A damp chill hung in the air like a warning, pressing in around Castor as he slowly came to. His head throbbed with a dull, rhythmic pain and the thick stench of oil and rust curled in his nose. When he tried to move, a coarse rope bit into his wrists, bound behind the cold steel of a chair. His vision blurred, but through the dim lighting of the warehouse, a flickering bulb above, he could see Misha slumped beside him—tied up the same way, unconscious but breathing.
A metallic clang echoed in the distance. Castor's heart pounded harder with every step he heard approaching.
Then… he appeared.
Ethan.
But not the Ethan Castor had known—the boy with fire in his spirit, the reckless sense of justice, and that obnoxiously loud laugh. No, this Ethan was twisted. His brown hair was tousled and shadowed by grime, and his maroon eyes glowed with a dull crimson hue, no longer alive but possessed. Cold. Empty.
"You're awake," Ethan said flatly, a twisted grin crawling across his face. "That makes this more satisfying."
"What… What the hell are you doing, Ethan?" Castor struggled against the ropes. His voice cracked, more from disbelief than fear.
"This isn't you."
"Oh, but it is." Ethan stepped closer, boots echoing across the stained concrete. "You just never paid attention to who I really was. None of you did."
Behind Ethan, flames of resentment flickered like ghosts. His face was flushed with rage but underneath it—something else. Pain.
"You destroyed our apartments." Castor's voice was barely audible. "You could've killed Cassie. You could've—"
"But I didn't." Ethan's tone was acidic. "Not yet. I started with you and Misha because you were closest. Because you're the ones who should've seen it coming."
Misha stirred beside him, blinking slowly awake. Her voice rasped. "E-Ethan…?"
"Don't say my name like that," he snapped. "You're nothing more than ticking reminders of betrayal."
"Betrayal?!" Castor spat, his voice rising. "We were your friends. We stood by you—"
"You stood by a lie!" Ethan roared, and the shadows in the warehouse seemed to shudder. "You never understood what it meant to lose everything. But I did. I lost my purpose, my mind... and then she came."
Castor's eyes narrowed. "Medusa."
Medusa was a figure in Greek Mythology. After being born with a curse where every person she looked at with her gaze was turned to stone, she went mad and was eventually stopped by the Hero with the help of the Aegis Shield.
"You mean that Medusa?" Misha asked.
Ethan chuckled, cold and hollow. "She showed me the truth. She gave me clarity. And now… she gives me strength."
He raised a fist, the veins on his arm bulging with unnatural energy. Misha screamed.
"Ethan, stop!"
"I'm going to end you, Castor. And maybe, just maybe, that'll be enough to silence the storm inside me."
The fist came down like a hammer—but it never struck Castor. Instead, it crashed into a nearby oil barrel. With a sickening crunch, the container burst open and oily liquid splashed across the floor.
A moment of silence.
Then—sunlight, thin but precise, struck the mirror that had been carelessly discarded in a dusty corner. The angle was perfect. The beam bounced and hit the oil-drenched floor.
And in a blink, fire erupted.
The flames danced wildly, hungry and bright. The warehouse came alive with the roar of combustion, smoke curling upward like Medusa's unseen tendrils.
Ethan staggered back, eyes widening.
"No…" he whispered. "No, no, not fire—"
He screamed.
The sound was not human. It was a mix of fury, fear, and agony. His body convulsed as the heat struck him. The crimson in his eyes flared then flickered.
"Help me!" Ethan shrieked, writhing near the flames. "Castor—please! I don't want this—!"
Castor froze. His heart slammed against his chest. The Ethan he knew—his best friend—was screaming for help. Buried beneath all that darkness, he was still there.
"I… I have to help him," Castor muttered, breath shaky. "He's still in there—"
Misha looked up at him, terrified but resolute. Her face was pale, streaked with grime and tears. "That's not him anymore, Castor. You saw it. Heard it. Medusa has him."
Castor's eyes trembled. "But if there's a chance—"
She grabbed his arm. "You can't save someone who doesn't want saving."
The flames crawled higher, devouring wooden crates and broken machinery. Ethan's figure was barely visible now, writhing as the fire licked at his skin, screaming, sobbing, pleading.
Then—everything stopped.
A distant whirring sound filled the air. A small, mechanical buzz. A drone—Castor recognized it instantly. The sleek black model landed nearby with a soft hiss, and out from the smoke stepped her.
Snowflake.
Her white hair shimmered like moonlight, red eyes blazing with sharp precision. She didn't hesitate. Rushing to Castor's side, she snapped a concealed blade from her sleeve and cut his binds.
"You're late," Castor croaked.
"I had to find the right place," she said calmly. "Your GPS pinged this location. Figured it wasn't for sightseeing."
She helped Misha up next, who clung to her side, coughing from the smoke.
"Ethan…" Castor murmured, eyes still locked on the flames.
"There's no one left in there," Snowflake said softly, wrapping her arms around him from behind. "You did what you could."
The warehouse was collapsing. The fire had won.
Castor turned, just as a steel beam fell into the inferno, crushing what little remained of Ethan's figure.
There was no blood. No scream.
Just silence.
Snowflake's arms tightened around him as his knees gave out.
He fell forward into her, shaking. Not crying—just… empty.
They stood like that for a long moment, the three of them.
And then, darkness took him.
