A night breeze swept across the rooftop, carrying a whisper of coolness.
"The day before yesterday," the figure said, voice low but cutting through the hum of the city, "at 71-06 Ingram Street… you stole a gem from the safe behind the painting."
Felicia's smile faltered. She was certain she'd left no trace—no alarms tripped, no fingerprints, not even a smudge on the frame.
How did this guy find me?
An FBI agent? A bounty hunter?
Countless possibilities flickered through her mind—only to collapse into one familiar emotion: contempt.
"It seems you're not here for an autograph," she purred.
A cold glint flashed at her fingertips—the razor-sharp claws hidden in her gloves.
Just some arrogant student, she thought, thinking he can rewrite the rules of the night with a little cleverness?
How naïve.
"Want to catch me?" She turned, already moving. "Then follow me first, little brother."
She launched herself onto the narrow guardrail and sprinted, her silhouette flickering in and out of the scattered neon glow like a phantom.
Joren took a step forward—ready to give chase.
The most effective way to deal with someone this jumpy? Cut them off with absolute speed and overwhelming force. Straight line. No games.
But just as his foot landed, the ancient water pipe beneath him burst with a violent hiss.
A geyser of rust-tinged water exploded upward, swallowing his path in a wall of spray.
He sidestepped instantly, already adjusting his trajectory—but when he looked up, Felicia was already perched on the far edge of the roof, arms crossed, watching with cool amusement.
Her lips curled into a smug smirk. "Give up," she called. "As long as you get close to me, misfortune finds you—automatically. I call it the Queen's Domain."
She lived for that exact moment: when confidence in her opponents crumbled into doubt… then into despair.
That thrill? Better than any diamond.
"Your brute force," she added, voice dripping with mockery, "is utterly meaningless against fate. Go home, little brother. This city doesn't play by your rules."
Joren stopped.
Slowly, he reached up and tugged the brim of his hat lower over his eyes.
Yale yale…
That's your 'domain'? A busted pipe?
Felicia, seeing him frozen in place, assumed the fight had drained out of him.
Disappointing. She'd been hoping for a bit more sport.
Time to teach this brat a lesson—show him there are people you never mess with.
Her wrist flicked. A grappling hook shot from her gauntlet with a whoosh, embedding itself in the brickwork of the building behind him.
Perfect. She'd swing over his head like some rooftop phantom—maybe even grace him with a mid-air kick on the way down. End this chase before it got boring.
The cable snapped taut.
Felicia launched herself into the air, body arcing through the neon haze like a dancer—
—and then, with a sudden, metallic clang!, the rusted bracket holding an air conditioner unit gave way.
The heavy outdoor unit tore free, dragging a tangle of sparking cords behind it—and slammed straight into her grappling line.
The cable snapped sideways.
Felicia's momentum twisted violently. The world flipped.
"What?!"
She yelped—too late—as gravity yanked her down. She hit the rooftop hard, rolling once before coming to a bruised, breathless stop.
"Ugh…" She groaned, every bone protesting. Feels like I've been used as a speedbag by Thor himself…
Ignoring the pain, Felicia stared in shock at the air conditioner unit still spitting sparks into the night.
What's going on?
Had her "misfortune"… backfired?
Joren stood calmly above her, his silhouette sharp against the city lights. "Your misfortune seems to have a similar effect on you," he said, voice low but cutting.
For the first time, Felicia's signature luck—her curse, her edge—had failed her. The realization plunged her into sudden, icy self-doubt.
But this wasn't misfortune turning against her. Not really. It was something far more deliberate—a minor obstacle Joren had woven into reality using ripples of power too subtle for her to notice… until it was too late.
The balance of power had shifted.
Joren raised his right hand, index and middle fingers pressed together like a blade.
"Warm-up's over. Now—return what you took from my house."
As the words left his lips, a blue-violet phantom flickered into existence behind him—tall, silent, radiating lethal grace.
Felicia couldn't see Platinum Star.
But she felt it.
The boy before her had transformed—no longer just a rival, but an insurmountable mountain.
No!
Don't let him scare you!
Gritting her teeth, she sprang to her feet and yanked a short rod from her belt. A flick of her wrist—and the rod unfurled into a long, serpentine whip that lashed toward Joren like a striking viper.
It stopped dead less than ten centimeters from his chest.
Frozen. As if gripped by the fist of a god.
Felicia's eyes widened. She yanked backward with all her strength—but the whip didn't budge.
Joren didn't give her time to react. He seized the whip and pulled, dragging her off balance and across the rooftop like a ragdoll. Before she could steady herself, an invisible fist slammed into her gut.
"ORA—!"
The impact doubled her over, the air exploding from her lungs. Acid surged up her throat, bitter and choking.
He caught her wrist in a grip like iron pincers. "I don't usually hit women," he said, calm as ice. "But that doesn't mean I won't. A thief should know her place."
His fingers tightened slightly—and then, something else poured into her: a strange, crackling energy that crawled up her arm like live current.
Her limbs seized. Her bones trembled. Strength bled from her body faster than she could scream.
"Ugh… ah…!"
The sound that escaped her was raw, broken.
"I'll talk! I'll talk!" she gasped, surrender spilling from her lips before she could stop it.
Joren eased his grip—just enough—but didn't let go.
"Where's the gem?"
His voice held no anger. Only quiet authority.
"I… I sold it," she stammered, cold sweat beading on her forehead.
Joren's eyes narrowed. Great. Now it's a mess.
"Who to?"
"A guy—calls himself 'Old Man.' He runs the biggest black-market jewelry operation in Queens." Her voice trembled, frantic now. "His shop's on Jamaica Avenue. Looks like a normal pawnshop from the outside. I can take you! I'll help you get it back—please!"
"If you let me go, I swear—"
"Unnecessary."
He released her.
Felicia staggered back, clutching her bruised, throbbing wrist—already mottled red and purple—as if she'd been branded. She stared at him, fear still coiled tight in her chest.
But Joren didn't look at her again.
He turned and walked straight to the rooftop's edge.
Then, without ropes, without hesitation, without even a glance downward—he stepped off.
Felicia lunged forward and peered over the edge just in time to see him vanish into the shadows below—no parachute, no grapple, nothing. Just gone.
Her legs gave out. She collapsed onto the gravel, body trembling with exhaustion, pain, and the dawning horror that none of this had been a dream.
The Queen's Domain?
In front of that man… she was nothing but a worm—easily crushed, already forgotten.