The transport’s rhythmic thrum vibrated through Sleeser’s shoulder against the reinforced glass. Outside, velocity smeared the landscape into an oil painting of greens and browns. Amidst the blur, a single anchor snagged his attention: a caved-in farmhouse strangled by ivy, a gnarled tree standing sentinel beside it. It was a ghost in the dying daylight, a monument to a time before the world tore itself apart.

  The image lingered long after the house vanished. Nostalgia hit him like a physical blow, dragging him away from the cold metal and back into the golden haze of a decade ago.

  Ashford, Luminia – Ten Years Ago

  The skeletal remains of the Ashworth estate stood like a jagged tombstone against the setting sun. Ivy choked the blackened brickwork, and the roof had long since collapsed into the foyer, but the tragic silence of the place was louder than any wind whistling through the cracks.

  Sleeser stepped carefully over a charred support beam, his boots crunching on debris and broken glass. He didn't call out. He knew exactly where the kid would be.

  He navigated to the back of the house, pushing aside a rotting door hanging by a single hinge to reveal the dark maw of the basement stairs. The air grew colder as he descended, smelling of mildew and old, settled dust.

  The basement opened up into what used to be a laboratory. Sleeser paused, his eyes scanning the space. It was eerie. Not just because of the ghosts of the past, but because of what was missing. The blast had destroyed the structure, yes, but the room was... empty. No twisted metal of expensive centrifuges, no shattered glass of beakers, no remains of the tech that supposedly caused the explosion. It was as if the place had been scrubbed clean before it was blown up.

  "There you are, Angelo."

  Sleeser didn't shout. Leaning against the archway, arms crossed, he cut a sharp silhouette against the gloom.

  Angelo was curled up in the far corner where a workbench might have once stood. He jolted, scrubbing his sleeve across his eyes to hide the tears, and spun around. Sleeser offered a trademark smirk—part arrogance, part genuine affection.

  "Had a hunch I’d find you skulking down here," Sleeser said, stepping fully into the room. "Come on, kid. Hiding in the dark won't make you stronger."

  Twenty minutes later, the romance of training had evaporated.

  Angelo sat cross-legged in the tall grass outside the ruins, a mask of sheer misery. He tried to meditate, but looked like he was vibrating out of his skin. His knees bounced rapidly, thumping the earth like a drumbeat.

  To Angelo, the silence was a stadium of shouting matches.

  "He’s mocking you," a jagged voice whispered. "He knows it's a bunch of bullshit."

  "Just breathe," a softer voice countered. "Focus."

  "I can’t take this anymore!"

  Angelo exploded upward, shaking his arms out as if covered in ants. "I think I prefer the pushups! Or the sit-ups! Anything but sitting still!"

  Resting against an oak, chewing a blade of grass, Sleeser watched with saintly patience. "Easy, champ. You’re wound tighter than a clock spring. The mental game is the foundation. Physical stuff is just decoration."

  "I hate this!" Angelo kicked a rock into the old lab wall. He clapped his hands over his ears as the voices argued louder.

  Sleeser pushed off the tree, his expression hardening. "Thought you wanted to be an Auron, like me?"

  "I doooooo," Angelo groaned, slumping forward like a marionette with cut strings. "But this is boring! Why does it even matter?"

  Sleeser spat out the grass. "You know what actually makes an Auron an Auron, Angelo?"

  Angelo paused mid-stomp, looking up.

  Sleeser walked over and crouched down, close enough for Angelo to see the genuine care behind the stern veneer. "The air isn't empty. There are invisible channels everywhere. Rivers of energy we can't see."

  He held out his hand. With a low hum, orange light coalesced above his skin, flickering like a contained campfire. "We sense the river. We learn to drink from it."

  Angelo’s eyes went wide, the inner voices silenced by the display.

  Sleeser extinguished the flame and sketched precise lines in the dirt. "It’s not free. Physical training builds the vessel. Mental training helps you feel the flow. Without discipline, you burn out."

  Angelo dropped to his knees, hanging on every word.

  "Only when the mind is quiet can you tap into the universe's unlimited energy."

  Angelo frowned, kicking at the dirt lines. "I’ve seen you fight, Sleeser. It doesn’t look unlimited. You get tired."

  Sleeser laughed. "Sharp observation." He sat down properly. "Picture the ocean. The biggest body of water you can imagine, going on forever. That is the universe’s energy. Infinite." He drew a massive circle in the dirt.

  "Now," he drew a coin-sized circle next to it, "imagine a tiny pool on the shore, filled by a pipe. That’s you." He connected them with a line. "The ocean never runs out. But your pool can overflow, and the pipe can burst if you push too much too fast."

  Sleeser manifested a basketball-sized sphere of dense orange energy. "This is what my 'pipe' can handle right now. We meditate to widen the pipe and deepen the pool."

