Beneath the luminous skyline of City Z, under the buzz of flickering street lamps and the blur of rushing cars, a man staggered through the crowded sidewalk like a lone, cracked bottle adrift in a current of hurried feet and uncaring stares. The scent of exhaust and cheap fried snacks lingered in the air, yet he barely noticed any of it. His steps were uneven, limping slightly from weariness or wine, or maybe both. Passersby instinctively parted around him, as if his despondency radiated sothing contagious.
He wore a black trench coat that dragged just slightly at the ankles, its ends damp from brushing against puddles. Beneath it, a wrinkled white button-down shirt peeked out, tucked half-heartedly into charcoal slacks. Brown leather shoes, one slightly scuffed, clicked dully on the pavent. His red hair was tousled and unkempt, strands falling over sharp crimson eyes that looked half-drunk, half-dead.
"Guy looks like he just got dumped," a man in a brown beanie muttered as he passed by, nudging his friend.
"Yeah, with a face like that? Must’ve been so pretty woman," the friend replied with a scoff.
"Or he’s just a drama queen," soone else added from behind.
But in truth, they weren’t far off the mark.
Emmanuel, the red-haired man, trudged through the neon-lit night with his heart like shattered glass rattling inside his chest. Every step felt heavier than the last, not because of the alcohol in his veins, but from the bitter cocktail of regret and rejection swirling in his mind.
His internal voice grumbled, What did I even do to deserve this?
His life had already been a series of mishaps, disappointnts, and missed opportunities. But tonight had managed to kick the last support beam from beneath his optimism.
Why now? Of all days? he muttered silently. It was supposed to go right. Just this once.
Earlier that day, Emmanuel had taken a gamble he rarely allowed himself—the gamble of hope. He had begged his boss to let him clock out early, sothing he never did, offering to take on double shifts the next week in return. Surprisingly, his boss, a gruff but secretly romantic man, had agreed. After all, Emmanuel’s coworkers knew how long he’d nursed his affection for Vivian. They’d teased him about it, but there was an odd respect beneath their jabs—like they were rooting for him to win, even if they didn’t believe he would.
Vivian.
He sighed again, this ti with the mory stinging like salt in an open wound.
He had picked the ran shop they both liked. It was a cozy hole-in-the-wall kind of place tucked between two older buildings, with paper lanterns swaying out front and the scent of broth wafting from inside. He rembered thinking that it was perfect. Comfortable. Familiar. Hoy. The kind of place that could gently cradle a confession without making things awkward.
As he approached the storefront, a sleek, jet-black car was parked just outside. It stood out like an obsidian monolith among the rusted scooters and dented taxis. Emmanuel had blinked at it, whistling softly. Soone loaded’s eating here tonight.
He hadn’t thought much of it then. Just another custor. He stepped through the curtain-draped doorway, his heart racing in anticipation—and then he saw her.
Vivian.
She sat with her back straight, laughter playing on her lips, her long, golden hair spilling effortlessly down her shoulders like molten light. She wore a light brown coat, fitted and soft, with a white woolen scarf coiled gently around her neck. Her eyes—sapphire, bright and crystalline—reflected the warmth of the ran shop’s lanterns. Her pink lips curved in a small smile, completely unaware of the crimson-eyed man who had just entered.
And beside her sat soone else.
A man.
Emmanuel’s eyes narrowed, his heartbeat stuttering.
The man was tall—taller than him—with jet-black, disheveled hair and a presence that seed to drain the light from the room. He wore a tuxedo, pitch dark and perfectly tailored, its shadowed threads absorbing the shop’s golden glow. A pair of gloves, just as dark, covered his hands. He wasn’t eating. He wasn’t smiling. He just sat there, quiet, staring. And when his eyes t Emmanuel’s—
Blank. Dead. Cold.
Emmanuel froze.
No. No, no, no. His thoughts spiraled.
Is he her boyfriend? Why didn’t she ever ntion him? Is this so kind of setup?
But maybe it was denial. Maybe it was desperation. He stepped forward, trying to swallow the growing knot in his throat, the warmth draining from his limbs. He needed to hear it from her lips, needed to know that maybe, just maybe, this man was just a—
But then the man stood.
He rose fluidly, like a curtain being pulled across a stage, and for the first ti, Emmanuel truly felt small. The stranger’s eyes narrowed, and though no energy flared, no dramatic wind blew, a pressure began to gather in the air—thick and suffocating. An esper’s pressure. Refined, controlled, and dangerous.
Emmanuel froze mid-step.
And then the stranger spoke.
"You’re better off not trying to get close to my little sister," he said, voice low and sharp as a dagger drawn in silence. "Or I’ll kill you."
Just like that.
No dramatic pause. No growl. No roaring declaration. Just...a flat, lethal promise.
Around them, ti seed to pause. The clatter of dishes, the slurp of noodles—all faded as patrons turned to stare. The cook even leaned forward slightly, brows furrowed, sensing sothing was off.
But Emmanuel could only blink.
His mouth opened slightly, and with the full weight of confusion sinking in, the only word he managed was—
"...Huh?"
The silence that followed was almost comical.
Even Vivian looked taken aback, blinking in rapid succession, though she didn’t say a word in protest. The man—her brother, Emmanuel now realized—didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stood there, still and ominous like a monolith of judgnt.
