Mark pushed open the door, his entrance unnoticed amidst the men's leering conversation. Good. He spotted a loose brick half-buried in the dusty concrete near his feet, picked it up, and sent a surge of energy thrumming through his arm. The air crackled, ozone stinging his nostrils.
He sent the brick flying with a flick of his wrist.
"Ow! The fuck—" The brick connected with a sickening thud, and one of the men— lean, a jagged scar marring his cheek— clutched his shoulder, howling in surprise.
Their conversation abruptly ceased, their attention snapping towards Mark like a pack of startled wolves.
"Sorry, didn't see a doorbell," Mark quipped, his tone light but his stance alert as he moved further into the shadowy space.
One of the men, a hulking brute with a shaved head and a tattoo snaking up his neck, stepped forward. "Who the fuck are you, kid? You trying to be a hero?"
"Nah, but you should leave her alone."
"This ain't your problem," another man growled, his hand hovering near his waistband.
"Funny you should say that," Mark replied. "See, I already made it my problem. Dialed 911 on my way in. They should be here any minute."
A flicker of unease crossed their faces, but the one with the shaved head, just laughed. "You think cops scare us? We'll be long gone before those clowns even find their patrol cars."
Mark shrugged. "Suit yourselves. But maybe think about the lovely mugshots they'll be taking. You boys aren't exactly winning any beauty contests."
"Get the fuck out," Leather Jacket growled. "Last chance."
"Tempting," Mark said, tilting his head. "But I think I'll stick around for the show."
Bald head's patience snapped. "Screw this! Just fucking break his bones."
One of the men, a wiry guy with a jagged scar across his cheek, lunged at Mark, a switchblade glinting in his hand. Mark felt a surge of adrenaline, his body humming with power as he channeled magic into his limbs. He waited until the last possible second, then sidestepped the clumsy attack. He grabbed the man's collar, using his momentum to spin him around and slam him into the concrete wall.
The impact echoed through the warehouse, the man crumpling to the floor, groaning in pain.
"That's one," Mark said almost cheerfully.
Leather Jacket charged, a guttural roar vibrating the stale air. Mark stepped aside, barely registering the whoosh of the punch as he drove a knee into the man's gut. A satisfying oof followed. Before the man could recover, Mark's fist connected with his throat, a precise jab, dropping him to the floor. Gasping. Out.
"And that's two," Mark announced, his smirk broadening. This is too easy.
"Tch," a voice spat from behind him. Mark turned to see the bald man, now holding a handgun, his expression murderous.
"Useless pieces of shits!" he snarled, glaring at his fallen men.
"No need to be so harsh on your friends. They just need a little… motivation."
"You think this is funny, kid?" He snarled, raising the gun to point it straight at Mark.
"A little bit. You see, the thing about guns is.…they are a bit passé."
"Seriously, kid, what's wrong with you? When someone points a gun at you, you're supposed to piss yourself and beg."
"Guess my mom skipped that lesson."
His lips curled into a sneer. Suddenly, he pivoted, aiming the gun at the unconscious woman on the floor.
Mark felt a surge of adrenaline, his muscles tensing instinctively. He looked at the woman, her form curled, her mouth gagged, her wrists bound.
"Ooh, the hero type, huh?" He sneered, a cruel smile twisting his lips. "The one always gotta save the damsel?"
"Let's not do something rash."
"Awww, where'd all that spunk go?" he mocked, his finger tightening on the trigger. "Suddenly it is not so funny, is it?"
"We can all still walk away from this," Mark said, his voice firm but appeasing. "Just let her go, and we'll forget this ever happened."
He threw back his head and laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "You think I'm stupid?"
"It's the smart move," Mark countered. "Think about it. The cops are on their way. Your men are down. This is your chance to cut your losses and run."
"Shut the fuck up!" He crouched down, bringing the gun closer to her head.
Mark's pulse quickened. He took a step forward, his jaw clenched.
He whipped the gun back towards Mark. "Don't. Fucking. Move."
"Just let her go," Mark repeated, his gaze unwavering. "It doesn't have to end like this."
"Can't do that, kid," he replied. "See, she's the one I'm supposed to deliver. She's valuable, and you've just messed up our plans."