  He clenched his fist, extinguishing the light. Understanding lit Angelo's face.

  "When I become an Auron," Angelo said, bouncing on his heels, "I hope my aura is silver! Like a superhero!"

  "Anything but orange," the jagged voice scoffed. "So boring. Just like Sleeser."

  Sleeser chuckled, ruffling the kid’s hair. "You don't get to pick from a menu. It’s random. I’ve seen blue fire, pink lightning. It is what it is."

  "Aww." Angelo slumped, then perked up instantly. "Well, whatever it is, I bet it’ll be way cooler than orange!"

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  "Hey now." Sleeser raised an eyebrow. "What's wrong with orange?"

  "Nothing!" Angelo whispered quickly. "But silver is still cooler."

  "Alright, critic." Sleeser laughed, standing up. "Less dreaming, more focus. You won't be an Auron of any color if you can't sit still."

  This time, Angelo didn't fight the silence, grinning as he imagined silver light. The sun dipped below the horizon, leaving master and student in the purple twilight.

  Present Day

  Sleeser pulled away from the window, the memory turning to ash.

  "To think," he muttered, voice barely audible over the engine's hum, "that only four years later, we’d endure a massacre..."

  He shook his head, sighing with heavy regret. "I wonder how things would have turned out if I’d pushed him differently."

  The landscape slowed, replaced by grey industrial sprawl. Novaria rose on the horizon like jagged teeth against the sky. With it came a cold, slippery dread. Somewhere in that concrete labyrinth was the boy who wanted a silver aura. Sleeser tightened his grip on the armrest. He had to believe there was a way to bring him back.

  The same dread was felt miles away, it was a cold stone sitting in Angelo's stomach. The afternoon sun offered no warmth, only a glaring spotlight as he swung toward the precinct. The energy tethers hummed in his grip—snap, pull, release—a rhythm that usually calmed him. Not today.

  Below, the street was a festering wound of noise. Signs bobbed over a tide of angry heads, the chant of the mob rising like heat from asphalt.

  "I’d stay well clear of that dumpster fire," Red’s voice curled through his mind, thick with disgust. "Let them scream at the walls."

  For once, Angelo didn't argue. He bypassed the main entrance, aiming for the second-floor ventilation window. He hit the linoleum with a heavy thud, the sudden intrusion sending a jolt of panic through the hallway. Two uniformed officers reached for their holsters before recognition dawned. Their hands dropped, but the tension didn't leave their shoulders. It just changed flavor—from startling at an intruder to freezing before the 'Angel of Death'.

  Angelo ignored the eyes burning into his back. He marched straight for the lion’s den.

  The frosted glass of Chief Ramirez’s door blurred the shapes inside, but it couldn't mute the aura of fury radiating from the room. It felt less like a door and more like the lid of a pressure cooker. Angelo took a breath, held it, and knocked. The sound was sharp, brittle.

  "Enter."

  The word wasn't spoken. It was grounded out.

  Angelo pushed the door open. The air inside was stale, smelling of old coffee and fresh ink. Ramirez sat behind his desk, a monolith of suppressed rage. The surface of the mahogany was buried under a landslide of newsprint. Bold headlines screamed in black ink, accusing, judging.

  "Sit," Ramirez said. The volume was low, but the threat was unmistakable—the rumble of thunder before the lightning strikes.

  Angelo lowered himself into the guest chair. The leather creaked, the only sound in the suffocating room. He kept his expression neutral, a porcelain mask, though his pulse hammered against his ribs.

  "One simple instruction," Ramirez began, picking up a newspaper and crumpling it slowly in his fist. "Stay in that room. Was the syntax too complex for you?"

  "Sir, the situation—"

  Ramirez slammed the crumpled paper onto the desk. The crack was like a gunshot. "I am not interested in your excuses!"

  He stood up, leaning over the desk, invading Angelo’s space. "Do you have the faintest idea of the storm you’ve summoned? The press is out for blood. The mayor is breathing down my neck. And those people outside?" He gestured vaguely at the window. "They want a witch hunt."

  Angelo stared at a water stain on the wall behind the Chief’s head, his body rigid.

  "And let’s address the corpse in the room," Ramirez continued, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "You killed a man last night. A man the courts might have salvaged. You played judge, jury, and executioner."

  "Salvaged?" Red roared in the theater of Angelo's mind. "The man was a rabid dog! You put him down. Don't let this bureaucrat neuter you."

  "Perhaps it's wise to remain silent for now, Angelo," Blue's steady voice echoed in their shared mind, calm as still water. "The chief seems beyond reason at the moment."

  Externally, Angelo was a statue. Internally, his grip on the chair’s armrests tightened until the wood groaned under the leather.

