'I hate the world.'
Damien sat hunched on a weathered park bench, the chipped paint flaking beneath his fingers. His black hair tousled in the soft breeze, strands drifting across his pale forehead. He tilted his head back, letting the rare warmth of the sun touch his skin, eyes half-lidded beneath the glare. It was one of the few moments he had to do absolutely nothing. No drills. No blood. Just silence.
The higher-ups at Deviant Academy had given him and his classmates two weeks off before graduation. They called it a gift —an unexpected break in a life otherwise dominated by combat and endless expectation.
To most, it was a blessing.
To Damien, it was just wasted time.
He lifted a hand to shield his eyes, fingers casting narrow shadows over his vision. Across the park, a family laughed beneath a checkered picnic blanket. A father tossed his daughter into the air, her laughter high and light, the kind that lingered like birdsong. The mother, radiant and content, unwrapped sandwiches while watching them with soft eyes.
That image tightened something inside him. A familiar burn behind his ribs.
'Would that be my life if I weren't born a freak?' he wondered, bitterly. 'No. Probably not. Fate isn't that generous. I'd probably just be some deadbeat. Or homeless.'
He let out a short, dry laugh. Not because it was funny. But in his mind, that life—directionless and unremarkable—seemed like a mercy compared to the one he was cursed with.
He exhaled hard, dragging a hand through his tangled hair. 'It's not like I have a home to return to now, anyway. So yeah… guess I really am homeless.'
Since the age of ten, his world had been reduced to cold dorms, harsh instructors, and the constant pressure to survive. No parents. No siblings. Only the academy—and its promise that most of them wouldn't live past twenty.
His mouth curled into a grin, hollow and sharp.
'Man, what a shitty life so far.'
Still, one thing loomed ahead—one thing that might change everything. In three weeks, he'd turn seventeen. That was when Deviants awakened their abilities. If his power was strong enough… maybe fate would finally stop laughing at him.
But before he could drown in that thought, a chill prickled down his spine, sharp as a needle. The kind of instinct honed from years of looking over his shoulder.
He turned his head sharply to the left, tension crackling in his muscles. His eyes locked on a high-rise apartment building across the park—clean glass, sleek design, far too pristine for the neighborhood. Something about it tugged at his memory.
Then he saw it.
A blonde figure stood in one of the top-floor windows, the curtains drawn open wide. Grinning. Right at him.
Damien blinked and exhaled slowly, his shoulders sagging.
'Of course. That idiot.'
Luka Sharp. His long-time friend, occasional rival, and full-time menace to his peace.
Moments later, he was being dragged, almost literally, to Luka's penthouse. Apparently, Luka had seen him earlier, decided he looked "pathetic," and promptly informed his mother that Damien would be staying with them.
"I don't need anyone's pity," Damien muttered as they entered the luxurious apartment.
But his resolve evaporated the second he dropped onto the guest room bed. The mattress was soft enough to swallow him whole.
'Never mind. I welcome all pity.'
He was still basking in the absurd comfort when the door creaked open. Luka stood there, dressed in black athletic gear, a familiar smirk tugging at his lips.
"Hey, dumbass. Care for a spar?"
Damien groaned, rolling onto his stomach. "We're on break."
"And?"
There was no stopping him. Denying Luka a fight was like trying to fight the tide.
With a resigned sigh, Damien stood and tied his long hair back into a loose band. "Fine. I need to stretch anyway."
Luka practically skipped down the hall, leading him to a massive training room in the back of the penthouse. The space was dimly lit, the walls lined with blue mats, and reinforced mirrors reflected their shapes with a cool, sterile gleam.
"Mom had it installed earlier this year," Luka said, gesturing grandly. "Soundproof, too. So no one's gonna hear me kick your ass."
Damien raised an eyebrow. This room must've cost more than his entire dorm building.
"Not bad."
Luka's grin widened. "Come on, let's make it quick. I'm itching."
Damien dropped into a defensive stance. "We'll see about that."
Luka struck first. A jab so fast it barely registered before it was inches from Damien's face. He barely ducked, but the spinning kick that followed caught his ribs and knocked the air from his lungs. Damien fell to one knee, gasping.
'That maniac. He never holds back.'
He met Luka's wild grin with one of his own and surged forward. This time, he feinted left, forced Luka to guard high, then swept his legs out from under him.
Luka landed with a loud thud.
"Damn," he muttered.
Damien smirked. "What's wrong? I thought no one would hear me getting my ass kicked?"
Luka chuckled and took Damien's hand to get up. But the second he was on his feet, that crazed smile returned.
"Again."
…
The next morning, Damien sat at a rustic wooden dining table, devouring a breakfast fit for royalty: crispy bacon, fluffy eggs, and toast still warm from the pan. For someone who had never had a real home, it was surreal.
He reached for a mid-bite muffin when Mrs. Sharp's melodic laugh broke the silence.
"My, you sure do eat a lot, Damien."
He almost choked.
It wasn't the comment—it was the fact that it came from her. Luka's mother was radiant and warm, with hair like spun gold and a presence that made the room glow. He forced himself to swallow and muttered, "Yes, ma'am. Your food is amazing."
She beamed, the light catching her sapphire eyes. "Aw, thank you! I can make more if you want."
Damien quickly shook his head. "No, I'm good. Full."
A lie. But he didn't want to look greedy.
As she collected plates, Luka leaned in and whispered, "Bro, can you not check out my mom?"
Damien's lips twitched. Barely containing laughter, he whispered back, "Careful. I might be your stepdad soon."
Luka gave him a deadpan stare, then snorted.
"You're the worst."
As if nothing had happened, he leaned back and asked, "Excited for the tournament?"
