Pain. That's the first thing Huey registers. A dull, throbbing ache in his ribs, a sharp sting in his shoulder, and a pounding headache so vicious it feels like a drummer is using his skull for practice.
The second thing? The smell.
Burnt wood, damp cloth, and something musty, sour, and suspiciously human. The kind of odor that clings to a place, seeps into the walls, and makes you wonder how long it's been since anyone here saw a bar of soap.
His eyelids feel heavy, but when he forces them open, all he sees is orange light shinning against crumbling brick walls. His body is slumped against something soft—but not in a comforting way. More like 'I'm too exhausted to care if this is a pile of old rags or someone's discarded laundry' kind of soft.
A fire crackles nearby, illuminating a makeshift shelter formed from stacked wooden crates, shredded tarps, and a blanket that looks like it lost a fight with a family of raccoons. The shadows dance along the walls, stretching in twisted shapes.
Then he notices the man.
Sitting across the fire, stirring a tin pot with the patience of a monk, is a man who could only be described as an experienced veteran of the beggar profession. His gray beard is tangled, his coat looks like it survived at least two wars, and his boots have seen better centuries. Despite this, there's a certain calm, almost dignified aura to him. Like he's perfectly at peace in this ruined little corner of the world.
He doesn't say anything at first. Just watches as Huey groans, shifts, and immediately regrets it when pain shoots up his side.
> Old Man: "You're alive, Good."
His voice is rough, gravelly, like he's been drinking straight sandpaper for breakfast.
Huey grunts in response. Talking feels like a waste of energy right now. Instead, he takes a slow, careful breath and pushes himself upright.
Bad idea.
The moment he moves, his body screams in protest. His head spins. His limbs feel like they've been through a blender set to 'crush and obliterate.' He barely manages to keep from toppling over.
The old man doesn't react, still stirring his mystery stew.
> Huey: "Barely."
He rubs the back of his head—no blood, just a massive lump. His uniform is filthy, torn at the sleeves, stained with dirt and something he doesn't want to think about.
Then, the memories come crashing down.
The Echo. The explosion. The black void swallowing him whole.
His heart rate spikes.
That thing—it should have killed him. He remembers the heat, the pressure, the overwhelming force that had wrapped around him like a vice—then nothing.
Yet, here he was.
> No way I survived that. No way I'm just… here.
His eyes dart back to the old man, scanning him suspiciously.
> Huey: "What happened? The Echo—the monster—did you see it?"
The old man tilts his head, spooning a chunk of something questionable from his pot and chewing it slowly. There's a pause, like he's debating whether to answer at all.
Then—
> Old Man: "Echo? Didn't see no monster, boy. Just you, out cold."
Huey stares at him, heart still hammering. That doesn't make sense.
> No, that's wrong. That thing it was there.
The fire pops, sending a shower of embers into the air. The old man barely blinks. Then, casually—almost like an afterthought—he mutters:
> Old Man: "Though, that glow on your hand hasn't stopped since I found you."
Huey frowns.
> Huey: "What glow?"
He lifts his hands, turning them over, Nothing but bandages and scars
The old man doesn't bother explaining. Instead, he just gives a sharp nod towards the bandages over Huey's right hand
Huey hesitates. Then, slowly, removes them.
And freezes.
His breath catches.
The back of his hand is glowing.
A pulsing blue crest stretches from his knuckles to his wrist, twisting in a pattern that looks almost alive—like fire burning under his skin. The intricate lines shift, glowing brighter when he flexes his fingers.
His stomach drops.
> Huey (whispers): "hell nah!!!"
He clenches his fist, and the glow flares, reacting to his movements. His mind races.
This wasn't normal. This wasn't possible.
> Crests don't just appear. You're either born with one, or you're not. And I—
A cold chill runs down his spine. He wasn't.
> Huey: "I… I don't have a crest."
He mutters it more to himself than anyone else.
The old man doesn't say anything. Just gives a knowing, almost amused nod, like he's seen this reaction before.
Huey stares at his hand, heart pounding.
This was wrong. This was impossible.
Yet—
The glow remains, burning silently against the dark.
Huey shifted against the rough brick wall, pressing his finger against the phone screen. His thumb hovered over it, debating his options. The list of missed calls was absurd—family, friends, Willy (spammed with "BRO WHERE R U"), even his uncle.
The smart move? Call home.
The survival move? Call Josephine.
With a sigh, he tapped her number.
One ring.
Two.
Three—
She picked up, and Huey instantly regretted it.
> Josephine: "HUEY?! WHERE THE HELL—"
He yanked the phone away as her voice practically shattered his eardrum.
> Huey: "Shut up. I need help."
There was a beat of silence. Then, a sharp exhale.
