NEW YORK CITY, USA.
The elevator ride down from the penthouse was silent, save for the soft hiss of hydraulics and the faint instrumental jazz playing through the speaker system. Ethan stared at his reflection in the mirrored paneling: sharp cheekbones, stormy eyes, and that ever-present scowl etched deep into his brow. He looked older than seventeen. Hardened. Like someone who had forgotten how to smile.
As the doors slid open to the private garage, the hum of affluence greeted him. Exotic cars lined up like trophies—Lamborghinis, Ferraris, Bentleys. Each polished to perfection. Each more a symbol of his father's empire than his own taste. Ethan didn't care for any of them, not really. But he cared about control, and behind the wheel, he could at least pretend he had some.
The Aston Martin roared to life with the press of a button. Smooth leather embraced him like a cage dressed in luxury. He pulled out onto the streets of Manhattan, merging effortlessly into the chaos. Honks, flashing signs, the buzz of lives intertwining—it was loud, alive, chaotic. And yet, Ethan felt none of it. Just another passenger in a world that didn't quite fit him.
His destination: St. Augustine Academy. A private fortress of knowledge for the elite, nestled uptown between rows of historic brownstones and silent trees. The kind of place where the students arrived in tailored uniforms and left with Ivy League futures. Ethan parked beside the school gates, ignoring the stares his car drew. They always stared. At the Lockwood heir. At the shadow behind the wealth.
He walked through the halls like a ghost. Students parted to make way, not out of respect but uncertainty. Nobody really knew him. They knew his name, his reputation, the rumors. That he was dangerous. That he once broke a senior's nose for making a joke about his mother. That he fought in underground circuits. That he didn't care.
They weren't wrong.
"Ethan!"
The voice cracked through his thoughts. Sharp, chirpy, and familiar.
Samantha Baines.
Daughter of a real estate mogul. Cheerleader. Smart, but not too smart. Pretty, in a glossy magazine way. She fell into step beside him with a smile that tried too hard.
"Did you finish the econ paper? Mr. Terrence said it's half our grade."
Ethan didn't answer. He didn't slow down. He just kept walking, jaw clenched.
Samantha hesitated, then laughed nervously. "Okay, cool, love the mystery vibe."
By the time he reached his locker, she had given up. Good. He didn't want company. He didn't want to play pretend. Not when every second in this place felt like swallowing fire.
His first class was Philosophy. A cruel joke, really. What use did Ethan Lockwood have for Socrates and Plato? What did ivory tower musings about virtue mean to someone raised to believe that success was the only virtue?
Mr. Vaughn, his professor, wore thick glasses and always spoke like he was auditioning for a TED Talk. Today's topic: Duality.
"The coexistence of opposing forces," Mr. Vaughn began, chalk scratching against the board. "Order and chaos. Light and shadow. Creation and destruction. Philosophers have long debated: can two forces be truly opposite, or are they reflections of the same truth?"
Ethan stared at the board, but his mind drifted.
Opposites. Forces split in two.
The thought sent a strange chill through him. Like something ancient shifting beneath his skin.
He looked down at his hands. Calloused. Scarred from years of training. Fists meant to defend. Or destroy.
The bell rang, but Ethan barely noticed.
LUNCH PERIOD.
He sat beneath the oak tree at the far edge of campus. Alone. As always. His tray remained untouched. Just another mask—pretending to eat, pretending to rest, pretending to belong.
His phone buzzed again.
Another message. This time from his stepmother:
Don't forget the gala this weekend. Wear the navy suit. And smile for once, darling. It's exhausting explaining your moods to the guests.
Ethan deleted the message without replying.
He leaned back against the tree, eyes closed.
And then, the vision came.
Just a flicker.
A sky torn in half. A circle of red, colliding with one of blue. And in the middle, a glowing purple light—pulsing. Breathing. Watching.
His heart lurched. He stood abruptly, breath caught in his throat. The vision vanished as quickly as it came.
He shook his head.
"What the hell...?"
—
ACROSS THE OCEAN. OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND.
The morning sun poured through a stained-glass window, casting soft blues and golds across rows of dusty shelves. Evelyn Fairchild sat cross-legged on the floor of her father's private library, flipping through an old mythology tome.
Her golden hair shimmered in the light, a soft halo against her pale sweater. She read aloud to herself, her voice barely a whisper:
"...And so the Rift opened, dividing the eternal force. One of balance, one of chaos. Forever bound, forever apart."
She paused. Her fingers traced the illustration—two circles clashing, a Venn of celestial power drawn between them.
It felt... familiar. Unsettling.
"Evie!"
Her best friend, Nora, popped her head in through the heavy oak door. "You're gonna be late for class!"
Evelyn smiled, closing the book gently. "Just five more minutes."
"You say that every time!"
"Because it's always true."
And yet, as Evelyn stood, dusting off her skirt, she couldn't shake the image. The Rift. The purple light. The feeling that somewhere—across oceans and chaos and silence—someone else had seen it too.
Someone who felt just as fractured.
—
BACK IN NEW YORK.
Ethan sat in the back of his final class, headphones in, not playing music. Just drowning out the world. His pen tapped against the desk in an impatient rhythm.
He couldn't focus.
That vision—if it was even a vision—had lodged itself in his brain like a shard of glass.
And worse, beneath the confusion was something deeper.
Recognition.
Like the Rift hadn't just appeared to him.
Like it had... remembered him.
He clenched his fists under the desk.
"Mr. Lockwood," the teacher snapped, "Care to solve the problem on the board?"
He didn't look up.
"No."
Murmurs spread across the room. The teacher scowled.
But Ethan didn't care.
Because for the first time in a long time, he wasn't thinking about escaping his father's shadow or fighting to feel alive.
He was thinking about the Rift.
And the strange sense that the next time he saw it, it wouldn't be in his mind.
It would be real.