The wind howled along the jagged cliffs of Lysefjorden, whipping snow across the ancient stone ledges like shredded cloth. Far below, the icy waters churned restlessly, dark and endless.
Perched at the edge of the cliff, beneath a jutting outcrop of rock, two figures stood in silence.
One was draped in a long, dark coat, his boots crunching softly against the frost. Simon.
The other leaned against a stone pillar, back straight, arms folded, and his expression unreadable beneath a sleek black mask embedded with a single crimson lens.
Rost.
The number of people who met with Rost face-to-face was exceedingly few.
Even fewer had ever walked away knowing what he truly wanted.
Simon was determined to be one of them.
"I figured this was your kind of spot," Simon said casually, voice cutting through the wind like a well-placed blade. "Remote. Symbolic. Quiet."
Rost tilted his head slightly, the only acknowledgment he gave.
"And you still came."
Simon chuckled, but there was no humor in it. He took a slow step forward, careful to keep a healthy distance between them.
"I did. Though I can't say I appreciate being kept in the dark. That boy in Dausa—Laurick—he's more than just a target of convenience, isn't he?"
Rost didn't answer immediately. The wind screamed past them again, as if warning them both to tread carefully.
Then Rost spoke—his voice calm, but somehow heavy.
"You saw what happened, didn't you? You felt it. The purple smoke he produces isn't just some normal smoke... it's a portal."
Simon's brow furrowed slightly, though he kept his expression neutral.
"I felt pressure. Density. Something… watching. But portals go both ways. What exactly are you trying to let in?"
Rost finally turned to face him, the crimson lens glowing faintly in the growing dusk.
"I'm not trying to let anything in, Simon. I'm trying to let something out."
Simon's jaw tightened ever so slightly.
That confirms it, he thought. He knows about the monsters. About Laurick's quirk—or something deeper.
Rost reached into his coat and casually tossed Simon a small device. It landed with a soft click in his gloved hand.
"New orders," Rost said. "Your mission's changed. You're not to kill Laurick anymore. Not directly. Watch him. Study the Dreamcatcher. Find out what she's capable of."
Simon examined the device silently. His mind spun faster than his expression let on.
So now Rost was interested in the Dreamcatcher. That was a shift.
He filed it away.
"And if she's more dangerous than helpful?"
Rost didn't hesitate.
"Destroy her."
Simon tucked the device into his pocket with a smooth motion.
Then smiled thinly.
"I have to say, Rost… you really do know how to make things personal."
Rost said nothing, but Simon caught the barest twitch of tension in the man's posture.
A name, perhaps. A past, still buried somewhere under that polished control.
I'll find it eventually, Simon thought.
"Fine," he said aloud. "I'll keep an eye on Laurick and his glowing babysitter. But I'd like a little more clarity going forward."
Rost's voice dropped into a near whisper.
"The clarity you want... is dangerous."
Simon smiled again, slower this time, but his eyes were cold.
"Well then, if you say so."
He turned and walked away, leaving the cliff behind.
Rost didn't stop him.
But his single red lens watched Simon disappear into the mist—and the wind whispered a low, mournful sound through the fjord, as if mourning what might come next.
Simon moved swiftly down the frozen trail away from Lysefjorden, the mist swallowing his figure.
Every step away from Rost allowed his mind to race faster.
So. Watch Laurick. Watch the Dreamcatcher. Learn... or destroy.
He grimaced.
Doing any of that openly would be suicide. Laurick was surrounded by heroes now. Professional surveillance, trained eyes.
I'll need to slip between the cracks, he thought.
And then, like a blade slicing through fog, an idea surfaced.
The gloves.
Most loyal members of the Atlantic Weapon Storage Association—A.W.S.A.—were gifted an extremely rare tool: Shapeshifter Gloves.
Simon flexed his hand instinctively, remembering the soft, almost silky texture of the gloves he kept hidden in his safehouse.
Thanks to one particular AWSA member—a man capable of transferring quirks onto objects—the gloves carried the imprint of a genuine shapeshifting ability. They weren't just cosmetic; they could transform the wearer's entire physical appearance, voice, and even body temperature to match another person.
Wearing one is like rewriting your body's signature entirely, Simon mused. Perfect for ghost work.
He smirked slightly.
Laurick would never even know he was there.
Meanwhile, far up the mountain road, Rost moved with patient strides toward a nondescript town square on the outskirts of Stavanger.
The building he entered was small, humble—a hardware store by appearance. A place no one looked twice at.
Inside, the fluorescent lights buzzed quietly.
Rost slipped behind the counter, his motions smooth and practiced. In seconds, he produced his own set of Shapeshifter Gloves, slipped them on—and morphed.
The transformation was seamless: his height, features, skin tone, even the slight stoop in his posture shifted.
In the reflection of the store's dusty window, he was now a mild-mannered employee—brown-haired, tired-eyed, utterly unremarkable.
Perfect camouflage.
He tapped the device he had handed Simon earlier—still visible in the store's security mirror through a hidden feed.
The device glowed faintly under his touch.
Marked.
Rost's quirk, Target, wasn't limited to throwing rocks or knives. He could mark anything, and he could then throw any object towards it and hit the mark, despite how far away it was.
Simon could run, but he couldn't hide.
Not forever.
Meanwhile – Dausa Prison
The interrogation room smelled of stale coffee and fear.
Pringelina slouched in her chair, her arms shackled to the table, her face a mask of passive defiance.
