The smell hit me before the stairs even ended.
Tomato, basil, and something pan-fried
heavy with oil and comfort. Mum was cooking.
I stepped down into the wide kitchen of the Cross Estate, the marble cool against my bare feet. Sunlight spilled in through the tinted windows, making the red tiles glow like low embers.
She was at the stove, swaying lightly to some classical-jazz fusion playing on the radio. Apron tied at the back, hair up in a bun that had already begun to fall apart.
Still the best cook in the house, no contest.
"You didn't have to cook," I said.
She didn't turn around. Just hummed.
"My baby came home from school. Of course I did."
"I'm not a baby."
"You're the last born, so you'll always be my baby."
I didn't argue. She won that one years ago.
"How's Hermione?" I asked, pulling a chair.
"Night shift at the hospital. She'll probably sleep all day."
"Hailee?"
"Still on tour. She sent a picture from Naples. The filter was... aggressive."
"And Hermon—"
"Right here."
I turned, already knowing that voice.
Hermon Cross walked in like he owned the morning. Tall, charming, hair slightly disheveled like it was part of his personal brand. He wore a fitted polo and grey joggers, phone in one hand, smoothie in the other — effortlessly put together.
I froze. Didn't meet his eyes. Couldn't.
He didn't seem to notice, or maybe he did and chose not to care. He just walked up and pulled me into a hug. Firm. Familiar. Safe.
"Still ducking me, huh?" he muttered with a small grin.
I didn't answer. Just let my arms hang at my sides. Eventually, he pulled back and looked at Mum.
"He's still like this?"
She sighed, wiping her hands on a towel.
"Mmh."
"Classic."
He dropped into a chair like it owed him rent.
"Alright then. Breakfast."
The table was quiet save for the clinking of forks.
Scrambled eggs, thick tomato sauce, toasted ciabatta, grilled onions. Comfort food. The kind that said I love you without asking for a response.
Mum tried first.
"So, Huey... first week back. Virelia Institute. How's it feel?"
"Fine."
Hermon leaned in.
"No crazy lectures? No hot professors?"
"I mostly stick to the schedule."
"Still quiet, huh?" they asked in unison
"Depends on the noise." I responded dryly
They tried. Really. But I wasn't in the room.
I stood, plate barely touched.
"Where are you going?" Mum asked.
"Not upstairs," I said vaguely.
The living room was dark except for the TV glow.
I dropped onto the long velvet couch and reached for the remote. The flat-screen flicked to my current obsession, "Who Stole It"?
a reality-style detective game show.
The screen lit up with three suspects standing dramatically in front of a wailing toddler.
> "Who do YOU think stole the candy bar from the baby?" the host announced with far too much enthusiasm.
"hmm, it was his mum," I mumbled.
Dramatic pause. Drumroll.
"It was… his mum!"
"Haha. I knew it."
Muffled clatter from the kitchen.
Just for a moment, I forgot the tension. Forgot the weight.
Let the ridiculous wash over me like static.
"Heading back to the dorms today?" Mum asked as I passed by the kitchen again, plate rinsed and mood stable.
"Yeah," I said. "Today."
I didn't break stride. No point adding sugar to something that still tasted like guilt.
My room upstairs was just how I left it.
Still.
Tidy bed, dark grey sheets. One shelf crooked from how many books it had endured. Desk lamp still slightly flickering at the neck, too stubborn to replace. An old leather football under the bed. The scent of musk and cedar lingering, someone had sprayed the air freshener. Mum, probably.
I dropped my bag on the chair and sank into the bed with a sigh. Head tilted back, eyes half-lidded, I stared at the ceiling like it might rearrange into answers.
But still, nothing.
The itch wouldn't let go.
I stood up.
"Feel like I should have a read."
I stepped toward the bookshelf.
And the room changed.
The entire shelf folded backward like sliding puzzle pieces, each one clicking into its new position with silent, mechanical grace. Behind it: glowing panels. Thin filament wires stretching like spiderwebs. Dozens of icons floated in midair, scattered maps, ID profiles, signal waveforms, missing persons reports, encrypted files, the entire digital gut of Virelia's unofficial underbelly.
My private investigation board.
Hidden in plain sight.
"A read on the Topplers' database," I muttered.
The holo-interface rippled.
Jazzinho, my personal AI, greeted me with a neutral voice.
"Welcome back, Huegen Cross. Last sync: 9 hours, 22 minutes ago. Uploading rift frequency scans."
One waveform glitched. Then another.
I narrowed my eyes.
"LUCE NERA topper faction reports Rift #018B as Level 2… but the variants pattern's too high."
I pulled the waveform apart and enhanced the energy graph.
"It's a Level 3. Sloppy."