"Valuable? What do you mean?"
"Yeah, she's our ticket," the man sneered. "Was supposed to be a fun evening, but you ruined it."
Mark stared at him, utterly bewildered. What the hell is this guy talking about? He couldn't make heads or tails of the man's words. All he knew was that this creep wasn't leaving without the woman, and that realization set off every alarm bell in his head.
The man continued to rant, a stream of curses and insults aimed at Mark, blaming him for ruining their plans.
Mark tuned him out, his focus narrowing, his mind racing. He reached deep within himself, tapping into the familiar wellspring of power. He pulled on it, cautiously at first, then with a surge of desperate resolve. Focus, Mark. You've got this.
In an instant, the murky interior of the warehouse was illuminated by a piercing, white light. The energy crackled audibly, echoing off the cold concrete and steel, casting sharp, elongated shadows against the walls. The man's tirade was abruptly cut off as he stared in disbelief and horror at his hand.
"AAAARRGGGHHHHH...."
He dropped the gun, his body crumpling to the floor as he clutched his hand, his face contorted in agony. The index finger on his trigger hand was gone, cleanly severed, leaving a smoking, cauterized stump.
Mark rushed to the woman's side, kneeling beside her. He checked her pulse, relieved to find it steady. She seemed unharmed, though still unconscious.
The bald man continued to howl in pain, clutching his mangled hand.
What now? Mark thought, glancing around. Should I stick around for the cops?
Just then, he sensed a shift in the warehouse's stale air—a presence that felt like a cold draft slicing through the tension. He turned towards the entrance and saw a tall figure silhouetted in the doorway.
The man was imposing, his broad shoulders filling the frame. He had dark, close-cropped hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and mirrored sunglasses perched on his face, even in the dimness of the warehouse. He wore a long black coat that seemed to absorb the shadows, giving him an aura of quiet menace.
Something's not right. A shiver of unease ran down Mark's spine.
The newcomer surveyed the scene with a chilling calm. "Looks like I missed all the fun."
The bald man, desperate for salvation, blurted out, "Elia! Thank fuck you're here. This kid— he just—attacked us! We were just coming to see you, like you asked, and he…"
Elia silenced him with a casual wave, his gaze fixing on Mark. "You took down all three of them? That easily?"
The bald man howled, "He's got powers, Elia! Just like you! Cut my damn finger off!"
Elia's brow arched over the rims of his sunglasses. "Is that so?"
He moved, not with speed, but a measured glide, closing the distance between them in just a few, deceptively casual steps. Mark took an involuntary step back. Every instinct urged flight, but damn it, this girl, she needed—
"Care to explain why you're getting involved in things that don't concern you?"
Mark kept his voice neutral. "No reason. Just being a concerned citizen."
"Ah. Public service." Elia inclined his head, the smirk widening, and there was something predatory about that casual gesture. "Look, we just need to have a little chat with her, then we'll be on our way. You can have your civic duty medal, I won't rat you out."
"Why don't I believe that?"
"Damn, kid." His tone remained casual, almost playful. "Just what exactly do you think was happening here?"
"I don't know. Seems like you've got some insane crush and she rejected you?"
"Ouch," Elia said dryly. "First, I don't roll like that. Second, we just need a little chat, that's all. She's a bit… evasive. "
"Right," Mark scoffed. "And the best way to chat is to knock her unconscious and tie her up?"
"What were we supposed to do?" Elia shrugged. "She's a slippery one. Believe me, we tried asking nicely. Sometimes you gotta get creative."
"Creative?" Mark's eyes narrowed. "I heard your buddies talking. They weren't planning a tea party."
"Now, now, boys will be boys. A little harmless fun, that's all."
"Harmless?" Mark stepped closer, his voice tight with anger. "They were going to rape her."
Elia's gaze flicked to the bald man, a silent question hanging in the air.
Nico stammered, "We just thought… since w-we had… some time before the drop… we'd... h-have a little fun…"
"Nico…Nico…Nico," he sighed, his voice laced with a chilling disappointment. "I explicitly told you, 'Just the girl. No funny business.' Can't you clowns follow simple instructions?"
And then everything blurred.
