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The late afternoon sun hung low over Sector 9, bleeding orange and gold across the cracked concrete and rusted metal of the orphanage courtyard. The air was thick with dust, the faint scent of burning oil, and the ever-present hum of distant engines echoing through the narrow streets. Yet, for all the sounds beyond the walls, the courtyard itself was strangely silent. Even the usual clamoring of the younger children was absent.
Ares stood alone, a small figure framed by shadows stretching long and dark behind him. His gaze was fixed intently on the flickering tendrils of black lightning weaving and sparking above his open palm. The energy writhed like a living thing — wild, unpredictable, dangerous.
He flexed his fingers, trying to contain it. The lightning flared violently, sending a
