Ashuras 2

A harsh, steady beeping filled the hospital room, the fluorescent lights casting a cold, sterile glow over everything. The air was thick with antiseptic and tension. Owen stood at the edge of the room, cigarette in hand, exhaling a cloud of smoke despite the stern warnings from the nurses and doctors. He ignored them all, his focus instead on Gregory, lying pale and unconscious beneath crisp white sheets, the steady rise and fall of his chest the only indication of life.

The door swung open with force, and a man strode in, radiating an aura of barely contained fury. His presence seemed to charge the room with a palpable pressure, making the air feel heavy. His gaze, dark and intense, locked onto Owen, a silent demand burning in his eyes.

"Who did this?" His voice was sharp, the demand laced with a wrath that seemed ready to erupt. Every word was clipped, a restrained roar echoing with barely suppressed anger.

Owen didn't even glance his way, taking a slow drag of his cigarette, letting the smoke slip lazily from his lips. His gaze remained fixed on Gregory, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "It was his own undoing," he said, his tone indifferent, almost mocking. "He provoked someone he shouldn't have, couldn't keep his rage in check." Owen flicked the ash off his cigarette, not even acknowledging the authority in the man's presence.

The man's eyes narrowed, his fists clenched at his sides as he stepped closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. "You will watch your tone when speaking to me, Owen. I am your father," he said, his voice a dark warning, heavy with a power that commanded respect. His gaze drifted to Gregory, a brief flicker of something—perhaps protectiveness, perhaps pride—crossing his face. "That boy," he continued, "is your brother. The purest Ashura our race has seen since we were forced into this backward world." His eyes hardened, determination settling over him. "If someone has the power to put him in this state, they must be dealt with. For the sake of our race."

A flicker of something—anger, resentment—flashed in Owen's eyes as he finally looked at the man. His gaze was cold, defiant, every muscle tense. "Half-brother," he spat, his voice sharp and bitter. He took a step closer, staring his father down with a fury that matched his own. "And in case you're forgetting, Mother doesn't know about him yet. So, you might want to think very carefully about your choices."

Owen's voice dropped to a low, dangerous tone, the unspoken threat hanging heavy in the air between them. Without another word, he turned on his heel and stormed out of the room, his shoulders tense, fists clenched, not sparing his father even a backward glance.

As the door clicked shut behind Owen, the man's shoulders sagged slightly, his earlier fury softening into something more complex. He took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling in a slow, controlled rhythm, and exhaled heavily, as though trying to expel the tension that still lingered in the room.

He turned his gaze toward Gregory, lying unconscious beneath a thin hospital sheet, his face pale and still against the harsh whiteness of the pillow. The man's jaw tightened, and his expression shifted, a flicker of conflict flaring in his eyes. This was his son—a son born out of an affair, a living reminder of his own mistakes. A pang of something bitter and heavy twisted in his chest. Fate, it seemed, had played a cruel joke on him.

But despite that bitterness, there was a strange sense of pride mixed with frustration in the way he looked at Gregory. The boy was a full-blooded Ashura, the first of his kind in generations—a purity that not even the man himself possessed. The thought had once filled him with hope, but now, seeing Gregory like this, battered and broken, it only underscored the weight of his choices. Because of that rare bloodline, he couldn't turn away from this son. He had no choice but to raise him, to mold him, to ensure he lived up to the legacy he had been born into, and to protect their race.

As his gaze lingered on Gregory's face, his expression softened almost imperceptibly, a hint of regret mingling with resolve. Gregory was more than just a responsibility; he was a necessity. The boy's potential as a True Ashura was both a blessing and a curse—a power that would demand every ounce of strength, guidance, and sacrifice he could offer.

The man took a final, lingering glance at Gregory before turning and heading toward the door, his footsteps heavy with the weight of his decision. As he stepped out, he closed the door softly behind him, leaving the room in a quiet stillness.

The instant the latch clicked, Gregory's eyelids fluttered open, his gaze hardening as he stared at the closed door. He lay still, breathing shallowly, his jaw clenched tight. His eyes, sharp and dark with simmering rage, tracked the spot where his father had just been. His chest rose and fell as he struggled to contain the swirl of anger that boiled up from deep within him, his fingers curling into the thin hospital sheet.

"...That bastard," he muttered, his voice low, seething with resentment. His grip on the sheet tightened, his knuckles whitening as he fought back the urge to rip it apart.

Silvercrest Manor

Ebipade paced anxiously in front of the house, his footsteps a restless rhythm against the ground. His eyes darted toward the empty street, brows knitting with frustration. His mind replayed his brother's reckless words, the way he'd brushed off Ebipade's concerns and disappeared into the night.

"That idiot," Ebipade muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair. "Acting like Batman just because he's got a system." He scoffed, his irritation flaring. "And leaving me here to play Alfred, waiting around to patch him up."

He glanced down the street again, the worry settling deeper as time dragged on without any sign of his brother. With a frustrated sigh, he finally made up his mind. "Alright," he muttered to himself, shaking his head. "If he won't come to me, I'll go find him."

Hurrying back inside, he threw on his jacket, quickly slipping into his shoes before stepping out into the cool night air. Determined, he strode toward the gate, his thoughts still simmering with a mix of worry and exasperation. Just as he turned the corner near the gate, he accidentally collided with someone.

"Oh—sorry!" he blurted out, stepping back, his gaze lifting to meet hers.

The apology froze on his lips as he looked up, his breath catching in his throat. The woman before him was stunning, her eyes drawing him in with an intensity that was both surprising and captivating. There was a softness to her expression, framed by hair that caught the moonlight, casting an almost ethereal glow around her.

Ebipade's heart skipped a beat, his irritation momentarily forgotten as he stared, captivated. He swallowed, suddenly aware of how close they were, of the warmth in her gaze and the gentle curve of her lips as she offered him a small, understanding smile.

"I… um…" He fumbled for words, feeling a heat rise to his cheeks.

"Silverline, are you alright?"