And Emmanuel?
He felt like the floor had disappeared beneath him.
Everything he had gambled, everything he had planned, fell apart in a heartbeat.
And all he could do was stand there, stunned, as the promise of a confession—and maybe a future—vanished in front of him.
______________________________________
So, yes, Emmanuel had just been rejected. Not by any ordinary ans, but by a threat.
A threat from an esper.
He grimaced, the mory flashing before his eyes like a bad rerun. It gnawed at his ribs and throbbed in his temples. "Damn guy," he muttered to himself, his voice hoarse from drink and emotion. "Rejected by a dude."
He paused in the middle of the crosswalk, the cold night air brushing against his cheeks. His eyes dropped to the pavent beneath his feet. The grey cent didn’t judge him, didn’t mock him. It just was. Unlike the sharp glare of that tuxedo-wearing esper who had stood between him and Vivian.
"If he weren’t an esper," Emmanuel growled under his breath, "I’d have made a goddamn scene."
But he hadn’t. He couldn’t.
Not with that kind of pressure—like invisible hands crushing the air from his lungs. Not with Vivian sitting there, expression unreadable, almost... accepting of her brother’s cold dismissal. That hurt more than anything. That she hadn’t even said a word.
"Fine," he had told them, his voice low, trying to keep what little dignity he had. "Fine."
And then he had left.
Now here he was—standing in the middle of a city that didn’t care about his heartbreak, about his wasted effort, about the promises he’d made just to free his ti for that dood confession.
"I’m such a damn idiot," he whispered, clutching both hands tightly in front of him.
His lips trembled. His face scrunched.
Tears stread silently down his cheeks, distorting his features in the kind of cry that made n look pitiful. No restraint. No walls. Just raw, aching pain.
He lifted his head, eyes blurry, gazing up toward the glittering sky.
And then—he saw it.
A single streak of violet light arced across the sky, like a cot slashing the heavens in defiance.
"What... the hell?" Emmanuel said, voice thick with sobs.
He blinked. Once. Twice.
It was still there, briefly carving through the stars before fading into the shadows beyond.
It didn’t look like a plane. It wasn’t a shooting star either. It felt... alive.
"What am I even doing?" he muttered bitterly. "Crying over a girl while light shows run across the damn sky?"
He turned away, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I’ve got work tomorrow... and overti the next damn week. Better get my shit together."
anwhile, high above the city—far removed from heartbreaks and ran shops—Kaidren soared.
He had just landed on the rooftop of A.B. Corp’s towering structure, the wind still trailing behind his limbs. Sothing had awakened inside him tonight, and he was riding it with sharp intensity. His body felt light. Responsive. Very alive.
The city beneath him was a sprawling web of lights, roads, and lives too small to notice him in the sky. With a single exhale, Kaidren crouched, legs tense, and launched himself from the edge of the rooftop.
Another building in the distance.
And he flew.
The wind battered his face, forcing his eyes to squint slightly. His straight black hair whipped violently behind him, trailing the violet glow that danced around his body like a second skin. Yet his expression remained calm, unreadable—as always. But inside? There was a strange cocktail of awe, amusent... even a flicker of excitent.
The world blurred beneath him.
With another thud, he landed atop a new rooftop. But this ti, he didn’t even pause. Instinct surged. He jumped again, faster—sharper.
He was adapting. Learning.
Each leap beca more calculated, more precise. His body no longer strained. His energy—Nexarion—moved in harmony with his muscles. He leapt again, nearly soundless, cutting through the air like a jet at full throttle.
Kaidren arched mid-air, his posture elegant, body streamlined. No arms outstretched like a hero—just a straight bullet of human form, violet energy trailing like cot dust.
In the quiet of the night sky, Kaidren thought:
"I feel like that caped baldy."
His tone was deadpan, but there was humor there. A rare thought from a rare place.
"Though I’m not even a fraction of that guy yet."
He wasn’t wrong.
He landed once more on a tall building near the edge of his roaming circle. He didn’t want to stray too far from his apartnt.
His eyes caught a formation of clouds above—one in particular glowing gently from the moonlight’s embrace.
"I wonder..."
A quiet thought.
"If I didn’t limit my strength... what would happen?"
He stared at the cloud, then at his right hand. Violet Nexarion rippled along his skin, dancing like flas barely contained. With practiced focus, he began channeling more energy into his arm. A concentrated flow.
His right forearm glowed brighter. Hotter.
The feeling was... odd. There was heat. Tingling. A burn that didn’t hurt, but whispered of destruction.
He adjusted his stance—slightly hunched, right fist pulled back, feet spread with surgical balance.
He didn’t yell. No dramatic countdown.
He simply punched.
A sonic boom cracked across the night air like a giant slamming his palm into the sky.
The violet energy exploded forward from his knuckles, tearing through the air in a cone of shimring light.
The cloud—moon-kissed and floating peacefully—vanished.
Instantly.
Kaidren stood, arm still extended, his violet aura dissipating slowly like mist in the wind.
He didn’t speak.
He simply stared.
Seconds passed.
Then minutes.
He tilted his head slightly. "....Where’d the cloud go?"
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