  Ramirez sank back into his chair, the leather sighing under his weight. He rubbed his temples, suddenly looking every day of his sixty years. He studied Angelo for a long, agonizing minute.

  "I should take your badge," Ramirez said softly. The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush bone. "I should throw you in a cell and let the DA tear you apart. By the book, you’re finished."

  Angelo stopped breathing.

  "But," Ramirez sighed, waving a hand dismissively, "against every instinct I have... I’m not going to do that."

  The Chief locked eyes with him. "Suspension. One month. No pay. No active duty. You are a ghost, Angelo. You do not exist."

  Angelo’s eyes widened a fraction—a hairline fracture in the mask. "Yes, sir."

  "Get out of my sight." Ramirez picked up another paper, dismissing him like a pesky fly. "And Angelo? If you step one toe out of line again... suspension will be the fond memory you wish you could go back to."

  Angelo pulled the door open, the frosted glass rattling in its frame. He didn't see the figure standing on the other side until his shoulder checked hers—hard.

  Vivian stumbled back, a stack of files clutched to her chest like a shield. Her face was ashen, eyes wide and unseeing, trembling like a leaf in a gale.

  "Sorry," she breathed, the apology barely a ghost of a sound.

  Angelo didn't answer. He didn't have words left. He brushed past her, a hollow man walking into the void, and disappeared down the hall.

  Inside, Ramirez watched the door swing shut. "Close it," he barked, though the venom had drained out of him, leaving only exhaustion.

  Vivian leaned against the door until the latch clicked—a sound like a gunshot in the silence.

  "Report," Ramirez said, not looking up. He was smoothing out the crumpled newspaper, a futile attempt to undo the damage.

  "Sir..." Vivian’s voice cracked. She cleared her throat, forcing professionalism through the panic. "It’s about Officer Mike."

  Ramirez stopped. His hands froze on the newsprint. The air in the room thickened, heavy with the premonition of disaster. He looked up, eyes narrowing into slits. "Spit it out, Lieutenant."

  "He’s dead, sir."

  The words hung in the stale air. Ramirez didn't blink. He went terrifyingly still. "Explain."

  "Patrol found him twenty minutes ago. Stuffed in a waste disposal unit behind the railyards." Vivian swallowed hard, fighting the nausea rising in her throat. "He was... butchered, sir."

  Ramirez sank back into his chair, the leather groaning under the sudden weight. His face went gray. "Butchered?"

  "Slash marks. Deep. And burns... extensive electrical charring across the torso."

  "Electrical?" Ramirez’s brow furrowed. "Mike was a Lightning Auron. It takes a storm to burn a conductor."

  "That’s what forensics said," Vivian whispered, hugging the files tighter. "Whatever hit him... It fried him from the inside out."

  Ramirez closed his eyes. He breathed in deeply, then exhaled—a long, shuddering sigh that seemed to age him ten years in ten seconds. When he opened his eyes again, the grief was locked away behind a wall of cold iron command.

  "Does the press know?"

  "Not yet. Perimeter is locked down."

  "Keep it that way." Ramirez stood up, walking to the window. He stared out at the city, at the festive lights beginning to flicker on in the twilight. "The New Light Festival is weeks away. The city is a powder keg. If word gets out that an Auron cop was slaughtered... we’ll have a panic on our hands that makes today’s riot look like a garden party."

  He turned back, his silhouette sharp against the blinds. "Bury it. Classify the death as an accident pending investigation. Assemble a task force—handpicked, loyalty absolute. I want this solved before the first parade float hits the street."

  "Understood, sir." Vivian straightened, finding her spine. "And the family?"

  "I’ll tell them myself." Ramirez’s voice softened, just a fraction. "They deserve that much."

  Vivian nodded and turned to leave.

  "One more thing, Lieutenant."

  She paused, hand on the doorknob.

  "Angelo," Ramirez said, the name tasting like ash. "He’s suspended. He is to know nothing. If the 'Angel of Death' finds out his friend was murdered... he won't investigate. He’ll go to war."

  "I'll make sure he stays in the dark, sir."

  "See that you do."

  The heavy steel door of the precinct slammed shut behind Angelo, sealing away the noise and the politics. The night air hit him like a bucket of ice water, instantly chilling the sweat sticking his shirt to his back. He inhaled greedily, tasting ozone and damp pavement, trying to scrub the scent of Ramirez’s disappointment from his lungs. The sun was long dead, buried under a skyline of jagged concrete.

  He stomped over a few steps. That was when he saw him.

  A solitary figure was propped against the flickering streetlamp across the road, a shadow cut from a different cloth than the civilians hurrying past. There was no movement, no nervous fidgeting—just an unnatural, predatory stillness.

  Angelo froze. His brain, already fried from the Chief’s verbal flaying, stuttered. He blinked, expecting the hallucination to dissolve.

  It never did.