One second Elia was standing beside the whimpering Nico, the next he was beside the discarded knife on the floor, the blade now clutched in his hand. Before Mark could even register what was happening, Elia was back beside the bald man, his arm a blur of motion.
He swept the blade across the man's throat in a single, swift movement.
Nico choked, his eyes widening in disbelief as he clutched at the gushing wound on his neck. He crumpled to the ground, his body wracked by violent tremors.
Elia, his face impassive, wiped the blood from the blade on the dead man's shirt, his movements calm, almost method.
The silence that followed the death rattle was a thousand times more disturbing than the howls just moments before.
"There," he said, his voice light, as if he'd merely swatted a fly. "All taken care of. Now, why don't you run along? Pretend you never saw any of this."
Mark stood frozen, the warehouse suddenly feeling colder, the air thick with the metallic scent of blood. He hadn't expected the night to escalate so quickly, so violently.
His gaze fell upon the lifeless form of Nico, the blood pooling around his body. The guy had been a monster, intent on violence, and yeah, maybe the guy deserved whatever brutal fate had delivered him— but the sheer ease, the cold detachment in Elia's actions…
He saw another body then. Not Nico's, but one he'd carried with him all his life. His father— shirt soaked crimson, the empty stare mirroring his own horrified disbelief as the blood, his blood, pooled and spread across the living room carpet.
"Never seen a man die, kid?" Elia's voice cut through his thoughts.
"Y-You… killed him."
"He wasn't much use anyway," Elia just shrugged. "Besides, loose ends are messy. Best to tie them up quickly."
What the fuck…
"Listen, you seem like a decent kid. Wrong place, wrong time, that's all. Just walk away, forget you saw any of this. It's better for everyone."
Mark didn't think. He just acted.
Tapping into his reservoir of power, Mark lashed out, a bolt of lightning, a white-hot arc cutting through the dim warehouse air. A wave of heat blasted him back a step as the bolt, aimed true, connected with— nothing.
Elia vanished in a blur of displacement, reappearing several feet away, those damn sunglasses somehow still perfectly in place. The smirk on his lips remained, as if this were a game. And dammit, the asshole found it amusing.
"Woah there, Sparky! A bit dramatic, don't you think?" He gestured at the smoldering bench where the bolt had connected, splintering it into a shower of smoldering debris. The air filled with the acrid scent of ozone and burning wood.
"I don't think so."
Elia's eyes glinted behind those damn sunglasses, assessing. "Oh, this"—that subtle smirk transformed into a genuine smile— "is going to be fun."
He disappeared again, the warehouse plunged back into an unsettling quiet. Mark's vision sharpened, pupils dilating, searching the shadows as adrenaline poured into his veins. He could hear his blood roaring in his ears, a counterpoint to the frantic beat of his pulse.
"Boo."
Mark whipped around, not a calculated move but pure instinct, fueled by fury and fear, his fist connecting with—nothing.
Elia flickered into existence on Mark's other side, laughter dancing in his eyes as he swept a leg out in a motion so fluid, so expertly delivered, it took Mark's breath away even as his world tilted, his feet swept from beneath him, gravity slamming him down onto the unforgiving concrete floor.
Mark twisted mid-fall, rolling to avoid a follow-up blow that slammed into the concrete where his head had been a moment before.
"Damn it," He scrambled to his feet, tasting dust, knowing, as Elia vanished once again, that he was in way, way over his head.
* * *
The air crackled. The warehouse echoed with the sizzle of Mark's lightning as he lashed out— again, again, those white-hot arcs searing the dusty air, aimed at the shimmering phantom of Elia darting between shadows. But the man moved like a goddamn ghost, appearing, vanishing, his mocking laughter echoing with each near miss.
"Come on, Sparky," Elia taunted, his silhouette appearing near a towering stack of pallets, then dissolving before the bolt connected. "That all you got?"
Mark gritted his teeth, his frustration mounting. He couldn't land a single hit. Every bolt of energy met only empty air, Elia vanishing a split second before impact.
Shit!
He unleashed another barrage— chaotic arcs that lit up the warehouse, illuminating dust motes and peeling paint, but striking only empty air. Elia had made this his game now.
