He floated high above the city, weightless, the sky a canvas of fading gold and bruised purple as dusk settled over New York. Below, the streets pulsed with life, tiny figures moving like ants between buildings. Cars gleamed. Lights blinked. Somewhere, distant music floated up through the warm air.
He looked down at himself.
A suit — black as ink, threaded with red. Elegant. The fabric moved like liquid shadow across his skin. White gloves. A mask: smooth, featureless, reflecting the last rays of sunlight.
This is how it should be.
People on rooftops pointed up at him — not in fear. In awe. Their faces lit up as he passed overhead, a quiet, graceful sentinel gliding between clouds.
A child stood on a nearby rooftop, arm raised, waving. He tilted his head—
And then he was there.
Boots touched down soundlessly beside her.
She blinked up at him, wide-eyed. "You're flying."
He crouched, bringing himself to her level. The mask shimmered, became translucent for a heartbeat — just long enough for her to see the soft smile beneath.
"Not flying," he said. "Falling. Just... very, very slowly."
She laughed.
And for a moment — for a brief, impossible moment —
He believed it.
The dream was already fading — gold becoming gray, warmth becoming pain.
But the anger?
That stayed.
Like a second heartbeat.
Like a promise.
Then the sky flickered.
Like a faulty lightbulb.
"This is how it should've been," he thought. "This is what I deserved."
Then—
His hands trembled.
He looked down.
They were strapped to a table.
"No," he whispered. "Not again…"
Crack.
A static pulse.
The city twisted.
The crowd froze mid-cheer, faces blurring into eyeless shadows.
The gold melted off his skin, dripping like wax. The sky burned white.
His mask reformed—metallic, monstrous.
The girl on the rooftop looked up at him again, but this time—
She screamed.
And then—
He woke up.
He woke to the sting of cold air on raw skin. A sterile ceiling. Needles in his arms. Leather restraints biting into wrists, ankles, neck.
Tristin was back in hell.
Subject 016.
Codename: Oracle.
Status: Non-combatant.
Mutation Class: Undefined — Physically Nonviable.
X-Gene Presence: None.
Potential Secondary Ability: ???
The sedatives were wearing off. His vision swam. Machines clicked and hummed. The air smelled like bleach and copper.
The hiss of the reinforced doors echoed through the lab.
Boots marched in — slow, deliberate, each step heavier than the last. The white coats fell silent. Even the machines seemed to pause their beeping.
General William Stryker.
His mere presence drained the room of warmth. Clad in military black, sharp creases, cold eyes. He walked like he was used to stepping over bodies.
The lead scientist, Dr. Monroe, stood up straighter. "General—"
Stryker didn't even look at him. "Four years, Doctor."
Monroe swallowed. "We've learned much. His mutation is unlike anything we've—"
"Four. Years." Stryker stepped closer to the reinforced table where Tristin lay strapped down, unable to move — not even his neck. "And still no results. No control. No replication. Not even confirmation of what he is."
Monroe tried again. "His mind is… damaged. Or too advanced. He might be linked to—"
"Enough excuses." Stryker turned to the rest of the lab. "Sometimes these things need a push."
He snapped his fingers.
A side door opened. Two soldiers dragged in a woman — disheveled, bruised, sedated. She looked eerily like Tristin's mother. Soft eyes. Dark hair. Kindness in her expression — even in fear. But it wasn't her. She was just… close enough.
Tristin's eyes widened.
No. No no no. His heart pounded against his chest like it wanted to burst out.
He tried to scream but all he managed was a gurgle. The drugs still numbed his body, his tongue, his mind.
Stryker leaned in beside him. "You say you know the future, 'Oracle.'" His voice was mock-gentle. "So tell me… what happens now?"
A gun cocked.
A heartbeat passed.
BANG.
The sound shattered the room.
The woman collapsed. A crimson flower bloomed across her chest.
It wasn't light.It wasn't peace.It was nothing.
Not darkness. Not void.
Absence. So pure, it devoured thought itself.
Tristin floated — weightless, disoriented, stripped bare of body and sound.
No blood.No fire.No restraints.
Only the stillness of a mind unraveling.
Then—A pulse.
Red.
A flicker in the pale. Like an ember caught in the lungs of eternity.
Then — shape.Color.Flame.
Spider lilies bloomed in impossible silence, petals curling like tongues of fire. They swayed in a wind that didn't exist, blooming across the blankness like scars across untouched flesh.
And beneath them—
A boy.
Pale. Barefoot. Hospital gown hanging off his skeletal frame like a shroud. Damp curls stuck to his hollow face. His eyes — wide, sunken — burned dimly from within.
He was no older than twelve.
No stranger.
He was memory made flesh.A shadow carved out of pain.
He didn't speak.Not at first.
He studied Tristin, as if trying to remember his own stolen reflection.
Then, finally—
"You stole my life."
Tristin's jaw clenched. No fear. No apology.
"I didn't steal it."
The petals behind the child curled, their edges blackening like smoldering paper.
"You crawled into my skin," the boy said, voice trembling — not from weakness, but restrained fury. "You laughed in it. Slept in it. You knew what they'd do… and you still wore me like armor."
"I survived," Tristin said, stepping forward. "We survived."
The boy blinked. Slowly.
"No. You survived.I screamed."
His words twisted with every syllable, cracking under the pressure of buried rage.
"They strapped me down.Fed me poison.Whispered 'mutant' like a curse."
His voice trembled.
"And my mother… she cried herself to sleep every night. Until one morning—"
A pause.A breath caught in his throat.
"She didn't wake up."
Tristin's eyes sharpened. "You think I didn't feel that pain?"
The boy stepped forward, voice rising like a storm.
"You watched.You buried me.You let them turn me into this!"
The spider lilies caught fire. Petals crumbled to ash. The ground itself cracked beneath the boy's feet.
And his skin began to split.
Thin, jagged fault lines opened along his arms and chest, bleeding light and shadow. His voice deepened, doubling — a broken mirror of itself.
"You are everything they turned us into."
"And you," Tristin growled, "are what they tried to erase."
The void trembled.
Then—
The boy smiled.And it wasn't innocent.
It was wrath incarnate.
"Let me out."
Tristin didn't flinch. "You think I locked you away?"
"I know you did."
A jagged wound split across the boy's chest, spilling something old — not blood, but essence. The space around him twisted. The void screamed.
"You wear my face.You walk in my blood.But you still don't understand what they took from us."
Tristin's voice dropped to a whisper.
"I do now."
The boy convulsed. His body cracked. Splintered. Reformed — like something birthing itself inside out.
The sky shattered above them.
The lilies turned to ash.
And from both throats — one voice rose.
Not separate. Not human.
One soul. One wound. One war cry:
"They took everything from us."
Then—
SNAP.