Onscreen, a file from LUCE NERA blinked, requesting backup. Minimal operatives. No confirmation from any other agency yet. Not yet public. Not yet swarmed.
"Perfect."
I stepped to the closet.
The sliding panels gave way to a darker side of me.
Futuristic black leather jacket reinforced padding, stitched with hidden fiber tech. Matching tactical cargos. Combat-grade boots. Not flashy. Efficient.
I pulled the jacket on slowly, the collar rising on its own as the internal system booted up. The fibers adjusted to my frame like skin.
Then my eyes fell on the blade.
The katana.
Resting across its frame mount. Silver and slick. Handle worn with age.
A gift from Luan. My twelfth birthday. She said it was ceremonial.
She lied.
I grabbed it and slung it across my back.
Then the gloves, open-fingered black leather. Already creased perfectly around the knuckles.
The last piece, the mask.
Sleek. Curved. A hybrid mouth-and-nose guard, jet black with glowing deep-blue trim. It hung on the wall like it had been waiting.
I held it for a moment. Then fitted it over my face.
The HUD activated in my vision as the hood of my jacket slid upward and over. Jazzinho's voice filtered in.
"Interface locked. Combat protocol standby: 70% sync."
I flexed my hands.
The lights on my wall dimmed.
My reflection in the window stared back, glowing blue irises in pitch-black eyes. The mark of a Crest. A secret I wasn't ready to tell.
Not yet.
I cracked my neck, backed up, and leapt out the window, hood catching the wind.
The wind swallowed me whole.
I shot into the telephone pole, yes into the telephone pole
as a static flash of blue lightning.
And vanished.
The jump felt different tonight.
There was something about the static,
thicker in the wires, like the city was grinding its teeth beneath the moonlight.
I zipped through the telecom lines with practiced ease, appearing in brief blinks, one rooftop, then another. Hands brushing steel vents, soles tapping against ceramic tile. Parkour came second to breathing at this point.
Jazzinho called in my ear.
"Approaching site sir: 2.1km aways. Estimated density: 3.2 per square m."
"I'm taking a detour," I muttered.
"Deviation registered."
I peeled right and slid in through a window barely a whisper of sound as I ghosted through the gap. I landed silently on tiled floors, my breath instantly fogging the cool air.
Fluorescent lights buzzed low overhead.
Beeping monitors, automated vitals, the sterile scent of too much caution and not enough hope.
Ospedale saint' Alviero,
Uppermost floor,
My father's ward.
"Jazz," I whispered, "Lock the door."
A soft click responded.
Only then did I pull the mask down to my chin.
Atticus Cross lay still in the medical bed, body almost unrecognizable from the man I once tried to out-talk at breakfast. Oxygen mask snug over his nose and mouth. Monitors scanning the damage. Skin pale against the dark sheets.
I wanted to say something.
Didn't.
My throat scratched with something I wouldn't call grief, but maybe something like shame, wearing its coat.
I stepped closer and for a moment… it all came back.
Then
I remembered that day.
The beeping machines, the clean uniforms, the doctor's half-apologetic tone.
My siblings had stood in my ward. I kept my eyes closed.
Hermon's voice was sharp, bitter, almost.
"This isn't the first time he's done this… but this is the first time it's cost someone else."
Even Hermione, eyes rimmed red, couldn't mask the anger.
"Stupid. Always trying to prove something."
Only Hailee looked like she was debating whether to hold me or hit me.
Mum tried, really tried to stand neutral ground. But even her hand, brushing my forehead, had the weight of disappointment.
They moved to Dad's ward.
I followed, steps silent behind theirs.
I didn't expect him to speak.
> "Don't be too hard on him," Dad rasped. "He fears failure, the same way you all fear trouble."
Hermon clenched his fists.
"But he—"
"Isn't like you," Dad said. "Or me. He has… a harder road."
They all went silent.
Dad's eyes softened.
"No matter what happens , promise me — no blame. He doesn't deserve it."
And they nodded.
Even Hermon.
I didn't feel understood.
I felt... pitied.
Now
My fingers brushed the metal of the bedframe.
I sighed, whispering just loud enough for the machines not to hear.
"Still watching out for me… huh, old man?"
I tucked the mask back onto my face, turned toward the door.
And behind me barely, a smile tugged at his lips.
The night cracked open again.
I dropped from the hospital wing, flashed through a telephone line, and landed three streets away, crouched against the wall of a half-cracked plaza. Debris littered the concrete. The streetlights flickered unnaturally, like they were trying to blink out.
"Jazz?" I muttered. "Is this it?"
"Rift activity confirmed. Level 3, anomalous frequency detected. Displacement field forming."
The world bled red.