the lock and the door opened, he froze.
A man and a woman sat waiting.
His parents.
The second riven stepped inside, both of them turned their heads in unison.
"You've got some explaining to do," his father said, rising from his seat.
Riven swallowed.
Then he saw him.
Joey sat at the table.
…Shit.
⸻
Earlier—
Jordan burst into the store, skipping past the distracted worker without slowing. His target was clear. He cut straight toward the clothing section.
"Time to act," he muttered, a forced cheeriness in his tone.
He grabbed two hoodies and pretended to admire them—lifting one, turning it over, nodding thoughtfully like any other customer.
Then he let them fall.
The fabric hit the floor softly.
Jordan didn't react.
He stepped forward and accidentally nudged them with his foot, sliding the hoodies beneath a black metal display stand. He crouched down, resting on one knee, peering underneath.
Instead of grabbing the clothes, Jordan opened his inventory.
The hoodies vanished.
"Down," he whispered.
Standing back up, he shrugged, putting on a convincing look of mild annoyance—like a customer who couldn't quite reach what he dropped. After a moment, he gave up and walked away.
Not running.
Never running.
Running raised suspicion.
Jordan exited the store calmly. If anyone stopped him, they'd find nothing. But even checking would waste time, and most workers wouldn't bother.
That was the key.
⸻
The next stop was a costume shop.
Masks.
He grabbed them casually—one by one—repeating the same routine.
By the time Jordan stepped outside, his inventory held five masks.
A bunny.
A fox.
A rabbit.
A gorilla.
A tiger.
Five for two reasons.
First—if they ran into a powerful evolver and someone knocked a mask off, he could instantly replace it.
Second… was for something else.
If Riven ever wanted to go back out again—really go back—Jordan wanted options. Different masks. Different appearances.
Let the rumors say it was a group.
Not just two boys who were always together.
Jordan wasn't planning to kill anyone. He didn't think he ever could.
But he wouldn't leave witnesses comfortable either.
Fear spread faster than truth.
And masks were unforgettable.
⸻
Why do I want to do this…?
The thought struck him hard.
Jordan didn't know what it was, but something inside him kept pushing—urging him forward. When Riven had taken a piece of Charlie's core, something had ignited in Jordan too.
A hunger.
A feeling he couldn't explain.
One he wanted to feel for himself.
Jordan smacked himself lightly across the cheek.
"Get it together," he muttered. "You're not doing this for pleasure. You're doing this to get stronger."
He stopped walking.
Wait.
Abilities.
He started thinking—really thinking.
"We know me and Riven are compatible with nature," Jordan whispered. "That means nature probably is just plants. Healing. Life. Growth Control."
Lightning.
That was Riven's.
Which meant lightning-based abilities—weather control, storm manipulation—probably counted too.
"But what about me…?"
Jordan flexed his fingers. Ink flowed faintly beneath his skin.
"I create things. Animals. Walls. Spears."
His eyes widened.
"Water."
Ink and water were the same at their core—fluid, shapeable, controllable.
"So if water fits…" his breath caught, "…then ice and frost should too."
The realization sent a chill through him.
⸻
Jordan reached the doorstep of his house.
The door was unlocked—Riven had taken his key earlier.
He stepped inside.
His parents stood waiting.
Joey was there.
And Riven stood behind them, arms crossed, giving Jordan a tight, nervous grin.
"Oh," Jordan muttered under his breath. "This ain't good."
⸻
Elsewhere—
A muscular boy with short black hair stepped off a bus.
He wore nothing but a pair of boxers.
Two things were immediately obvious about him.
One—his expression was furious.
Two—he didn't care who saw him.
Crasfer was beyond pissed.
He'd walked miles before stopping in front of a warehouse. Without hesitation, he slammed his fist against the metal door.
"OPEN THE HELL UP!" he roared.
A thunderous boom echoed nearby—like a shotgun blast.
Crasfer glanced toward the sound, then turned back and kept pounding.
Probably just some evolver screwing around.
This was Section D, after all.
Explosions were normal here.
People with abilities fought daily—gang wars, territory disputes, power struggles. That was why everyone who could leave did leave. Section D belonged to gangs now.
Stay long enough, and you'd lose your home.
Or your life.
The warehouse doors finally creaked open.
"Who the hell—"
A massive man stepped out.
Then froze.
"Oh—Crasfer. Sorry about that. We couldn't hear you over the—"
"Move," Crasfer snarled. "And tell me where my father is."
The man stepped aside immediately.
"Father—father!" Crasfer shouted as he stormed forward.
"And here he comes," one of the men groaned.
Crasfer marched up to a round table crowded with men, all of them hovering over a large sheet of paper spread across the surface. Every one of them bore different tattoos—marks of gangs, deals, and violence etched into skin.
"Yes, my son," his father said at last.
Then he froze.
All he could see was his child standing there in nothing but his boxers.
