17. Where we left off

The atmosphere in Room 202 was uncharacteristically still.

Willy had stopped crunching chips—though the empty packet clutched in his hand told its own story. Luan leaned on her knees, brow furrowed, the holographic data sheet casting a faint blue hue over her glasses. Alessia held her tab in one hand, recording notes she barely noticed herself. Marlo, unusually quiet, twirled a pen with idle calculation between her fingers.

And Huey... Huey was leaning on the windowsill, his silhouette sharp against the low-humming neon of Virelia's skyline.

He turned around slowly. "Marco's dead."

There was a pause. Like the room collectively forgot how to breathe.

Alessia was first to speak. "You're just... saying that?"

"I don't say things, Alessia," Huey replied, voice smooth as if they were discussing the weather. "I report them."

Calvin raised a brow. "You sure about this, detective?"

Huey began to pace. "Lorenzo. Marco. First-year prodigies. Both celebrated, both rising fast in the freshman bracket. Lorenzo gets crest-infected—mysteriously. Marco loses to Mira, disappears before the applause even dies."

He turned to the board on the wall—threaded with digital pins and gleaming threads of speculative links.

"They were being watched. Stalked. Not for sport—" he tapped a point tagged Rift Probability: Low "—but for harvest."

"Harvest?" Luan asked.

"Not physically. Data. Patterns. Abilities. They didn't just want to take them out—they wanted to learn from them before they did."

Calvin leaned forward. "So they're building something?"

"Or preparing for someone," Huey said quietly.

Marlo spoke up, voice low. "And you think they'll strike again tonight?"

Huey looked at her, then at the others.

"No," he said. "I know they will."

Inside a matte-black surveillance van weaving through the dim-lit perimeter of the Virelia campus, Josephine crossed her arms as Hailee thumbed through the feed on her retina interface.

Huey sat opposite them, arms crossed, the soft lighting outlining the quiet weight behind his eyes.

"Two students confirmed missing, the third gone silent," Hailee muttered. "Lorenzo. Marco. And now?"

"We don't wait for a third," Huey said, standing up. "We act."

Josephine gave him a sideways glance. "Act where?"

He didn't answer.

"You're being cryptic again," she added. "As usual."

Huey pulled his gloves on, adjusting the strap near the knuckle. "Can't be cryptic if you don't understand the language."

Hailee narrowed her eyes. "Huey, if you're planning to run off and play masked crusader again—"

Huey turned at the door. "I'm not playing anything."

He stepped outside before they could stop him. The van's door hissed shut behind him, leaving the two women in blinking confusion.

"Where's he going?" Josephine asked.

Hailee sighed, rubbing her temples. "That's the thing about Huey Cross."

She looked out the window after him.

"You never really know until it's already too late."

The rooftop of the Gazet hummed with silence.

Nestled above the east faculty building, it wasn't officially accessible — just one of those quiet student legends. Mira had claimed it months ago as her sanctuary. No cameras. No class buzz. Just the breeze and the sky.

Tonight, the stars were cloaked in dusk's velvet, and the crescent moon cut a cold arc above.

Mira exhaled slowly, legs crossed, hands resting on her knees. A single apple sat on the ledge beside her. Untouched. Waxed red, almost glowing under the rooftop lights.

"Funny," she whispered, to no one. "I used to cook with Mom."

She closed her eyes.

"Now I freeze everything I touch."

She sensed them before she heard them — a flick in the air, a distortion in the energy. Her eyes opened slowly, both pitch black now, the iris aglow with that unmistakable white ring: Omega.

They thought they were being subtle.

"Meditation hour's closed," she said flatly. "So... who are you supposed to be?"

No answer.

Five silhouettes emerged from behind the various pipes and ventilation scaffolds. All clad in matte-black rift-weave suits, faces obscured behind dark visors. They fanned out silently, tactical.

She stood, cracking her neck once.

"Alright then."

The leader raised a hand. Mira flinched.

And suddenly — she couldn't move.

Her eyes widened as her arms locked mid-step, frozen in place.

Her breath caught. Not her ice. Not her will. Something else. Her knees buckled slightly, only to stop midway, locked by an invisible field.

From the darkness, the leader stepped forward. The same one who had ambushed Marco days ago.

"You're different," he said. "Power like yours can't be left to choose."

He raised a sleek rifle — short-barreled, jet black — and loaded a glowing syringe dart.

Mira's heart thundered in her chest.

She tried to push her crest—force it. But whatever they'd used was deliberately countering her flow. A dampener, temporary but effective.

The dart hissed through the air.

And then—

CRACK.

It shattered midair. A frozen splintered mess of steel and ice, dropping harmlessly to the rooftop.

The wind changed.

One of the attackers gasped.

Then another coughed.

The leader looked down — his breath had become mist.

Vapour. From their mouths. The air had turned white.

The surface of the rooftop began to glitter.

One man turned to run.

He didn't make it past the ledge.

A soundless explosion of frost snapped him in place. His body was crystal. Frozen. His scream trapped in a prism of ice.

Then another.

Then two more.

Like statues sculpted by fear and frost.

Only the leader and one other remained. The rest were entombed in Mira's wrath.

The binding field fell.

She stepped forward, irises aglow, frost trailing beneath her boots.

"You thought I needed saving?" she muttered.

She waved her hand, and the rooftop rippled with veins of cold.

The last two attackers ran. Barely escaping into the lower scaffolds.

Mira stood among her frozen battlefield, breathing lightly.

Behind her, silence.

Scene Cutaway, Elsewhere

An alley two districts down.

The leader tore off his mask, panting heavily.

"That was supposed to be a guaranteed neutralization," one of his surviving men spat.

"She's an Omega, idiot," he snapped. "You don't neutralize them. You pray they don't notice you."

"Sir, what do we do now?"

He stared at the frost still on his sleeve.

"She's not a target," he said finally.

"She's a warning."

Huey stepped out into the evening light, apple pie box in hand. His hoodie cast a shadow over his face, the soft wind blowing his jacket just enough to catch the blue glow from beneath.

He sniffed the box once, smiled to himself.

"Still warm."

Just then something fell onto his nose, icy and white

Yes...

It was a snowflake, it's November already so it's only natural, he thought to himself.

Behind him, the glow of the stormy frost dissipated into the windows.