Mark was waiting outside a corner store, doing the usual recon before a job. He was just about to jot down the shift-change for the clerks when his burner buzzed.
[Warehouse C.]
He didn't even blink. Folded the receipt, tossed it, and swung onto his bike. The engine snarled as he rode into the suburbs toward a warehouse he knew too well. He'd hit this place twice before for loot runs—but tonight, something felt different.
When he arrived, he immediately clocked the change in the air. Four guys stood outside instead of two, each with a hand hovering near their waistband. Ready. Tense.
Mark didn't give them a second glance. He walked straight past, leather coat swaying, and entered the building. But unlike the usual first-floor shuffle, someone led him to the elevator—and down. Four floors. Deeper than any blueprint had ever hinted.
Inside, familiar faces greeted him—William, Rat-Face, and a few more regulars loitering near the busted-up sofa. But there were new players too: eight teenagers, each bulked out like walking steroid ads, lined up like altar boys at a cult sermon.
And then there was the man in the chair.
Middle-aged. Gaunt. Calm in that casual, terrifying way only killers and priests seemed to master. He smiled when he saw Mark—a slow, deliberate curl of the lips that said, I've buried better men than you.
"Well," Mark said, glancing around with mild curiosity. "Is this my surprise birthday party? You really caught me off guard, William. Especially since my birthday's not for another three months."
"Caleb. Shut up," William muttered, eyes darting. He looked like a kid who just realized the magician at his party brought knives.
Mark pressed two fingers together and made a zipping motion across his lips, exaggerated and smug.
"You are Caleb," the seated man said, voice smooth as oil. "The boy making waves in my operation."
He looked Mark over like a sculptor deciding where to strike the next chisel blow.
"You're smart. Strong. But you're still just a boy. A little boy abandoned by the heroes who were supposed to protect him."
Mark twitched—barely. But Catalyst saw it. And he smiled wider.
"So what?" Mark shrugged. "I've done fine being 'just a boy.' Not everyone gets to be Superman or Lex Luthor. Power, money—I get by without either."
"That's your pride talking," Catalyst said, almost kindly. "Not your heart. Haven't you ever wondered? What if you could fly? Bend steel? Watch bullets bounce off your skin? What if you were one of them?"
He didn't know it, but he was brushing against something buried deep—ancestral, radioactive, unresolved.
Catalyst leaned forward. "Do you know what I see behind the sass and swagger? A scared little boy filled with rage. Rage at a mother who found other children to love. Rage at a father who looked at you and saw a failed draft pick."
Mark didn't flinch this time. He smiled. Too wide. Too calm.
Catalyst pressed on. "But I can fix that. Finish what they abandoned. I can make you whole." He gestured toward the nine teens. "You could ascend, like them."
Mark glanced their way. Their expressions weren't blank or drugged—they were warm. Welcoming. Like family, if you didn't look too closely.
"And the price?" Mark asked, still grinning. "My soul? My balls?"
Catalyst chuckled, almost fond. "No. Just one ember."
Then his voice dropped cold.
"You've proven your loyalty to the group. Now prove it to me. Bring me Hot Spot—the little spark ruining my operation. Ten cells will be under your command. Capture him alive. Once he kneels before me… you will ascend. You'll be one of the new gods of this world."
"Deal," Mark said instantly.
No hesitation. No second thoughts. He had already made the decision before Catalyst finished the sentence.
He stretched his arms overhead like this was just another Tuesday. "Still the worst birthday party I've ever been to, though. When the real one comes around, I expect cake."
Around midnight, the street was dead quiet. Then—glass shattering. A pawn shop. A bail bondsman. The corner store.
A couple of the Ragers were smashing windows, mid-laugh. Then a streak of fire cut across the sky, and a wave of heat rolled down the block.
Standing in the middle of the street, flame dancing at his fingertips, was Hot Spot.
"Really? You guys thought this was a good idea?" he asked, cocky as ever.
"Yep. 'Cause you fell for it." Rat-Face grinned and tapped a button on his burner.
Ragers burst out from alleyways and behind parked cars, surrounding the street. Pistols. M4s. Shotguns. A small armory with bad haircuts.
"Shit!" Hot Spot blasted the ground and took off toward a nearby alley.
He could tank some shots, but with a hundred guys all aiming center mass? He'd be a fondue fountain.
But as soon as he ducked into the alley, the second trap snapped shut.
Ten Ascended dropped from rooftops and dumpsters, fists already swinging. Hot Spot tried to blast back, flames flashing, but for every punch he threw, ten more hit back. Gauntlets met flesh. Steel met sweat.
In under a minute, the fire dimmed. Hot Spot looked more like a shattered statue than a superhero—cracked, cooling, and barely conscious.
He heard the crunch of boots.
A figure stepped out of the shadows. A cigarette lit his face.
Mark.
The light flickered off his leather jacket, off the edges of his grin. He wasn't gloating. Wasn't sad.
Just cold.
Detached.
Hot Spot's swollen eyes barely opened, but what he saw made everything click.
That look—flat, uncaring, surgical.
'Shit. Knew he was bad,' was the last thought he had before Mark's boot crashed down.