Damien wasn't surprised by the gleam in his eyes. Luka lived for this stuff.
"Yeah," Damien said, "but I won't be seventeen yet for the first match. No ability."
Luka's grin widened. "Lucky. You'll get to enjoy it raw."
Damien narrowed his eyes. "You're such a moron."
Luka just laughed.
Damien sighed.
'What an exhausting break this is going to be.'
…
Two weeks passed in a blur of training and awkward family dinners, and now the break was ending. Damien found himself out shopping with Luka and Mrs. Sharp, who'd insisted on buying him new clothes.
'I don't need this pity.'
"Hey, Damien, try this on?" Mrs. Sharp asked, holding up a sleek, all-black outfit. Her hair caught the light, cascading over her shoulders, and her top clung to her in ways that made it very difficult to maintain eye contact.
He realized he was staring and stammered, "Oh, uh yeah. Sure."
He took the clothes and slipped into the fitting room, eyeing the outfit. Black. Naturally.
'People already think I'm emo. This'll seal it.'
But as he tried it on, he had to admit—it looked good. The black jacket hugged his frame in just the right way, accentuating his lean build and contrasting sharply with his pale eyes and messy hair.
'Of course she'd pick something that fits. She's got taste.'
Then a siren blared.
Damien burst out of the fitting room. Shoppers screamed, and chaos broke out like a sudden storm. His eyes immediately found Mrs. Sharp near the shoes, frozen, pale, and hands trembling slightly.
"What happened?" he asked, voice firm.
She turned, her voice hollow. "The store… it was robbed."
That didn't explain her expression.
"They were Deviants," she whispered. "And… Luka went after them."
Ice slid through Damien's spine.
This wasn't some petty theft.
Mrs. Sharp wasn't radiant now. She was a mother, terrified and helpless. And somehow, seeing that hit him harder than it should have.
'I wish someone cared about me like that.'
He shoved the thought down and forced a smile.
"Luka can handle himself. I'll go after him."
She searched his face for reassurance. He gave a nod, then turned and bolted.
The streets blurred. Damien moved faster than humanly possible, weaving between people, dodging traffic like a shadow. His lungs burned. His legs screamed.
'Damn it! If I don't find them… he could actually get hurt.'
But then, a colder voice slithered through the panic in his mind:
Or maybe… it was the other Deviants in danger.
Luka was trained. Brutally so. Raised by killers, refined by the Academy. If these guys weren't graduates, they didn't stand a chance. They'd walked into a slaughterhouse wearing smiles.
A metallic screech cracked through the air—sword on steel or bone—sharp enough to cut through the crowd's chaos.
Damien's heart leapt. He pushed harder, legs pumping, lungs screaming for air. Every corner turned felt like peeling open a door to a new nightmare.
And then—he saw it.
A corpse sprawled across the alley like discarded trash.
He skidded to a stop, stumbling forward. The body—if it could still be called that—was barely human. Its limbs were twisted and torn, jagged bone jutting from flesh like shattered glass. One arm was missing entirely. The torso had been carved open with brutal precision, organs glistening in the morning light, steaming in the chill. The head had been severed so cleanly it sat a few feet away, eyes still wide with frozen terror, mouth parted mid-scream.
Damien's breath hitched.
His knees nearly buckled.
His stomach twisted violently, and for a moment, he thought he might puke right there. He turned his face away, trying not to gag.
'What the hell...'
He'd seen bodies before. Plenty of them. But this wasn't combat. It was carnage.
"Luka… had his fun."
The words slipped out before he could stop them, hollow and numb.
He forced himself to look again, to accept the reality. Blood pooled around the corpse like paint spilled from a shattered can. Flies were already gathering. His nose caught the sour stench of open guts, metal, and something else—something burnt and wrong.
He swallowed bile, hand pressed to his mouth, and took a shaky step forward.
'Get it together. You've seen worse. You've been worse.'
Still, a part of him whispered:
'What if Luka goes too far one day? What if he doesn't stop?'
He shoved the thought down and broke into a run again, feet slapping the pavement, breath burning like acid in his lungs.
Up ahead, the air cracked again with the sound of metal clashing.
And there he was.
Luka stood tall in the center of the alley, shield raised, his form poised with effortless grace. His golden hair glinted like firelight, barely disturbed by the breeze. His eyes were cold, focused, and alive.
His opponent—a massive Deviant with wild eyes and blood-spattered clothes—launched himself from above, bouncing off thin air like a pinball. Each leap defied physics, like invisible platforms held him aloft. He dove in from the left, kicked off the wall, spun midair, then came down with an axe that cracked the concrete.
"What the hell—?"
Damien's eyes tracked the motion, heart racing. It wasn't flight. It was something stranger—momentum manipulated, gravity ignored.
"An interesting ability."
The man darted in again, twice, three times, striking from impossible angles, blades slicing the air. But Luka didn't flinch. He let the attacks graze him. His armor absorbed the blows with a muted clang, his stance never shifting.
Damien watched, jaw tight.
'He's not dodging. He's letting it happen. Letting him think he's winning.'
The Deviant screamed, growing more erratic with every pass, slamming his foot into the air with reckless force to launch another strike.
But Luka wasn't even sweating.
He was bored.
With a sigh, Luka stepped forward and slashed his blade across the air in a single, fluid motion.
A clean arc of silver.
Blood sprayed in a perfect fan across the wall.
The Deviant's body crumpled mid-leap, the momentum carrying it forward, but the head tumbled in the opposite direction.
A thud echoed as it hit the ground and rolled to a stop, mouth still open in disbelief.
Damien stood frozen.
It was over in an instant.
The world held its breath.
And Luka…
Luka just exhaled like he'd finished a warm-up.