> Josephine: "…Oh, it's serious."
> Huey: "Yeah, no, I just called to see if you wanted to go bowling."
> Josephine: "I will kill you, Cross."
> Huey: "Great. But after you help me."
Another sigh, followed by shuffling sounds—she was probably pacing.
> Josephine: "Alright. Where are you?"
> Huey: "Uh… an alley?"
> Josephine: "Which alley?"
> Huey: "…One with walls."
> Josephine: "Oh my God, you're actually an idiot."
He smirked. If she was roasting him, she wasn't panicking. That was good.
The old man coughed, reminding Huey he wasn't alone.
The fire crackled, casting flickering light across the man's weathered face. He adjusted the tattered coat draped over his shoulders, watching Huey with an expression somewhere between curiosity and mild amusement.
> Old Man: "Girl sounds angry. You sure she's the right choice?"
> Huey: "She's the best choice."
The old man hummed, tossing another mystery log into the fire. Sparks flew, embers dancing against the night.
> Old Man: "Then I'd say you better get movin'."
Huey hesitated, then glanced at his still-glowing hand. The Crest shimmered beneath his skin, muted but present.
> Huey: "Yeah, just… one thing first."
He flexed his fingers. The glow pulsed.
> Huey: "You knew what this was before I did."
The old man chuckled, the sound deep, rough, like gravel rolling in a tin can.
> Old Man: "Kid, I knew what that was before you were born."
Huey frowned.
> Huey: "Yeah I guess that shouldn't be a surprise."
The man grinned, but there was something tired in it.
> Huey: "These bandages over here…"
He lifted his hand, nodding toward the fabric near where he lay
> Huey: "They were blocking the energy my crest emitted. How?"
The old man waved a lazy hand.
> Old Man: "Same way a closed door blocks the wind. The energy's still there—you just ain't lettin' it out."
Huey narrowed his eyes.
> Huey: "Where'd you get them?"
The old man smirked.
> Old Man: "Same place I got all my regrets."
Huey sighed.
> Huey: "yeah. That clears up nothing."
The old man laughed.
> Old Man: "Ain't my job to clear things up, kid.
Huey stared at him for a long moment, then exhaled.
> Huey: "Guess I'll have to figure the rest out myself."
> Old Man: "That's the spirit."
Huey stood, tightening the strap on his half-ruined bag.
> Huey: "I owe you one."
The old man shook his head.
> Old Man: "Nah. I just like helpin' lost things find their way."
Huey turned, stepping toward the street. The city shone beyond the alley—bright, restless, waiting.
> Old Man: "One last thing, kid."
Huey glanced back.
> Old Man: "If you start hearin' that voice again… don't ignore it."
A chill crawled down Huey's spine.
But before he could ask, the old man was already turning back to the fire.
Huey exhaled, shook his head, and stepped into the night.
Josephine's house near campus was exactly what Huey expected.
A small but efficient space—minimalist furniture, punching bag in the corner, training weights stacked near the couch. The kind of place where the only decoration was a single framed championship poster and a half-dead plant that was probably regretting its life choices.
Huey leaned against the doorway, watching as she paced in front of him, arms crossed.
> Josephine: "Okay. Let me get this straight."
She turned, expression unreadable.
> Josephine: "You disappeared for half a day, showed up looking like you wrestled a trash compactor… and now you have a Crest?"
Huey held up his glowing hand.
> Huey: "Seems that way."
Josephine stared. Then exhaled, rubbing her temples.
> Josephine: "God, I hate when Willy's right."
Huey frowned. That was a weird reaction.
> Huey: "What does Willy have to do with—"
> Josephine: "Oh, nothing. Just that when you went missing, his exact words were, 'What if Huey gets a Crest and becomes the main character?'"
Huey blinked.
> Huey: "thats the wokest thing I've heard all year"
> Josephine: "His words, not mine."
Huey sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.
She plopped onto the couch, motioning for him to sit.
> Josephine: "Alright, let's get serious. Lemme see it."
Huey held out his right hand, palm up. The Crest stretched from his knuckles to his wrist, glowing faintly, shifting like liquid fire.
Josephine grabbed his wrist, turning it over with practiced ease.
> Huey: "Would it kill you to be gentler?"
> Josephine: "No, but it'd hurt my soul."
She ignored his glare, pressing a finger to the Crest. The glow pulsed in response.
Her brows furrowed.
> Josephine: "Huh."
Huey narrowed his eyes.
> Huey: "Don't 'huh' my arm. What does that mean?"
Josephine tapped her chin, gaze sharpening.
> Josephine: "Your Crest energy is… weird."
> Huey: "Helpful."
> Josephine: "Shut up. I mean, normally, Crests have a 'feel' to them. Symbionts, Aeons, Shards—they all give off different energy signatures."
