It started, of all fucking things, with a goddamn meeting on a private jet. Because of course it did. When you were that rich, the sky wasn't just airspace, it was your fucking office, and turbulence was just the universe clearing its throat before you declared economic war on someone's ass.
The jet cut through the stratosphere like a golden bullet powered by pure ego. Inside, around a slab of obsidian worth more than a small country, sat three of the world's most dangerous assholes, each dressed in a suit so sharp it could stab you, and each carrying a superiority complex bigger than the jet itself.
"Cute little missile factory you've got there, Damian," said Kael Arclight, lounging like a smug bastard, tablet glowing in his lap. His perfectly styled platinum-blond hair screamed 'I've never worked a real job,' and his tone dripped with tech-bro sarcasm. "Meanwhile, my quantum reactor just blew up a mountain. By accident. Try to keep the fuck up."
Damian Voss didn't twitch. Cold-eyed, dressed like the Grim Reaper's lawyer, he clicked his pen a sound that felt more threatening than most people's death threats.
"Mountains don't move," Damian said flatly. "People do. My weapons make sure they don't fucking get back up."
"Oh wow," Kael muttered. "Beautiful. Did you pay a poet for that line, or is it just your childhood trauma screaming again?"
At the bar, Riven Cross was leaning like he owned the place, boots muddy, dog tags clinking, leather jacket reeking faintly of gunpowder and murder. He swirled his whiskey like it was tap water and smirked like a man who'd seen hell and punched it in the teeth.
"You nerds are precious," Riven drawled. "One of you plays with shiny toys, the other jerks off to stars. Meanwhile, I'm the one shoving knives into dictators while you two measure dicks with warheads. Please, keep the pissing contest going, I'm having a blast."
"Do you ever go five fucking minutes without mentioning murder?" Kael shot back.
"Sure," Riven grinned. "Five minutes ago, I killed your mood. That count?"
This wasn't just banter. These bastards weren't friends, they were rival gods of industry: Kael, the arrogant genius chasing the universe like it owed him money; Damian, the stone-cold arms dealer selling fear wholesale; and Riven, the mercenary warlord who'd carved empires out of blood and fire.
Their rivalry had escalated so far that entire governments scheduled emergency summits just to babysit their egos. So when the three of them agreed to share one jet for a "private summit," at least four intelligence agencies collectively shit their pants.
The stewardess offered champagne. None of them touched it. Even their refusal to drink was a fucking power move.
Outside, the sky darkened unnaturally. The clouds froze. The pilot's voice cracked over the intercom.
"Uh… gentlemen, we're experiencing some kind of what the actual fuck is that?"
And then, the universe itself tore open. Literally. The sky split like paper under invisible claws, vomiting colors that didn't even belong on Earth's spectrum.
Inside, time stretched like it was being strangled. Lights burst. Gravity flipped. Drinks floated. So did the stewardess, who screamed before her voice was swallowed by the impossible.
"What the fuck did you do?!" Riven barked at Kael.
"Me?! I didn't build a fucking dimensional nuke this week!"
Damian stood calm as stone in the chaos, eyes narrowing as glowing runes carved themselves into the fuselage like the air itself was writing scripture.
"This isn't science," he said coldly. "This is something older. Something pissed off."
The last sound they heard was a deep, bone-shaking hum like the entire goddamn universe taking a breath.
And then, the sky swallowed them whole.
No explosion. No debris. Just silence.
The jet was gone.