The Statements
The scorched remains of the school wing and the massive glacier locking down the town square left the authorities no opportunity to sweep the truth under the rug.
As police swarmed the ruins, the twins delivered their reports. Wayne framed Cecelia's actions strictly as self-defense, taking advantage of her exhaustion to lock down the narrative before investigators could question her. Damien detailed everything he knew about the Coles' pharmaceutical stabilization methods.
That night at home, Mandy paced the kitchen in a state of sharp maternal anxiety, relieved her sons were unbroken but visibly shaken by what they had uncovered.
"She's at the hospital," Wayne said, leaning against the counter. "Robert hasn't left her side."
Across town, in a high-security holding cell, Mr. Cole received the news of his wife's death. He did not grieve. Instead, his mind immediately began calculating the next transition. The pharmaceutical empire was dead, but his ambition remained entirely intact.
The Friday Night Call
Later that night, Damien lay on his top bunk, staring at the ceiling before dialing Tina's number.
"Hey," Tina's voice crackled through the speaker. "I didn't think you'd call after the day you had."
Damien smiled, his voice softening. "You know I wouldn't miss our Friday calls for the world."
On the bottom bunk, Wayne visibly recoiled, making muffled gagging noises and clutching his stomach to mock the second-hand embarrassment.
"I saw a video of you standing on that glacier," Tina said. "That was incredible."
"Thanks," Damien chuckled. "But I guess there go my chances of getting a car from her family."
"Why did you want a car so badly anyway?"
"So I could pick you up," Damien said. "Remember?"
The silence that followed was absolute. Damien felt every second stretch into an eternity. Did I say that too soon? Did I come on too strong? Finally, she spoke. "Um... okay. I have to go. Tyrone is calling me."
The line clicked dead before Damien could answer. He lowered the phone, a dull disappointment settling in his chest. His gaze drifted toward the window, his thoughts shifting directly to Tyrone. Why is he always telling her what to do? He needs to learn a thing or two about humility.
The Shadow Visit
That same night, the heavy steel door of Mr. Cole's private cell swung open. Two men entered without a guard.
The first was short and broad, with blond hair and a heavy, thick jawline. Color-tinted goggles concealed his eyes, but the leaden weight of his energy instantly crowded the small room. This was Piggy.
"Damn, Cole," Piggy said, shaking his head. "What a complete mess you've gotten yourself into."
Cole exhaled slowly. "Sadly."
"I mean, it's everywhere," Piggy chuckled, taking a seat on the cot. "The media is having a field day. That kid posing on top of your ice prison? Whistling rough."
The second man sat across from Cole. This was Grant, the Executive of Media, whose entire existence revolved around fabricating the public image. He had neatly trimmed brown hair and piercing blue eyes that remained completely flat.
Cole's jaw tightened as he confronted the man who controlled their narrative. "So the perfect family persona you built for us didn't work."
"The plan was perfect," Grant replied, his gaze unwavering. "You deviated from it."
Cole looked away. "What happens now?"
"Your fall will be an opportunity for the rest to expand," Grant said calmly. "Julian will be absorbing your company. You'll hear about it in the next news cycle. You spoke to the public when you should have remained silent. You damaged an image I carefully constructed. We are leaving you alive, Cole, but this is the final time we will ever speak."
Cole sat in silence, realizing his empire had been completely dissolved.
"That little junkie is about to be the richest one," Piggy chimed in, breaking the heavy silence.
Cole's expression hardened, a flash of bitterness crossing his face at the thought of Julian's ascension while Damien's radiant silhouette burned into his memory.
Piggy stood up, stretching his arms. "Look... I'll do you one last favor. Old times' sake. I'll send one of my top assets after the kid."
Cole nodded once, his voice skin-thin. "Make sure he pays."
Piggy laughed softly. "Oh, he will."
The Hospital Room
On Sunday evening, the twins entered the isolation wing. They found Cecelia sitting up in bed, her expression deadpan but her posture stable. Robert stood guard by the window.
"Are you my heroes?" she asked as they approached.
"We're your friends," Damien said.
Cecelia looked down at her hands. She admitted she remembered nothing of the localized blackout, only the sudden warmth of Damien's aura cutting through years of chemical haze, followed by the cold, steady weight of Wayne's instructions telling her exactly where to aim the fire.
Robert stepped forward, checking his watch. "The formal updates will air on the eight o'clock news. We should watch the broadcast together."
"Sounds good to me," Damien said, his jaw tightening. "I hope he gets what he deserves."
Wayne remained silent, watching the flickering monitor. He knew the world rarely balanced its equations that neatly.
The Hand of Health
Grant drove through the city in silence, his mind already restructuring the media parameters. As the Executive of Media, he had been absent from his post long enough. The veins on his forehead hinted at how long he'd been thinking. He put on his hat, turned up the air conditioning, and pulled out his phone. After a few swipes, he dialed a direct, encrypted line.
Across the metropolis, a phone rang on a heavy mahogany desk. The indicator light barely pierced the thick black smoke filling the room. A wrinkled hand lifted the receiver.
"Yes?"
Grant delivered his instructions efficiently, omitting any greeting. The man on the other end listened without interruption, his red, bloodshot eyes scanning the dark office. On the wall hung a pristine white doctor's coat. Beside it rested a sword encased in a silver hilt, the air around the blade radiating a visible, sub-zero frost that pushed back against the rising smoke.
"Understood," the doctor said.
The line went dead. A sharp knock sounded at the door. "Dr. Julian. You have another patient."
Julian closed his eyes, exhaling a final plume of smoke before rising. He slipped on the white coat and smiled. He drew the silver sword a quarter of the way out of its sheath. In a fraction of a second, the frost surged outward, crystallizing the black smoke in the room. The frozen particles fell to the obsidian floor, twinkling like shattered glass before dissolving.
Julian slid the blade back into its scabbard with a clean click and opened the door.
"All right," he said pleasantly. "Let's go save another life."