And Mark hated playing by someone else's rules. His gaze shot upwards just as Elia materialized, dropping from a steel beam like a spider. He didn't have time to think, only to react. He threw himself sideways, tumbling across the gritty concrete, his back screaming, just as Elia's boot slammed down where his head had been.
Fuck!
He scrambled to his feet, lunging, his fist connecting with a crack of cartilage against Elia's ribs— a satisfyingly brutal sound. The fucker finally felt real. Except…
Elia didn't even flinch. He simply grinned, catching Mark's wrist, his grip like a steel vise, those goddamn mirrored sunglasses glinting down.
"Feisty," he chuckled. "I like that."
He twisted Mark's arm, pain exploding up his arm, bones screaming— don't break, don't—. He retaliated out with his knee, catching Elia's ribs again. Another satisfying crunch , followed by the gasp of surprised pain that bought him the split-second needed to rip his arm free.
Mark followed up with a flurry of punches, each one fueled by a mix of anger and desperation. One to Elia's jaw. Another aiming for the soft flesh just beneath those mirrored sunglasses. He couldn't think, couldn't strategize— only strike, react, let his instincts take over.
Elia moved. Not vanishing this time, deflected each blow with ease. He moved with a speed that defied human limits, his body a blur, his reflexes lightning fast. He seemed to anticipate Mark's every move, countering with effortless grace.
And the asshole was still fucking smiling.
Mark dodged another flurry of blows, ducked under a spinning kick that whistled past his ear— just in time to catch the full force of Elia's elbow against his jaw. His teeth clanged. His vision blurred into pinpoints of black and white. The warehouse spun, the sounds around him muted.
"Seriously, kid?" Elia was a phantom, shimmering, reappearing a few feet away, still fucking grinning. "You call this fighting?"
He disappeared again before Mark could mount a comeback, leaving him swinging at air and grappling with his disorientation. The space where he'd stood was empty, mocking.
The warehouse morphed into a whirl of shadows and flickering light as Mark unleashed a desperate torrent of blasts, his attacks growing more erratic with his mounting frustration and adrenaline. Elia danced around the assaults with ease, his laughter mocking from the shadows.
Arcs of lightning snaked through the warehouse. Not targeted bursts this time, but a torrent of chaotic power, his control gone, desperation fueling each strike. Shadows danced. Dust swirled. The warehouse floor pulsed beneath his feet as those searing veins of energy criss-crossed, chasing, seeking—
Out of pure luck, a random bolt found his target, grazing Elia's thigh, a hiss of burning cloth filling the air.
Elia stumbled, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. "Feisty little shit." he snarled, clutching his singed leg.
Seizing the moment, Mark intensified his attacks. The space thrummed with chaotic power. He didn't even think of strategy now, only attack— lightning erupting from his fingertips, channeling that raw need to make contact.
Elia, no longer nonchalant, was forced to dodge and weave, his movements more frantic, his smug grin replaced by a grimace of concentration.
They moved in a deadly dance, Mark's lightning illuminating the darkness, Elia a phantom shadow flickering in and out of existence.
Closing the distance, Mark landed a solid punch to his gut, the impact reverberating through his own hand. Elia grunted, a flash of annoyance crossing his face before he vanished once more.
It felt so good. Like victory, a sharp, delicious taste on his tongue.
Until—
Mark felt a sudden, excruciating pain explode in his back as Elia's knee crashed into his spine. A sharp cry escaped him as he hit the ground hard. Fuck!
He frantically rolled, trying to evade and regain his footing, but Elia was relentless. His silhouette was a blur of motion as he delivered a rapid succession of strikes. Mark barely saw the blows coming; one slammed into his ribs, and another jarred his jaw with brutal precision.
Shit, this guy is fast, Mark thought, struggling to catch his breath. He could taste blood in his mouth, and his body ached from the relentless assault. Need to think… need to move… But Elia gave him no time to recover, pressing his advantage with ruthless efficiency.
Think, you idiot— THINK!
But the warehouse echoed, mocking, and every muscle in his body screamed. He'd known— hell, even as he'd unleashed those first, desperate arcs of lightning, he'd known this guy was different. Stronger.
This isn't working! Mark thought, his vision blurring. I need to…
Another blow glanced off his temple, and Mark tapped into his magic, pulling up his last reserve of ether. Not an attack this time.