Across from her, a senior detective tapped a pen rhythmically against a thick folder.
"Still not talking," he muttered.
The room was under heavy lockdown—guards posted outside, surveillance cameras active.
Yet… something was wrong.
The lights above them flickered once.
Then again.
The detective frowned and glanced at the mirrored wall, signaling to the security team.
A soft rumble vibrated through the floor—subtle, almost imperceptible.
Tremor? No, too focused…
Pringelina shifted slightly, feeling it too.
The room seemed to breathe—a slow, dangerous inhalation.
Then—
Boom.
The far wall exploded inward.
A shockwave threw the detective across the room, smashing him against the mirror. Concrete dust filled the air.
Guards shouted outside, but their voices were muffled by the chaos erupting through the prison corridors.
Automatic sirens blared.
Pringelina blinked through the dust, seeing blurred figures moving outside the shattered door. Dark silhouettes. Coordinated.
Not random rioters.
Someone planned this.
Someone had come for her.
And as the restraints on her wrists clicked open—hacked remotely—Pringelina's mind whirled back to the dream she'd had, to the evil, well-dressed Laurick.
Destroy the Dreamcatcher...
Still dazed, still confused, but very much alive, Pringelina stumbled forward into the smoke and chaos, following her new, dark command.
Dausa Prison was in chaos.
The smoke still hung in the corridors, mingling with the smell of scorched metal and scorched nerves. Alarms continued to blare, red lights flashing like sirens in a storm.
Pringelina stumbled through the haze, clutching her side where a chunk of shrapnel had torn her jacket. Her breaths were shallow, sharp with pain, but her instincts screamed louder than the wound:
Get out. Move. Now.
She bolted down a hallway she barely recognized, passing unconscious guards and ruined doors. But as she reached the lower level—a direct route to the emergency exit—she felt a sharp pulse of pain from her leg.
She collapsed to one knee.
What—?
Looking down, she saw something embedded just above her ankle—a thin, silver disc, almost skin-colored. She hadn't even noticed it before.
A tracker. And more than that.
As she reached down, sparks of electricity jolted her fingers when she tried to touch it.
A suppression device.
That's why I couldn't activate my quirk.
Before she could think of ripping it out, shadows moved ahead.
Six police officers stormed through the corridor, guns raised, visors lit by tactical HUDs.
"Step down! You're not leaving here, Pringelina!"
She didn't have her quirk. She was bleeding. And now—cornered.
Her fists clenched.
Fine. Then I'm taking the pain with me.
With a roar, she charged anyway.
Meanwhile – Government Safehouse, Bjørnevika
Sunlight filtered through the large windows as Laurick Andersson stirred awake in his room.
He blinked slowly, and for once, there was no panic. No screaming. No shadows on the wall.
He sat up, reached beneath his pillow, and pulled out the Dreamcatcher—a sleek, silver-and-blue device no larger than a plate, softly pulsing with a warm glow.
"You're incredible," Laurick whispered, holding it like a precious treasure.
Downstairs, Brynjar Paul "My Gig" Oliverson was flipping pancakes with invisible tongs, while Vegar "Destalio" Magnus leaned against the counter, reading the morning reports from his black-gloved tablet.
"Morning, sleepyhead!" Brynjar said, grinning as Laurick entered.
Laurick smiled. "Dreamcatcher worked again. Not even a whisper of the monsters."
Vegar gave a subtle nod. "Good. Let's hope it stays that way."
The day passed like a miracle.
Laurick had breakfast with them—actual breakfast, without fear gripping his throat. Then he and Brynjar went outside, tossing a snowball back and forth with Brynjar miming an air-baseball bat, causing real thwack! sounds every time he swung.
For once, Laurick was laughing. Moving. Living.
He watched the trees sway in the wind. He smelled pine. He felt free.
And by the time the sun began to dip, casting golden light through the peaks, Laurick had made a decision.
That evening, back inside by the fire, Laurick fidgeted slightly.
"I… want to ask something," he said, voice low but steady.
Brynjar and Vegar looked up.
"I want to go to a Hero Academy," Laurick said. "I know it's probably crazy. But I've always wanted to be a hero. Like my dad."
Silence.
Even the fire seemed to hush.
Vegar set down his drink.
"You do know what the public might say," he said slowly. "They want you gone. You are… a symbol of everything bad that happened at Skandevik. A memory most people have not healed from."
"I know," Laurick said, eyes steady. "But I don't want to be a nightmare anymore."
Brynjar gave him a long, unreadable look—then smiled faintly.
"We'll… bring it up with the Hero Association. You're a special case. A unique one. It won't be easy."
Laurick nodded, heart pounding, but feeling something like hope.
Then the television lit up—emergency broadcast.
BREAKING NEWS
"We are receiving reports of a prison break at Dausa Prison. Several injured staff, three confirmed critical. Several escapees confirmed: One of them is Pringelina, previously detained following the failed assassination attempt on Laurick Andersson…"
The room froze.
Vegar picked up his tablet. "No mention of accomplices yet. But this… wasn't random."
Laurick's hand unconsciously reached for the Dreamcatcher.
Back in the Woods Beyond Dausa
Pringelina collapsed against a frost-covered tree.
She was bleeding badly, one arm limp, bruised all over, her breathing ragged.
But she had made it out.
Alone.
Alive.
And that cursed voice still echoed in her skull:
"Destroy the Dreamcatcher."