The world swayed as Castor opened his eyes again, the scent of lavender and antiseptic hanging faintly in the air. The warmth of a blanket lay over him, and a cool cloth rested against his forehead. He tried to sit up, but a firm hand pressed against his shoulder.
"Don't," Snowflake said softly. "You were unconscious when I found you. Your pulse was all over the place."
Her apartment was quiet. The blinds were drawn, filtering in a pale morning light. It was an unusual setting for the aftermath of last night's horror—the warehouse engulfed in flames, the echo of Ethan's scream etched into his memory. Castor's throat felt tight. He still remembered the look in Ethan's eyes—not just anger, but pain, betrayal, grief.
Snowflake knelt beside him, brushing his hair gently away from his face. Her fingers were cool and precise, checking the bandage around his arm.
"You really can't go a week without almost dying, can you?" she murmured with that faint, familiar teasing edge.
Castor gave a faint chuckle, though it hurt to do so. "Guess not."
Across the room, Misha stood by the window, arms crossed, clearly still rattled. She turned when she saw Castor was awake, her expression unreadable.
Snowflake looked over her shoulder. "I told her," she said suddenly, her tone nonchalant but cautious. "About us. About the 'secret lovers' thing. And about our hacking ops."
Castor blinked, then slowly turned to Misha. Her mouth was slightly open, as if she'd been waiting for him to ask something—anything.
"You didn't deny it," Misha said, watching him. "You didn't say it wasn't true."
"I didn't think it mattered right now," he replied quietly. "With everything going on."
Snowflake got up and fetched a glass of water, offering it to him. "She took it better than I thought," she added with a half-smile.
Misha scoffed. "Took it better? You're elite hackers who've been sneaking around and manipulating the city's information lines. You've got a GPS tracker on Castor, and apparently you've known about supernatural entities for way longer than me."
She paused, then added more quietly, "But you saved my life, Snowflake. So yeah… I'm not going to freak out."
Castor sat up slowly, holding the glass between his hands. "Thank you. Both of you."
Silence settled between them until Misha spoke again, her voice subdued. "So what now?"
"I think you should go home," Castor said. "Rest. I'll explain more later. I need to talk to her."
Misha hesitated, then gave a short nod. "Alright. But don't leave me in the dark again, okay?"
He nodded.
Once the door clicked shut behind Misha, the air changed. Castor turned to Snowflake, who was now seated across from him on the couch, her expression more serious.
"I wanted to talk to you… alone," he began, voice low.
She tilted her head. "I figured."
He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. "I know what possessed Ethan."
Snowflake's eyes sharpened. "You're sure?"
He nodded. "It's Medusa."
Her pupils dilated slightly. That name wasn't one to be tossed lightly.
"Medusa…" she echoed, her voice tightening. "The same one from the archives? The psychic entity born from centuries of rage and mental corruption? The one they say can't die?"
"The same," Castor confirmed. "And the worst part is—she doesn't control people like a puppet. She amplifies their worst thoughts. Twists them into something they think is their own will."
Snowflake leaned back, her arms crossed. "And you think Ethan…?"
"She found him when he was vulnerable. Filled his head with poison. Gave him enough power to believe vengeance was the only way forward. But he's still in there. I saw it… in his eyes. Just for a moment."
Snowflake looked at the floor, her brows furrowed. "If it's really her… then Ethan's alive. Somewhere."
Castor looked up. "You believe that?"
"She's hard to kill," Snowflake replied. "In the old stories—ones not from this world, but from the psychological records—the only person who ever defeated her was Perseus."
She stood up and walked to her bookshelf, pulling out a thin, worn file. From within it, she extracted a photo: a blurry black-and-white of an ornate shield with an intricate snake pattern etched into the metal.
"This is the Aegis Shield," she said. "The only thing said to repel or even purify Medusa's essence. They say Perseus didn't destroy her—he sealed her with this."
Castor narrowed his eyes. "You think it still exists?"
Snowflake gave a faint smile. "Maybe. If it's real, someone out there has it—or sold it. These kinds of artifacts show up in black markets, museums, or places people think they're just mythological props."
Castor's voice was dry. "So we find a relic that might not even exist to save someone who might already be lost."
Snowflake crouched beside him again, placing a hand over his.
"No," she said. "We find a relic to save your best friend before what's left of him is gone."
He looked into her eyes and saw the fire there—one that matched his own. It was a rare thing, having someone who matched his resolve. Not just in their goals, but in how deeply they felt the cost of every loss.
His voice softened. "Why do you care so much?"
"Because you do," she replied without hesitation. "And because I've seen what happens to people who lose themselves to grief and guilt. You think you're cold, Castor, but you feel things harder than most. That's what scares me."
He looked away, jaw tight.
"I had dreams," he murmured after a moment. "Last night. Ethan and I… when we were kids. We used to spar. He always thought I was holding back. I didn't want to hurt him. I didn't think I ever would."
Snowflake didn't say anything. She just slid her arms around him, holding him against her. His muscles tensed for a moment, then relaxed into the warmth of her touch.
"Whatever we face next," she said softly, "we face it together."
They stayed like that for a long time, until the sun dipped lower behind the blinds.
Eventually, Castor sat up and looked out the window.
"Tomorrow," he said. "We start hunting for the Aegis Shield. We save Ethan."
Snowflake gave a single, steady nod. "And if we can't…?"
Castor's gaze darkened. "Then we make sure Medusa never finds another host again."