He conjured a shimmering barrier of energy. It materialized just in time, intercepting Elia's punch. The impact sent a shockwave through the barrier and jolted Mark's arms, but the defense held firm.
Elia recoiled— surprise a flash on his face. "What the…"
Mark channeled power, ignored the scream of protest from his battered leg muscles. Speed surging through him. He didn't think, didn't calculate, only reacted, throwing every ounce of anger and pain into a brutal tackle.
Elia, caught off guard, didn't have time to shimmer away. Mark's shoulder slammed into his chest, sending him crashing into a pile of debris, wood splintering, dust exploding.
Again, victory was a fleeting rush. The moment he surged forward again, ready to end this, the fucker vanished.
"Damn it!"
He was surrounded by shimmering phantoms now— Elia reappearing, dissolving, each flickering form landing another blow to his ribs, his back, his legs. Taunting, relentless, testing his limits.
But each impact stole a bit more of his energy, chipped away at that last sliver of rationality clinging to him. His gaze darted across the open space of the warehouse, those steel beams and towering stacks of pallets— every damn corner now held the threat of his enemy's shimmering form.
This place—it's working against me. This open space, it was a trap, playing into Elia's damn advantage.
He spotted a section of wall relatively clear of debris and sprinted towards it. He slammed his back against the grimiest corner he could find—concrete rough and cold against his sweat-drenched skin— taking a harsh, ragged breath.
Mark's gaze remained fixed on the shimmering figure, his mind working overtime. Predicting the exact location of his next appearance was impossible, but he could anticipate the timing. The intervals between each flicker were remarkably consistent. It was a small advantage, but it was all he had.
He spread his legs, grounding himself, his stance wide and firm. His hands crackled with energy, a network of blue-white veins of light tracing across his skin, the air buzzing with anticipation. He focused his intent, channeling his reserves, the warehouse seeming to hum in response to the surge of energy within him.
Just need to time it right…The scent of ozone thickened— a symphony conducted on his raw nerves. He could feel it building within him, the energy, the raw, desperate hunger to unleash.
One… two… NOW!
He uttered a single word, his voice low and resonant.
"Fulminis."
He didn't aim, couldn't aim, not with precision.
It wasn't a bolt this time, but a net—a chaotic web of lightning erupting from his fingertips. It ripped through the warehouse, filling the space with a net of blinding, searing white light as every fucking thing within him shouted defiance. The roar of unleashed magic deafened him.
The scent of ozone, of singed leather, filled his lungs.
And then—
Elia. Materialized. Trapped. His mocking laughter dying in his throat as he was caught in the web of lightning. A strangled cry escaped his lips as the energy coursed through him, his body spasming. He stumbled back, smoke curling from his scorched shoulder.
This time, there was no hesitation.
Mark launched forward, the impact of their colliding bodies jarring even his adrenaline-numbed senses. They slammed into the wall— a crunch of bone that echoed as he drove a fist, glowing with that electric, white-hot energy, into Elia's gut. Then another. And another.
Elia struggled, pushing back against Mark. He was strong, but Mark's enhanced strength kept him in place. Just as Elia managed to shove Mark off, his body shimmering, ready to vanish, Mark grabbed the lapel of black coat.
"Noooo…." Mark growled, his grip tightening. No way am I letting this asshole disappear again.
* * *
The world twisted around Mark, a nausea-inducing carnival ride of blurry colors and distorted shapes. His stomach lurched, and then he was slammed against— something hard. His vision exploded into a kaleidoscope of disorienting light and shadow. It took a heartbeat, his ears ringing, his senses scrambling, to register the taste of blood, grit, and the smell of… fresh air. He was staring up at a sky full of stars.
The roof.
A sharp crack snapped him out of his daze. He turned just in time to catch a fist aimed at his face. Pain exploded in his skull, sending him reeling backward.
"Fuck!" he spat, staggering to regain his balance.
Before he could recover, a boot connected with his hip, sending him sprawling across the gritty roof. He rolled, scrambling for purchase, grit digging into his palms. His vision cleared, adrenaline sharpening the edges, and he glimpsed Elia standing a few feet away— a predatory stillness, hands tucked casually into the pockets of that long black coat, the goddamn mirrored sunglasses reflecting the distant city lights.
