The walk back to his house was a blur of cold satisfaction and simmering rage. The system notifications had faded, but the power thrummed through his veins like liquid fire. His stats had been allocated, his strength now reaching inhuman levels. Every step felt lighter, faster, more controlled. He was a weapon, honed and ready.
The Harper house loomed ahead, its pristine white facade gleaming in the afternoon sun. As he approached, he noticed immediately what was missing. His father's black Mercedes was gone from the driveway. Of course. Richard was always gone when it mattered. Always absent when the rot in his own home festered and spread.
Ethan pushed open the front door without hesitation. The familiar scent of expensive candles and his mother's perfume hit him, but underneath it was something else. Something cheaper. Cologne. Male sweat. The stench of an intruder.
The living room opened before him, and there he was.
Cole.
The man sat sprawled on the leather sofa like he owned the place, wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung grey athletic shorts. His lean, tanned body was on full display, muscles defined but not overwhelming. He had the build of a swimmer or a runner, all wiry strength and cocky confidence. His dark hair was tousled, his jaw sharp and clean-shaven. He looked up as Ethan entered, a slow, lazy smile spreading across his face.
"Well, well," Cole drawled, his voice smooth and mocking. "Look who finally decided to come home. The little prince returns."
Ethan said nothing. His face was a mask of ice, his eyes cold and dead as a winter lake. He stepped fully into the room, his gaze locked on Cole like a predator sizing up prey. The air between them crackled with tension.
Cole's smile faltered slightly under that stare, but he recovered quickly, leaning back and spreading his arms across the back of the sofa. "What's with the look, kid? You still mad about last time? That was just a little fun. No hard feelings, right?"
Ethan's expression didn't change. He didn't blink. He didn't speak. He just stared.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until it was broken by the soft click of heels on hardwood.
"Ethan!"
Vanessa appeared from the hallway, and the sight of her made something dark and vicious twist in Ethan's gut. She was wearing the exact outfit from the photo. A sheer black lace lingerie set that left almost nothing to the imagination. The bra was barely there, her full breasts threatening to spill out with every breath. The matching panties were high-cut, riding up over her hips, showing off the smooth curve of her ass and the long, toned expanse of her legs. Over it, she clutched a thin silk robe, but it hung open, doing nothing to hide her body.
Her face was flushed, her lips swollen and glossy with fresh lipstick. Her hair was artfully tousled, as if she'd just rolled out of bed. Or been thrown onto one.
When she saw Ethan, she froze. Her eyes went wide, and a flash of something—guilt, shame, fear—crossed her face. She pulled the robe tighter around herself, but it was a futile gesture. He'd already seen everything.
"Ethan, honey, I—" she started, her voice high and strained. She took a hesitant step toward him, one hand reaching out. "I can explain. It's not what it looks like. I was just—"
"Save it," Ethan said, his voice flat and emotionless. He didn't even look at her. His eyes remained locked on Cole.
Vanessa flinched as if he'd struck her. Her mouth opened and closed, words dying on her tongue. She looked between her son and her lover, her expression crumbling into something desperate and pleading.
Cole, sensing the shift in the room, sat up straighter. His smile turned sharp, predatory. "Hey now, kid," he said, his tone taking on a harder edge. "You better watch that attitude. I don't care how big you got over the summer. You don't talk to your mother like that. And you sure as hell don't disrespect me in this house."
Ethan's gaze finally shifted to him. Slowly. Deliberately. The cold fury in those eyes was enough to make Cole's bravado waver for just a fraction of a second.
"Or what?" Ethan asked quietly.
Cole's jaw tightened. He stood up, rolling his shoulders, trying to project dominance. He was taller than Ethan by an inch or two, but Ethan's new build made him look like a tank compared to Cole's lean frame. Still, Cole wasn't backing down.
"Or I'll beat your ass again, just like last time," Cole said, stepping closer. "You think a few muscles change anything? I've been fighting since I was a kid. You're still just a spoiled little bitch playing dress-up."