"…What happened?"
"I got into a fight with some other students," Crasfer said, half-lying. "They jumped me and robbed me of my clothes."
They hadn't all ganged up on him—but it wasn't like there had only been one of them, either.
"Give me their names," one of the men snarled. "All of them. Their families will pay for this—tenfold."
"Their names are Riven Harlow, Jordan Harlow, and that Golden Curse boy," Crasfer said. "But all I really want is the Harlow twins."
He didn't think Joey would even use his ability if they rushed him with numbers—and even if he did, Crasfer still believed they wouldn't be able to take him down.
"Harlow…"
Crasfer noticed it immediately.
The aggression in his father's voice vanished.
"Yeah, they shouldn't be a problem," Crasfer rushed to add. "They're not that strong. Well—at least one of them isn't."
Jordan had put up far more of a fight than Riven ever did.
"I—" his father started.
But his words were cut off by a sound that sent a chill straight to Crasfer's core.
"Answer carefully."
The voice was playful.
Crasfer's instincts screamed. Lightning crackled into his palm, electricity surging as he hurled it toward where the voice had come from.
The blast struck the warehouse wall.
Nothing else.
"Easy there, Sparky," the voice called out again.
"Who are you?" Crasfer snapped—
—but his blood ran cold when he heard his father's voice.
"Please… don't."
Crasfer stared at him.
This was the first time—ever—he had heard fear in his father's voice.
The man who never flinched.
The man Crasfer wanted to become.
"I was going to say no," his father continued quickly. "We already didn't hurt that Jordan kid when he sold us the VR helmet. We won't hurt his brother either."
"Good."
The playful voice echoed again.
A figure dropped from the rafters, slamming into the concrete floor.
Hard.
But his legs didn't buckle.
Nothing cracked.
Nothing gave.
The man straightened as if the fall meant nothing at all.
Crasfer couldn't bring himself to look at his father—so he looked at the man instead.
And froze.
The uniform was impossible to ignore.
It was a white-silver suit, pristine and sharply fitted, the material smooth and unnatural, like fabric engineered rather than sewn. Red and black accents ran in perfect vertical lines down the upper torso and leggings, the crimson bordered by thin black edges—precise, symmetrical, deliberate.
At the center of his chest was a symbol.
A rising sun.
Crasfer finally understood why his father had looked so small.
This man wasn't just connected to the Dawn faction guards stationed within the Dawn Wall—those enforcers wore plain blue uniforms, little more than authority-bound watchdogs. No. The uniform this man wore was different.
It meant permission.
Permission to move freely.
Permission to act beyond the walls.
Permission to exist without being shackled by the same rules as everyone else.
That kind of power didn't come from rank inside the wall—it came from the outside world.
The man turned, eyes settling on Crasfer.
"Nice to meet you, slugger," he chuckled.
Crasfer swallowed. "Who are you… and why are you here?"
Even inside the Dawn Wall, the faction rarely involved itself directly. People handled their own affairs. Some said Dawn considered them too insignificant. Others said Dawn simply had bigger concerns.
Crasfer's first fear had been simple—
That this man was here for his father.
His father had done plenty of illegal things. And before Crasfer was even born… who knew how deep that history ran?
"I'm here as a warning giver," the man said lightly.
Then the humor vanished.
"Do not touch or mess with anyone from the Harlow family. And while we're at it—leave the Cross family alone too. As for that mother? Don't speak to her. We'll be handling that situation very soon."
He turned and began to walk away.
"And what if I don't?" Crasfer whispered.
The man stopped instantly.
Crasfer stiffened. He hadn't meant to be heard—but since he was, he pressed forward.
"And if I don't," Crasfer said louder, "what happens? I'm already set in stone. I'm in the Dawn faction's camp. I'll be fine. I'm untouchable—even by you. And why should I worry about them anyway? My talent outshines all of them—"
The man shook his head as he walked away.
"If that's what you believe," he said calmly, "then keep believing it."
He stopped.
"But if you go after them again," the man continued, voice suddenly cold, "I will shut you down."
And then—
He vanished.
Not through a door.
Not into shadows.
He was simply gone.
As if he had never been there in the first place.
Crasfer's face twisted with rage.
"And what were you going to do—"
Smack.
His father's hand cracked across his face.
"Don't ever—ever—pull something like that again," his father snapped. "You could've gotten all of us killed. Dawn ignores our illegal work because we're beneath their notice. Do you think it's smart to invite their attention now?"
The man sighed, rubbing his temples.
"Get ready. Tonight we move. You've got one hour."
He walked away.
Crasfer stood there in shock.
As he turned to leave, something stopped him.
His eyes drifted to the warehouse wall.
Two scorch marks sat side by side.
One from the lightning strike he had fired earlier—weeks ago.
And one from just now.
Crasfer stared.
The newer strike was smaller.
Weaker.
His fingers curled slowly into a fist.
"…What?"