She ran a hand through her curls, thinking.
> Josephine: "But this? It's like… it's there, but it isn't. I can't feel the usual heat a fire type should have."
Huey frowned.
> Huey: "Maybe it's defective."
> Josephine: "Maybe you're defective."
> Huey: "Wow. Thank you."
> Josephine: "Anytime."
Huey tapped his fingers against his knee.
> Huey: "So either I'm a historical anomaly… or something's really wrong."
> Josephine: "Considering you, I'd bet on 'really wrong.'"
Huey scowled.
> Huey: "Have I ever told you how supportive you are?"
> Josephine: "No, but I'm sure it'll happen when I start being supportive."
She stood abruptly, heading to a metal case near the bookshelf.
> Huey: "What are you doing?"
She didn't answer. The case clicked open, revealing rolls of fabric, wraps, and various training gear.
Josephine pulled out a black leather glove and tossed it at him.
Huey caught it automatically.
> Josephine: "You need to hide that Crest."
> Huey: "You just keep random gloves lying around?"
> Josephine: "It's called preparation. You should try it."
He rolled his eyes but slid on the glove over his bandaged right hand.
Black leather, fingerless, snug but flexible. .
Huey examined it, flexing his fingers.
> Huey: "Not bad."
> Josephine: "Better than you walking around with your arms wrapped in bandages like a low budget mummy."
Huey smirked.
Josephine grabbed a roll of thermal tape from the case.
> Josephine: "Now, for extra cover, I'll add something inside the glove."
> Huey: "Please don't tell me it's explosives."
> Josephine: "Not everything I do involves explosives."
She paused.
> Josephine: "…This time."
Huey sighed.
> Huey: "Reassuring."
She peeled the tape and pressed it against his palm and wrist.
> Josephine: "This stuff mimics burn scars. If anyone forces you to take the glove off, they'll see faded scar tissue instead of a Crest."
Huey raised a brow.
> Huey: "That's… actually really smart."
> Josephine: "Wow, it's like I know what I'm doing."
Huey flexed his fingers, watching the glove shift with his movement.
> Huey: "So now I just say I burned my hand?"
> Josephine: "Yup."
> Huey: "And if they ask how?"
Josephine deadpanned.
> Josephine: "You hang out with Willy. Just say it was an accident."
Huey considered this.
> Huey: "…Fair point."
She stepped back, arms crossed.
> Josephine: "Alright, you're covered. But Huey."
Her expression hardened.
> Josephine: "You need to figure out what the hell is going on. Fast."
Huey met her gaze, serious for once.
> Huey: "I know."
The firelight from the window caught the edge of his glove as he made his first grand escape from a girls room at midnight.
The interior of Stan's old sedan smelled like coffee, rain, and cheap car freshener.
Huey slouched in the backseat, his fingers tapping an idle rhythm on the window as the city rolled by in a blur of neon and early-morning mist. Virelia always had this restless hum to it—floating transit rails weaving overhead, holo-billboards flashing Rift sports highlights, sleek high-rises reflecting the first slivers of daylight.
Despite everything, it was just another morning.
Stan, hands firm on the wheel, glanced at Huey through the rearview mirror, eyebrows slightly raised.
> Stan: "So, how'd it go?"
Huey didn't look up, still watching the world pass by.
> Huey (flatly): "Which part? The 'Mom dragged me to a specialist because she thought I was lying' part? Or the 'Surprise, the burn is real' part?"
Stan snorted, his deep chuckle rumbling through the car like distant thunder.
> Stan: "I'll take both."
Huey sighed, tilting his head back against the seat.
> Huey: "She woke me up at six in the morning."
> Stan: "Parental trauma."
> Huey: "Dragged me to some high-end specialist she trusts."
> Stan: "Rich kid trauma."
> Huey: "And then sat there looking smug while the doctor confirmed that, yes, I do in fact have a burn."
Stan let out a low whistle.
> Stan: "Damn. Must've been a great moment for her."
> Huey: "Oh, you have no idea."
He could still hear his mother's desfeated 'hmm' when the specialist scanned his hand and found nothing unusual except the burn itself. She didn't even gloat. Didn't need to. Just gave him a pointed look that said "I told you so."
> Huey: "I bet she's telling my dad right now, just to rub it in."
> Stan (chuckling): "That's what you get for lying too often. Even when you tell the truth, people gotta make sure."
Huey sighed, stretching his legs out.
> Huey: "Yeah, yeah. Lesson learned."
Stan just shook his head, navigating the car down a quieter street.
Huey glanced down at himself, smoothing out the front of his blazer.
