Cursed luck.

The holographic map of Bastion's training grounds flickered above Director Noel's desk, casting jagged shadows across his scarred face. The room was cold, sterile, and smelled faintly of antiseptic—a sharp contrast to the chaos unfolding in the footage playing on the wall-mounted screens. Clips of the Proto Espers sparring, their powers flaring in bursts of fire, earth, and lightning, looped silently in the background.

Melwina Abeywickrama leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, her maroon jacket clashing with the clinical white of the room. "Where's the circus clown?" she asked, nodding at the empty space beside Erwin Hush in the footage.

Noel didn't look up from the reports on his desk. "Troy's condition is… unique. The serum reacts differently in him. Unstable."

"Unstable?" Melwina snorted. "So he's a weak?."

"His body cannot handle his power, yet!" Noel corrected, finally meeting her gaze. His eyes were flint. "He will be a big asset, if he learns to control it."

He stood, gesturing to the hologram. "You and the others have five months to master your abilities. After that, you'll face your aides in combat. Consider it a graduation ceremony."

Melwina raised an eyebrow. "Fighting our own handlers? Isn't that a bit Game of Thrones?"

Noel's lips twitched. "Consider it motivation. Fail, and you'll wish you'd stayed dead."

Celia Devereux found Noel in the archives later that evening, his silhouette framed by the blue glow of Sergei Volkov's wartime holograms. She hesitated—a rare moment of uncertainty—before stepping forward.

"Is it true?" she asked, her voice steady but softer than usual. "Troy's training with Dimitri Volkov?"

Noel turned, his scarred face unreadable. "Is that worry i sense in you, i thought you hated him?"

"Worried?" She scoffed. "I'm relieved. For once, I don't have to babysit him to make sure he doesn't accidentally level a building."

Noel raised an eyebrow. "But?"

Celia's jaw tightened. "But I brought him here. If Dimitri breaks him, that's on me."

The director stepped closer, his voice dropping. "Troy's not yours to protect anymore. He's Dimitri's problem now."

Celia held his gaze for a moment, then turned on her heel. "Let's hope Dimitri survives him."

Director noel raised an eyebrow, "Dimitri survive him? Not the other way around?" He asked with confusion.

Celia left with a slight chuckle thinking about how the demon will drive the old timer mad.

Troy woke to the crackling warmth of a fire. The air smelled of burning wood, rich and smoky, mixed with something wild—bear fur, maybe? He lay under thick, handmade blankets, his fingers tracing the coarse material. Everything here seemed crafted by hand—the wooden walls, the furniture, the heavy furs draped over the bed, a big elk head over his head almost have him a heart attack.

He blinked, adjusting to the dim glow of the firelight.

Where am I? Kidnapped… again? This is getting a bit old now.

Before he could process more, heavy footsteps echoed from the hallway. The door creaked open, revealing Dimitri Volkov, his towering frame silhouetted against the fire's glow.

Troy squinted. "Santa? Is that you?"

Dimitri snorted. "Santa? That's new." He folded his arms, amusement flickering in his icy blue eyes. "How do you feel, boy?"

"How do I feel?" Troy pushed himself up slightly, wincing in expectation of pain—but there was none. No aching ribs, no broken bones screaming at him. He had felt the earth crush him, felt his body shatter. Yet now… nothing. The only pain that remained was the dull, familiar ache in his ruined legs. "Weirdly fine," he muttered. "Honestly doesn't even hurt."

Dimitri nodded as if he expected that. "You hungry?" He jerked his chin toward the door. "Come."

Troy sighed, pointing at the wheelchair sitting in the corner. "At least bring it over, will you?"

Dimitri didn't even glance at it. "No. Follow me." And with that, he turned and walked away.

Troy blinked. "What do you mean, follow?!" He clenched his jaw. "Has that guy gone mad? How the hell am I supposed to get to the damn wheelchair?"

Silence.

Troy groaned. "This old man… I swear."

