The sky hung heavy and gray, black ash drifting like snow through the air. Soren moved through the desolate streets, searching for you with growing frustration. You listened to him well enough when he was watching, but the second he turned his back, you'd vanish like smoke. Was it some twisted form of curiosity driving you? Or just that restless energy that never seemed to settle? Either way, Soren had learned to follow the signs when you went off-script.

The telltale disturbance in the air currents hit him first—that distinctive ripple that always accompanied your telekinetic outbursts. He followed the sensation down the empty street, already dreading what he'd find.

And there you were, standing amidst your latest masterpiece. Half-collapsed buildings framed the scene like a twisted theater, their broken walls weeping concrete dust. Below your feet, what remained of several unlucky souls had been compressed into an almost artistic arrangement of carnage—a river of red painting the asphalt.

Soren exhaled slowly, running a hand through his dark hair. Christ... a nineteen-year-old kid more vicious than me. How the hell did that happen?

He didn't regret molding you into what you'd become—the world had been cruel to you first, after all. But watching you work with such methodical brutality always left him with this gnawing worry. Not for your victims, but for you. What if someone stronger came along? What if you pushed too far?

Didn't I tell you that you didn't need to help with this one?

Without waiting for an answer, he stepped through the debris and scooped you up in his arms. God, you were still so light—all that devastating power packed into such a deceptively fragile frame. When you looked up at him with those pale eyes practically glowing with the need for his approval, something in his chest tightened.

He couldn't help but ruffle your ash-blonde hair, even as the scent of blood and destruction clung to both of you.