The worn leather journal felt impossibly heavy in Zayn’s hand, a tangible link to a past he was only just beginning to comprehend. His father was gone, “managed” out of existence by the very forces Zayn was now irrevocably bound to fight. The chilling message on his comm unit – "The deviation is being contained. The anomaly will be corrected. Your father’s intervention has been… managed." – replayed endlessly in his mind, a grim testament to the Guardians’ cold, terrifying efficiency. They didn't just eliminate threats; they rewrote them, smoothed them over, as if they were errant brushstrokes on the canvas of history.
He stood in the desolate clearing, the scent of ozone and ancient, alien power still clinging to the air, a stark contrast to the mundane drone of approaching police sirens
