The city breathed a strange silence.
London's morning fog clung low to the cobblestones, wrapping the streets in a damp hush that muffled every sound. Footsteps echoed like ghosts down narrow alleys. Somewhere in the distance, a tram bell rang—sharp, indifferent to the tension threading the air.
Adrian walked slowly down the old industrial lane, hands tucked into his coat pockets, his head bowed as if lost in thought. But every muscle in his body was tense. Every step was measured.
He wasn't alone.
Bishop was near. The shard's vision had shown him—tracking, scanning, hunting with cold precision. And now, Adrian's spiritual sense confirmed it: a subtle tug, a static pressure behind his ears, the unmistakable presence of a predator closing in.
He had no intention of running this time.
The Clown potion had awakened something more than just power. It gave him clarity—not logical, not sane, but a clarity born of chaos. In madness, Adrian had discovered something sharp. Something free.
Bishop had armor. Technology. A weaponized future at his back.
But Adrian?
Adrian had the Castle at his side.
He turned the corner into a quieter lane, one lined with shuttered storefronts and decaying warehouses. Empty enough. Isolated. Just enough cover to be useful.
A faint hum sparked in the air behind him. The spiritual warning came a heartbeat later.
Adrian spun.
Bishop stepped out from the mist like a shadow made solid. His face was grim, unreadable beneath the glowing red lenses of his visor. A heavy plasma rifle hung at his side, and his steps were calm. Controlled. Certain.
"Adrian White" Bishop said. "Stand down. You've already interfered too much."
Adrian tilted his head, expression unreadable. "Funny. I thought I was the one being hunted."
"You were never meant to be part of this timeline," Bishop said. "But something's changed. The future's warping. You're the fault line."
Adrian gave a lopsided smile. "And your answer is to kill me before I can do… what, exactly?"
"You already know."
"I don't. That's the problem."
There was no warning.
Bishop raised his weapon, and Adrian dove sideways—just as the first blast vaporized the air where he'd stood. A second shot followed, narrowly missing his back as he rolled behind a stack of rusted crates. Heat cracked the metal beside him.
He popped up, hands moving fast—pulling a folded piece of aged paper from his coat.
With a snap, it hardened into a narrow dagger, glinting like steel.
He threw it.
The paper blade whistled through the air, curving unnaturally in mid-flight. Bishop deflected it with a kinetic shield, but the moment of distraction was enough—Adrian was already moving, darting behind a rusted fire escape, vanishing into the fog.
Bishop advanced carefully. "You can't hide, White. I know how to track you."
Adrian's voice echoed from somewhere ahead. "Good. I was afraid this would be too easy."
Another paper dagger came whirling from the mist, this one aimed lower. Bishop fired—absorbing the impact as raw kinetic force—and launched a return blast into the shadows.
The wall exploded. Brick and dust flew everywhere.
But there was no body.
Just laughter.
Adrian stepped from the other side of the warehouse, already sprinting—zig-zagging, unpredictable, slipping through the street like a specter. Bishop fired again, but the blast missed, splashing against an abandoned carriage.
Adrian ducked behind the door of the warehouse—the same one he had hidden in earlier.
Bishop followed.
His boots thudded against the rotting wood floor as he stepped into the dim, dust-choked space. The morning light filtered through cracks in the ceiling, painting shafts of illumination across broken beams and warped crates.
Then, silence.
He scanned the shadows, ready for anything.
Almost.
Above him, on the catwalk, Adrian moved like a phantom. Balanced perfectly on the beam—an inhuman poise gifted by the Clown's grace. In his hands, a thick metal pipe. Not elegant. Not magical. Just real.
Real enough to hurt.
He leapt.
Bishop turned too late.
The pipe cracked against his visor with a sickening clang, shattering the lens and knocking the X-Man off balance. He stumbled backward, crashing into the crates below. The rifle skidded out of reach. Sparks flew from his armor.
Adrian landed like a cat—one hand pressed to the floor, the other still gripping the pipe.
He didn't hesitate.
He struck again—aiming not to kill, but to disrupt. Another blow dented Bishop's shoulder guard. Another forced the mutant into full defense, bracing with one arm as he activated his absorption field.
"Come on!" Adrian shouted, rage and desperation boiling together. "Why me?! What do I become that makes you this scared?!"
Bishop's fist lashed out, catching Adrian across the side and sending him tumbling. But the pipe had left its mark—his armor hissed with overloaded circuits, and his visor was broken.
"I've seen what happens when you fall," Bishop growled, rising slowly. "You lose yourself to the madness. To her."
Her.
Adrian's eyes narrowed. "You mean Selene."
Bishop didn't answer—but the hesitation was enough.
Adrian didn't wait. He threw another dagger—not to kill, but to distract—and vanished back into the warehouse shadows before Bishop could retaliate. He ducked through the back door and disappeared into the city fog once more.
He wasn't going to win this fight—not yet.
But he had learned something.
Selene. His future.
And he'd left Bishop bleeding and rattled.
The Fool had no rules. No path. No logic but his own.
And the game had just begun.