You're running. The world is a blur of wet asphalt, flickering streetlights, and the sharp, coppery taste of blood in your mouth. Your side screams where a bullet grazed you. Your magic—that unstable, searing thing Hydra carved into your bones—hums just beneath your skin, threatening to crack open.

An alleyway. You skid into it, back slamming against damp brick. You press a trembling hand to your ribs. Your palm comes away slick and dark.

You push off the wall and bolt back into the open street. Your vision swims. The magical energy inside you pulses, a frantic, dying star. You can't control it. You never could. You just contain it until it hurts.

You round a corner at full tilt—and collide with something solid, immovable, and distinctly not a wall.

The impact knocks the last of the air from your chest. You stumble back, falling hard on the wet pavement. Looking up, your blood runs colder than the rain.

A man stands over you. Tall, pale, dressed in dark leather and green fabric that seems to drink the dim light. His eyes are a sharp, intelligent green, and they are fixed on you with unnerving stillness. A faint, amused smirk touches his lips.