Fine. He braced himself, gripping the edge of the bed, his arms shaking as he lifted his useless legs. He grit his teeth, steeling himself for the impact of standing—praying, hoping, that maybe… just maybe…

Nothing.

His legs didn't respond.

He focused harder, trying to summon that feeling again—that solid force that had surged through him before, that raw, untamed storm inside him. But now?

Nothing.

Panic struck him like ice water.

The Force—gone.

His powers—gone.

His breath quickened, hands trembling. No, no, no—this wasn't happening. He wasn't an ordinary cripple anymore. He wasn't supposed to be. His powers were his hope, his future, his one shot at something more. If they were gone, then what was he?

His heart pounded in his ears.

Move. Damn it, move!

His body refused.

A sharp, bitter laugh escaped his lips. "Ha… ha ha… oh, this is rich." His vision blurred. He hadn't realized tears had started falling, hot against his cold cheeks. "So that's it, huh? Back to the hospital? Back to being useless?" His voice cracked. "What about Nina? What about my damn future?! Wasn't I an esper?!"

His breath hitched, his mind spiraling into chaos.

Was this worth living for?

He had nothing. No parents. No family who cared. No home to return to. Nina… she was gone. And now the last thing tethering him to hope had been ripped away.

Troy broke.

Memories flooded back—his parents' faces, blurry from years of suppression. The kind nurses who had cared for him, the hospital friends he had made, most of them dead or worse off than him. And then, Nina—the girl who had breathed color back into his gray, lifeless world. The bleak world that gave him pain, took his happiness away, was it worth it, to try and hope for more? In reality troy felt hope, the last few days in Bastion were colourful, he felt happy, warm, people looked at him, troy his his pain with his humour, thr reactions he got from people , he did it because he didn't want them to go away, heh, tears spiraling down his face, so all that is gone?

That world wasn't gone. He wasn't ready to let it go, troy didn't want whatever he had gained to go, he should not stop.

He was just too afraid to face it.

Troy gritted his teeth, forcing his body to move, dragging himself off the bed. He hit the cold wooden floor hard, a sharp pain shooting up his arms. He didn't care. He pulled himself forward, inch by inch, his nails digging into the floorboards.

Hope? It didn't matter anymore.

But he did.

He wasn't going to let life take everything away from him.

Through sheer willpower, he crawled, sweat and tears mixing on his face. His breath came in ragged gasps as he finally reached the wheelchair. Using every ounce of his remaining strength, he hauled himself up, gripping the armrests, his arms burning as he positioned himself.

He took a deep breath, wiping his face on his sleeve.

"God, I miss Wheely…" he muttered, rolling forward. His automatic wheelchair would've made this so much easier.

He pushed himself toward the door and forced it open.

"Yo, Santa," he said, his voice hoarse, nose stuffed from crying. "What's for dinner?"

Dimitri stood at the long wooden table, arms crossed. He had been watching.

He had seen everything.

The boy's breakdown. His struggle. His raw, unfiltered despair.

And his choice.

Dimitri's expression remained unreadable, but there was something—just a flicker of something—in his cold blue eyes.

"You're a pathetic one, aren't you, boy?" he said, though his voice lacked its usual cruelty. "Crying like a baby."

Troy scoffed, rubbing his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Screw you too, old man."

Dimitri let out a deep chuckle. "Come. Eat."

The table was covered in food—steaming, succulent meat piled high, fresh bread, a pitcher of milk, and a few vegetables, though they seemed more like an afterthought.

Troy's stomach growled.

Screw it. He was starving.

He rolled himself forward.

Troy devoured the feast in front of him, savoring every bite. The white-haired man was a surprisingly great cook, and for the first time in a long while, Troy felt full. "Eat, boyo, eat! Ha ha!" Dimitri laughed, lifting a massive bottle of vodka to his lips.

"So that Russian-vodka thing wasn't just a stereotype," Troy mused internally.

Dimitri leaned back in his chair, watching Troy with curious eyes. "So, crybaby, tell me about yourself. What happened to your legs?"