He reached out, grabbing for Vanessa's wrist, trying to pull her toward him, away from Ethan. A possessive gesture. A statement of ownership.
But his fingers closed on empty air.
In a blur of motion too fast for Cole to track, Ethan moved. His hand shot out, grabbing Vanessa by the upper arm and yanking her backward, away from Cole's reach. She stumbled, letting out a startled yelp, but Ethan's grip was iron. He pulled her behind him, placing his body between her and Cole.
Cole blinked, staring at his empty hand. Then his face twisted with rage.
"You little fuck!" he snarled, and he lunged.
His fist came flying toward Ethan's face, a wild haymaker fueled by anger and wounded pride. It was fast, but to Ethan, it might as well have been moving in slow motion. He saw every muscle twitch, every shift in weight, every telegraph of the punch.
Ethan didn't dodge. He caught it.
His hand snapped up, palm open, and he caught Cole's fist mid-flight. The impact made a meaty smack, but Ethan didn't budge. His arm didn't even shake. Cole's eyes went wide with shock.
Before he could react, Ethan shoved. Hard.
Cole flew backward, his feet leaving the ground. He stumbled, crashing into the coffee table, his arms windmilling as he tried to regain his balance. He managed to stay upright, but just barely. He stared at Ethan, chest heaving, disbelief written all over his face.
"What the fuck?" Cole breathed.
Ethan said nothing. He just started walking forward.
Cole's shock turned back to rage. He let out a roar and charged, throwing a flurry of punches. Jab, cross, hook, uppercut. He was trained, that much was clear. His form was good, his strikes precise. But Ethan was better.
Every punch was slipped, dodged, or blocked with minimal effort. Ethan moved like water, flowing around Cole's attacks, his enhanced speed and reflexes making the other man look like he was fighting underwater. Cole's frustration grew with every missed strike, his breathing becoming ragged, his movements sloppier.
Then Ethan struck back.
A brutal jab to the ribs. Cole gasped, the air driven from his lungs. A hook to the kidney. Cole's knees buckled. An uppercut to the solar plexus. Cole doubled over, retching.
Ethan didn't go for the face. Every strike was to the body, to places that would hurt like hell but wouldn't show. Ribs, stomach, kidneys, liver. Precision brutality.
Cole tried to fight back, tried to land something, anything, but it was useless. Ethan was toying with him now, letting him swing, letting him hope, before shutting him down with another punishing blow.
Finally, Ethan saw his opening. Cole threw a desperate kick, his balance all wrong. Ethan caught his ankle mid-air, his grip like a steel trap.
"No—" Cole started.
Ethan yanked, hard, and slammed him down onto the hardwood floor. The impact was thunderous. Cole's back hit the ground with a sickening thud, his head bouncing off the wood. Blood sprayed from his nose, painting the polished floor in crimson streaks. He lay there, gasping, wheezing, his body wracked with pain.
Ethan stood over him, breathing easy, not even winded. He stared down at the broken man at his feet, his expression still cold, still empty.
Vanessa stood frozen against the wall, her hands over her mouth, her eyes wide with horror.
Cole groaned, rolling onto his side. Blood dripped from his nose and mouth, pooling beneath him. He coughed, spitting red onto the floor. Slowly, agonizingly, he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, then to his feet. He swayed, barely able to stand, one hand clutching his ribs.
But there was something in his eyes now. Not fear. Not pain. Something darker. Something ancient.
He wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand and looked at Ethan. A slow, twisted smile spread across his bloodied face.
"You don't know who you're messing with," Cole said, his voice low and rasping.
"Even your father wouldn't raise his voice against me. You think you're strong? You think you're special?"
He straightened up, and despite his injuries, there was a sudden presence about him. A weight. The air in the room seemed to thicken, to press down.
"I am Cole, son of the great demon Aoerakir," he said, his voice echoing with something inhuman, something that made the lights flicker.
"And you just made the worst mistake of your pathetic little life."