Mark's hands crackled with power. He pushed himself onto his knees, ether humming, muscles aching, ready to—
But Elia was gone. Again. For fuck's sake.
A shard of glass glinted in the moonlight as Elia reappeared— directly in front of him. Those dark lenses were fixed on him— amused, expectant, and knowing— as the hand holding the makeshift weapon blurred.
Mark barely had time to react. His barrier pulsed— shimmering, unstable— as the glass smashed against it. The force of it jarred him back. He caught the brief flicker of annoyance before Elia shifted his attack, slashing his shoulder, the glass tearing through fabric and flesh.
"Aghhh….."
Pain was a distant hum compared to the rage that surged through him. He slammed his forehead into Elia's face, a headbutt brutal enough to make his own skull rattle.His vision swam with white-hot light as pain— his own now, irrelevant— echoed through his skull. It didn't matter.
Elia staggered back, that arrogant confidence, for once, wiped clean from his face.
The bastard finally bled.
That flickering shimmer started, that damn disappearing act.
But Mark was ready this time. Rage, agony, desperation—they coalesced, focused his will like never before. His hand was aflame, the familiar electrical hum intensifying, crystallizing.
A blade, glowing with a bluish hue, materialized, extending from his palm as if it were a natural extension of his body. With a guttural cry, driven by instinct and desperation, Mark drove the blade forward, plunging it deep into Elia's left eye.
"AAAAARRRRRGGGGGHHHH! MM—…MY E-EYE!"
A raw, agonizing scream tore through the night as Elia clutched his face, staggering backward, the blade embedded deeply, bluish light pulsing in time with his tortured cries.
Mark stared, detached, the image a macabre tableau against the backdrop of city lights. He didn't feel triumphant. Not even vindicated. Just… empty. Adrenaline coursing through his veins, kept the pain at bay momentarily.
"Y-You….. little shit!" Elia roared, his voice laced with venomous rage. "I'll kill you! I'll fucking kill you—"
"Not tonight, you won't." Mark yanked the glass shard free. He winced as blood welled up from the wound, staining his shirt crimson.
"You're dead!" Elia shrieked, his one good eye burning with hatred."I'm going to kill you! I'll tear you apart! You, your family, everyone you've ever loved—they're all going to pay for this!"
"Try it. See how far you get."
Elia, fists clenched and body trembling with rage, took a step back. He began to shimmer, preparing to vanish. But this time, something was off. His form flickered erratically, his body partially phasing in and out of existence. He couldn't fully disappear, his form fading in and out like a faulty hologram.
"What— what the fuck?" He muttered, confusion and fear mingled in his voice.
"Not so invincible now, are you?" Mark took a step forward. It was a dark sort of satisfaction settling in his chest, "Don't bother. You're not going anywhere."
He cracked his knuckles, ready to end this. But then, a distant wail cut through the night. Sirens.
Mark cursed under his breath. Of all the times… He hesitated, weighing his options. The sounds were getting closer, and the thought of explaining this scene to the police… it was more trouble than it was worth.
With a sigh, he lifted his hand, focusing his will. He clenched his palm, and the blade embedded in Elia's eye vanished, reappearing in his hand a split second later.
"Aaahhh…" Elia howled, the pain sending him to his knees. Blood gushed from the empty socket, staining his face red. He glared at Mark, his one good eye filled with a mixture of pain and hatred.
"W-What… what did you do?"
Mark simply stared back, his expression cold and unyielding. The sirens wailed, their sound growing louder with each passing second.
Finally, with a last venomous glare, Elia shimmered, this time vanishing completely, leaving behind only the echo of his rage and the metallic scent of blood.
Mark hurried to the far end of the roof, finding a rusty fire escape ladder leading down. He descended quickly, his muscles aching, his mind spinning.
From a broken window, Mark watched as the first responders scanned the scene, their flashing lights painting the night in a kaleidoscope of red and blue. He saw the officers gather around the unconscious woman, one of them checking her pulse and calling for paramedics.
Good, she's getting help, he thought, a sense of relief washing over him. At least something went right tonight.
Then, without a backward glance, Mark slipped away, melting into the darkness and leaving the chaos and consequences behind him.