The grand museum loomed in the heart of the city, its towering Greco-Roman columns bathed in silver moonlight. The air was still—too still—like the world itself held its breath. Within those ancient walls lay history, fossilized in glass and gold, guarded by silence and time.
It was a monument to mankind's memory.
But memory has its weaknesses. And in the museum's deepest chamber, tucked between exhibits of crumbling scrolls and long-dead monarchs, rested something memory dared not hold for long.
The Repulsion Stone.
Roughly the size of a clenched fist, the artifact seemed carved from crystallized blood. It pulsed slowly—faint, rhythmic—as though a heartbeat thrummed inside it. Encased in reinforced glass, under biometric alarms and invisible laser grids, it was as secure as the museum could make it.
But tonight, that wasn't enough.
From the shadows of the loading dock, two figures emerged like wraiths.
The first was Vincent Kane.
Clad in a matte-black suit, his face partially obscured by a mask, he moved with the ease of a man who had done this before—many, many times. His eyes were sharp, glinting with cold calculation behind sleek goggles. He was lean, not large. But everything about him—his steps, his timing, his tools—spoke of lethal precision. He didn't rely on brawn.
He relied on brilliance.
The second was the opposite in every way.
Bruno.
Towering, musclebound, thick-necked, and wide-shouldered. His bald head glistened under the emergency light. A dull expression sat like wet cement across his face. He was here for one thing and one thing only: force. Thinking was optional.
They slipped into the exhibit hall without a sound.
As they approached the display, Bruno slowed, casting a wary glance at the stone. "Boss," he rumbled, his voice low and uncertain, "I don't like this. That thing… it ain't right."
Vincent didn't even look at him. "You're not paid to like it," he said flatly. "You're paid to carry it."
He crouched before the laser field, pulling a compact device from his belt. One button press, a burst of silent static, and the red lattice of death flickered, then disappeared. In a second, he was at the glass case. Another click. A small thermite charge hissed softly. There was no alarm, no flashing lights. Just a quiet pop and the smell of scorched glass.
The barrier was gone.
The Repulsion Stone shimmered in the low light, almost vibrating with restrained force. Vincent stepped forward, breath hitching slightly.
"Power," he murmured, extending a gloved hand. "Raw. Beautiful. Untamed power."
But then—Bruno hesitated. He stepped back.
"Boss… maybe we shouldn't mess with it. Feels cursed."
Vincent sighed, then turned toward him, slow and deliberate.
"Bruno," he said, voice smooth as ice, "I told you what you were paid to do."
Bruno's brows furrowed. "But boss, I just—"
BANG!
The gunshot shattered the stillness like a blade through glass. Bruno staggered backward, a clean hole through his chest blooming red. His wide eyes locked on Vincent, full of confusion and betrayal.
"Boss…?" he rasped.
Vincent holstered his smoking magnum, lips curling into a clinical smile. "I can't afford hesitation."
Bruno collapsed. One heavy thud. Dead.
Vincent turned back to the artifact. But something was wrong.
The light—it was gone.
The Repulsion Stone no longer glowed. Its pulse had stilled. The faint hum that had filled the room had vanished.
The silence was oppressive.
Vincent's fingers hovered in the air, suddenly unsure. The atmosphere changed. The very air shifted—charged, like the moment before lightning strikes.
Then a whisper.
Not from the room. From within his own mind.
"You are not the one."
A chill crawled down Vincent's spine. "No…" he muttered, heart pounding now. "No, no, no—"
The stone trembled once.
Then vanished.
Gone—completely.
And with it, a whisper of something ancient.
Far away, the chosen had been marked.
And Vincent Kane had been denied.
Miles away, hidden in the industrial outskirts of the city, a single light burned in the depths of a warehouse. Once a forgotten relic of steel and dust, it had been gutted, repurposed, and reborn—not as a place of commerce, but of war. This was Ethan Lockwood's sanctuary. A private boxing gym carved out with his own hands. Concrete floors, bloodstained mats, the smell of sweat and iron in the air. No trainers. No distractions. Just the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of fists slamming into leather.
Under the dull glow of flickering fluorescents, Ethan moved like a storm.
His fists collided with the heavy bag in rapid succession, muscles flexing under sweat-soaked wraps. Each strike was vicious, born from something deeper than just discipline—something primal. His black tank top clung to his frame, chest heaving as he pivoted and fired another brutal cross.
But his mind wasn't in the gym.
"Your mother would have been ashamed."
The voice echoed in his skull, sharp and cutting, like broken glass dragging across skin. His father's voice. Cold. Calculated. Unforgiving.
It haunted him.
No matter what he achieved—trophies, medals, scars—none of it mattered. Not to Richard Lockwood. The billionaire industrialist, the empire-builder, the man who saw love as weakness and legacy as blood-written law.
Ethan wasn't good enough. Not then. Not now. Maybe not ever.
His teeth clenched. He threw a punch so hard the bag swung back on its chain, groaning like it might rip loose.
Again.
And again.
And then—he stopped.
A sound.
No, not a sound. A presence.
A whisper, like breath against his ear.
"You are lost… but I have found you."
Ethan froze, his chest rising and falling in shallow bursts. He spun, scanning the shadows around him. The gym was empty—just bare walls, equipment, silence. And yet…
The air changed.
It thickened. Grew heavy, like gravity itself doubled.
Then—it appeared.
Hovering in the center of the room, untouched by the laws of the world, was a blood-red stone. It pulsed faintly with a dim light, almost alive. Each glow was a heartbeat, syncing with his own. Time slowed.
Ethan's fists came up instinctively, eyes wide. "What the hell…?"
"You are chosen."
The voice wasn't external. It wasn't even internal. It was everywhere—woven into the air, humming through his bones.
His mind reeled.
"Chosen?" he spat, stepping back. "Chosen for what?"
"To carry what others could not. To bear the force that breaks empires."
Panic gripped him. His fight-or-flight instincts surged.
"I don't want this!" he shouted. "Stay the hell away from me!"
"You have no choice. You were always mine."
The stone pulsed brighter, and without warning—it moved.
Ethan barely had time to react.
It shot toward him like a bullet, a crimson comet of power. He threw his arms up—but it didn't matter. The stone hit him dead center in the chest. A flash of red. A concussive boom.
The gym exploded into chaos.
The impact launched him across the room. His back slammed into the wall, cracking plaster, sending dust raining from the ceiling. He crumpled to the ground, gasping, coughing, pain dancing through every nerve.
But it wasn't just pain.
Something else was inside him now.
His vision blurred, warped with jagged images—ruined cities, burning skies, waves of energy collapsing mountains. Things no human should ever see. He felt like his mind was tearing apart.
And then—
Silence.
He lay still, body trembling. The world slowly came back into focus.
He rolled onto his side, groaning. His hand brushed the cold concrete floor. Every breath felt different—deeper, fuller. Awake.
Then he saw it—his reflection in the broken shards of a wall mirror.
His jet-black hair now bore streaks of red, as if the stone had marked him.
His eyes, once dark and tired, now flickered with a faint crimson glow that faded as quickly as it appeared.
Ethan sat up, panting. His arms trembled. His fists curled without command. There was a hum beneath his skin. Not sound. Not heat. Something… more. A pulse. A force.
It didn't feel human.
He opened and closed his hands slowly, trying to ground himself. "What the hell are you…?" he whispered.
No reply.
But the bond had been made.
And for the first time in his life—beyond his father's shadow, beyond the pain and pressure—Ethan Lockwood felt something new stir within him.
Purpose.
Power.
And beneath it all… a quiet, dangerous clarity.
He was no longer just a disappointment.
He was becoming something else.