Virelia's colors—red and black—always made the students stand out. His own uniform was worn with just enough effort to not look completely disheveled:
A red blazer (rumpled from a careless fold).
A black tie, slightly loosened.
A sleek white shirt instead of the traditional gray.
And brown pants rather than the accustomed Black, sharp but with just a little dust on the hem.
He never went full formal, but he also never looked entirely out of place.
> Stan (glancing at him): "You ever gonna wear that thing properly?"
> Huey (raising a brow): "I'd argue this is the proper way."
The car should've been heading toward Virelia Institute's main gates.
Instead, Stan casually took a left.
Huey frowned, finally looking up.
> Huey: "...That's not the way to school."
> Stan (smirking): "Nope."
> Huey: "I was supposed to be in class ten minutes ago."
> Stan: "You were also supposed to call your best friend back three days ago."
Huey paused.
Stan just kept driving.
> Stan: "Relax, kid. I remember what I promised you."
Huey's fingers tightened slightly against the armrest.
> Huey: "You do?"
Stan nodded, eyes still on the road, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips.
> Stan: "I said if you got into Virelia, I'd take you somewhere important."
> Huey: "And?"
> Stan: "And I'm a man of my word."
He reached over, tapped the holo-console, and the car rerouted.
As they moved away from Virelia's main streets, Huey glanced at the changing scenery.
The polished urban landscape faded into something older, more industrial. The roads became less pristine, the buildings heavier with history.
A holo-billboard flashed above them—a teaser for the freshman crest showcase tournament. Mira's face was on it.
Street vendors lined the corners, some selling Rift-related items, others selling synthetic energy snacks.
Security drones hovered above, scanning pedestrians, but they never stopped here long.
This part of the city felt different.
And Huey had a feeling that wherever they were going, it wasn't just a random detour.
Stan's car glided through the quieter streets, the hum of the engine blending into the distant city noise. Huey sat half-slouched in the backseat, phone in hand, staring at Willy's name on the screen.
Thirty-two missed calls.
Twelve unread messages.
One very pissed-off best friend.
He sighed, pressed 'Call,' and braced himself.
It barely rang once before Willy picked up.
> Willy (immediately): "Oh. Look who finally decided I exist."
Huey winced. No preamble. No jokes. Just a voice tight with frustration.
> Huey (sighing): "Yeah… I deserve that."
> Willy (dry): "Oh, you deserve worse, Cross. What the hell, man? You disappear for twelve hours, ignore me for three days, and I find out you're alive from a damn news article?"
Huey rubbed his temple.
> Huey: "Not my fault the media has nothing better to do."
> Willy: "Not the point. The point is, I had to hear about it secondhand. You could've called me."
> Huey (quietly): "Yeah. I know."
> Willy: "Then why didn't you?"
Huey didn't answer immediately. He could've joked it off. Could've deflected. But Willy wasn't just annoyed—he was hurt. And that was different.
So, for once, Huey answered honestly.
> Huey (low voice): "Because I knew if I did, I'd have to tell you everything. And I wasn't sure I could."
A pause.
The tension lingered, stretched.
Then—
> Willy (exhaling): "…I hate that I kinda get that."
Huey smirked slightly.
> Huey: "Would it help if I said I'm sorry?"
> Willy (grumbling): "It would help if I believed you wouldn't do it again."
> Huey: "Yeah, can't promise that."
> Willy: "Then no, it doesn't help."
> Willy: "Alright, so why'd you finally call? What do you need?"
Huey glanced out the window, the city shifting from polished urban streets to something older, rougher.
> Huey: "I need you to meet me somewhere."
> Willy: "Where?"
> Huey: "I'll explain when you get there."
> Willy: "Absolutely not."
> Huey: "C'mon, Willy."
> Willy: "Nope. Last time I followed you somewhere without knowing why, I ended up hanging upside down from a fire escape."
> Huey: "In my defense, that was your fault."
> Willy: "You literally told me to jump."
> Huey: "And I expected you to land."
> Willy: "I WILL THROW HANDS, CROSS."
Huey grinned.
> Huey: "Alright, alright. No fire escapes this time. Just meet me in the West District. You and Wheeler."
> Willy: "The West District? Why the hell are you even—"
> Huey: "I'll explain when you get here."
> Willy: "You're the worst."
> Huey: "And yet, you're still coming."
Willy groaned loudly.
> Willy: "Fine. But if I die, I'm haunting your ass."
> Huey: "Noted."
Click.
Huey pocketed his phone, leaning back as Stan turned the car onto a quiet road.
Stan smirked, clearly having heard the entire conversation.
> Stan: "Still got a way with words, huh?"
> Huey (grinning): "What can I say? I'm persuasive."
Stan chuckled.
> Stan: "No, kid. You're just lucky you've got people willing to put