Troy stiffened. Most people avoided asking that question, afraid of the weight it carried. Even doctors and nurses tiptoed around it. But this old man didn't care for pleasantries. He was blunt, cutting straight to the wound. Maybe it was the warmth of the fire, the fullness in his stomach, or just the sheer exhaustion of holding everything in, but Troy found himself speaking. His voice was steady at first, but the more he spoke, the more the cracks in his heart began to show.

"Papa and Mama… they owned a big grocery store chain back in America. We were pretty well off. I had four older brothers. They had me late, almost in their sixties. I guess you could say I was a happy accident." He chuckled weakly. "They were good parents. Loving, kind. Everything a kid could want. I was their little miracle, so they spoiled me, made sure I was always smiling."

His smile faded. "My brothers hated me, atleasti felt so. They were always fighting— with each other, with Father. It was always about money. Nothing else ever mattered to them. They never had time for me. I was just the kid they barely acknowledged." He swallowed hard. "Then it happened. Just a normal day. Nothing special. Mama and Papa were driving me to school, like always. And then—"

His hands clenched into fists. His knuckles turned white.

"A truck. A fucking truck came out of nowhere and slammed into us." His voice wavered, and for a moment, he couldn't breathe. The image was burned into his brain—the deafening crash, the world flipping, metal twisting, glass shattering. "Mama… she threw herself over me. Shielded me with her body. When I woke up… she was cold. Papa was gone too."

His breath came out ragged. "I lived, but my legs… my legs didn't." He exhaled shakily. "And my brothers? Those selfish bastards? They threw me into a hospital and never looked back. Never visited. Never called. I was nothing to them. Just another burden. And the funny thing? The whole time I lay there, trapped in that damn bed, I kept thinking—I should've died too."

His voice cracked on the last word, and the tears spilled over. He gritted his teeth, trying to stop them, but they wouldn't listen. He had held them back for too long. His vision blurred, his chest ached, and for the first time in years, he sobbed.

Dimitri didn't look away. He didn't pity him, didn't tell him to stop. He let Troy cry. Then, in a voice rough but steady, he said, "Cry, boy. Let it all out. A man needs to know how to cry… to become greater than himself."

And so, Troy cried. He cried for his parents, for his lost childhood, for the years of pain, loneliness, and anger. And for the first time, the weight on his chest felt just a little lighter.

Dimitri's expression darkened, the warmth in his eyes replaced with something raw, something furious. His grip tightened around the vodka glass—then, without warning, it shattered in his hand. Shards of glass clattered against the wooden table, but he didn't even flinch.

"Never wish for death, boy," he growled, his voice like rolling thunder. "You disrespect your parents when you say such things. They gave their lives for you. They chose you over themselves. You survived because it was their will."

Troy's breath hitched. Dimitri wasn't just speaking—he was commanding him to understand, to believe it.

The old man exhaled sharply, wiping his bleeding palm against his coat like it was nothing. Then, he chuckled—a low, dangerous sound. "They said you were a late bloomer, didn't they? That your powers should've manifested in the accident" His grin stretched, wolfish and wild. "And yet, they didn't. Not that day. Not for years." His laughter grew louder, echoing through the cabin. "What cursed luck you have, boy! But it doesn't matter. Nothing matters—except what you do now."

Troy's gut twisted.

Dimitri leaned forward, his steel-blue eyes burning with an intensity that made Troy feel like prey before a predator. "Listen well, boyo. I, Dimitri Volkov, will forge you into a true esper—one who will summon storms with a thought. No more self-loathing. No more weakness. No more running."

Troy swallowed hard, his hands gripping the arms of his wheelchair. Something about the way Dimitri spoke made it feel real—like this wasn't just some old man's drunken ramblings.

Dimitri stood, stretching his broad shoulders, and smirked down at him. "Enjoy tonight, little cub." His voice was almost mocking. "Because you won't be eating this happily for months to come."

The wicked gleam in his eyes sent a chill down Troy's spine.

Oh, hell no.

Troy gulped.

Someone please get him out of here.