The rain in Oakhaven didn't wash the streets; it just turned the soot and grease into a slick, black skin that coated everything. Cade Vane stood in the mouth of an alleyway across from "The Rusty Nut," a dive bar that smelled of stale beer and bad intentions from fifty yards away.
Cade leaned against a brick wall, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of a heavy, oil-stained leather jacket. To a passerby, he looked like just another drifter—tired, broad-shouldered, and weary. But beneath the jacket, Cade's skin was crawling.
He was "empty."
When Cade was empty, he felt every bit of his thirty-two years. His joints felt like they were filled with glass shards; his muscles felt thin and brittle. Without a kinetic charge stored in his cells, he was just a man—and a fragile one at that. He took a long drag of a hand-rolled cigarette, the ember glowing like a dying star in the gloom, and watched the heavy steel doors of the bar.
He was there for a man named Miller. Miller was a "collector" for the local mobs, a man who enjoyed the breaking more than the collecting. Earlier that morning, Miller had visited a bakery three blocks over and broken both of the owner's hands because a protection payment was twenty dollars short.
Cade dropped the cigarette and stepped into the street. A delivery truck splashed a wave of frigid, oily water over his boots. He didn't flinch. He just felt the tiny vibration of the water hitting his leather—a microscopic spark of energy his body hungrily sucked in.
He pushed the bar doors open.
The music inside was a wall of industrial bass that made the teeth of the patrons rattle. The air was thick with the smell of cheap tobacco and desperation. At the back, under a flickering neon sign that cast a sickly green glow, sat Miller and three of his hired thugs.
Cade walked toward the bar. He didn't hurry.
"We're closed for a private party, pal," a mountain of a man said, stepping into Cade's path. This was "Big Pete," a man whose neck was wider than his head and whose knuckles were a roadmap of scars.
"I'm not here for the party," Cade said, his voice sounding like two stones grinding together. "I'm here for the five hundred dollars Miller took from the baker. And I'm here for the baker's hands."
Big Pete laughed, a wet, guttural sound. "You got a lot of nerve coming in here alone, tiny. You want to talk about hands? Let's see how yours look after I feed 'em to you."
Pete didn't wait. He wound up a massive, overhand right. It was a "sledgehammer" punch—the kind that usually ended fights before they started. It caught Cade square on the cheekbone.
THUD.
The sound wasn't the wet slap of skin on skin. It was a heavy, metallic resonance, like a hammer hitting an anvil.
Cade's head didn't snap back. He didn't stumble. For a split second, a web of glowing, amber circuitry flared beneath the skin of his face, tracing the lines of his jaw and temple. He felt the impact—not as pain, but as a rush of cold water into a parched throat. The energy of Pete's punch surged into Cade's system, waking up his dormant cells.
The brittle feeling in his bones vanished. He felt his muscles swell, his vision sharpening as the "charge" filled him.
"Is that it?" Cade asked, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "You punch like a poet, Pete. A bit soft."
Pete's eyes went wide. He swung again, then again—left, right, a hook to the ribs. Each hit was a gift to Cade. Thud. Thud. Thud. The amber glow was no longer flickering; it was beginning to pulse steadily beneath Cade's skin, visible through the collar of his shirt.
The other thugs jumped in. One swung a heavy wooden pool cue. It shattered across Cade's shoulder. Cade didn't even turn his head. He just breathed in the kinetic force of the wood splintering, feeling his internal "battery" hit fifty percent.
"My turn," Cade whispered.
He didn't swing a punch back. He didn't have to. He reached out and placed a single palm against Big Pete's chest.
"Venting," Cade muttered.
He released a fraction of the stored energy—the combined force of the three punches and the shattered pool cue—in a single, focused burst. It wasn't a push; it was an explosion.
Big Pete was lifted off his feet as if hit by a moving car. He flew backward, crashing through a heavy oak table and slamming into the far wall with enough force to crack the plaster. He slid to the floor, unconscious before he even realized what had happened.
The bar went silent. Miller stood up, his face pale, reaching for a 9mm tucked into his waistband.
"Don't," Cade warned, stepping over a fallen chair. "I'm full, Miller. If you fire that gun, I'm going to have enough juice to level this entire building."
Miller didn't listen. Fear had taken the wheel. He pulled the trigger.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
The bullets hit Cade's chest in a tight group. To the onlookers, it looked like a miracle. The bullets didn't pierce his skin; they hit his chest and fell to the floor, flattened into lead pancakes. With each hit, Cade's eyes flashed a brilliant, blinding gold.
The pressure inside him was now immense. It felt like his blood was made of liquid lightning. The air around him began to shimmer with a heat haze, and the smell of ozone filled the room.
"That was a mistake," Cade said.
He moved. He wasn't "super-fast" in the traditional sense, but he used a burst of kinetic energy from his heels to launch himself forward. He was in Miller's face in a blur. He grabbed the barrel of the gun and squeezed. The steel crumpled like a soda can in his hand.
Cade grabbed Miller by the throat, lifting him an inch off the ground. "The money. Now."
Miller fumbled a thick envelope out of his jacket and dropped it. Cade caught it with his free hand.
"Now, about the baker's hands," Cade said. He leaned in close, his skin radiating a terrifying heat. "I'm not going to break yours. That's too easy. I'm going to give you a 'debt' of my own."
Cade pressed his thumb against Miller's forehead. He didn't release a blast. Instead, he let a tiny, constant "leak" of kinetic vibration pass into the man's skull. It was a low-frequency hum that would cause Miller a splitting, agonizing migraine every time he tried to raise a hand in violence for the next month.
Cade dropped him. The pressure in Cade's chest was still screaming. He had absorbed too much. The bullets had pushed him over the limit.
He walked out of the bar, the envelope of cash tucked under his arm. He didn't look back at the wreckage. He stepped out into the rain, but the water didn't feel cold anymore—it sizzled when it hit his neck.
He needed to find somewhere isolated. Fast. If he didn't find a way to bleed off the rest of this charge, his own heart would start to beat with enough force to shatter his ribs.
He turned toward the old shipyards, his boots sparking against the wet pavement with every step. He had saved the baker, and he had the money. But as the amber light pulsed angrily under his skin, Cade knew the hardest part of his night was just beginning.
He was a hero to the baker. But to himself, he was just a man trying to keep from exploding in a city that kept giving him reasons to blow.