The club was alive—throbbing with music, pulsing lights, and laughter that crackled through the air like lightning. Bodies moved in waves on the dance floor, hips swaying to the beat, arms thrown up in wild, happy abandon. The bass hit my chest like a second heartbeat, and the air was thick with heat, cologne, and the electric scent of something on the edge of magic.
It was my kind of night. And I loved it.
Gods, I loved it.
I slipped through the crowd like I belonged there—because I did. I could feel them all, not just the press of bodies but the emotional hum in the room. Joy. Flirtation. Confidence. Euphoria. It was everywhere, rolling over me like a tide. I drank it in without meaning to, let it soak into my skin. It didn’t matter that we were hiding, that the world was still broken. Tonight, we were just people in a club.
Living.
Laughing.
Losing ourselves.
It was like being tipsy, high on the feelings of a hundred strangers, each one feeding into the joy bubbling up inside me.
A girl grabbed my hand—blonde, laughing, her dress sparkling like the sky. Another twirled me around—dark curls, freckles, teasing eyes. I didn’t even ask their names. Didn’t matter. It was the moment that mattered. Their happiness bled into mine, and I fed it right back to them, a loop of energy that left us all glowing.
This was what I was made for.
And for one night, I wasn’t a demigod or a weapon or a survivor.
I was just a guy in a club, celebrating his best friend’s birthday.
Hector.
I glanced across the room and spotted him leaning casually against the bar, a drink in one hand, his other gesturing slightly as he talked to someone. He didn’t dance—never had—but he didn’t seem out of place either. His presence was steady, grounding, even here. Even now.
And maybe that’s why I could let go. Because he was always there. Always watching, always catching me when I flew too close to the sun.
He caught my eye and lifted his glass slightly, a small smile on his face. I shot him one back, wide and happy, and spun back into the crowd.
Tonight wasn’t about fear or running or monsters in the dark.
Tonight was about being alive.
And for the first time in a long time, I felt like I really was.
The joy kept building—too much, too fast.
At first, it was thrilling. The girls laughed louder, spun faster. One jumped on a friend’s back. Someone near the bar popped open champagne with a whoop that sent half the room cheering. It was infectious. Euphoric. And I was the center of it.
Then something shifted.
The girl in the red dress clung to me a little too tightly, nails digging into my arms. A guy to our left shoved someone mid-dance, and they shouted at each other over the music. Another couple started arguing, their smiles snapping into scowls like lightning flipping directions.
I felt it.
The wave of emotion I’d been soaking in… I was giving it back. Not gently. Not controlled.
I was projecting.
Amplifying.
Feeding everything in the room until it wasn’t joy anymore—it was frenzy.
Panic started crawling up my spine.
I stumbled backward, bumping into a guy who immediately shoved me, drunk and wide-eyed like he didn’t even know why he was mad.
The world tilted. I couldn’t breathe. My heart thundered in my chest—too loud, too fast. My own emotions tangled with theirs, too messy to untangle.
I was losing control.
Then—Hector.
His hand grabbed my shoulder like an anchor, solid and familiar. He didn’t say a word, just yanked me out of the crowd, dragging me through the blur of bodies and flashing lights until the night air hit my face like a slap.
Outside, it was quiet.
Still.
I gasped for breath, chest heaving, hands shaking from the leftover charge in my system. I could still feel it—echoes of heat, laughter, desire, spinning around my ribs like a carousel that wouldn’t stop.
Hector stood beside me, calm and unmoving, his steady gaze cutting through the chaos still buzzing in my mind.
“I’m sorry,” I muttered, voice ragged. “It’s just… when everyone’s happy, I feel like I finally belong. Like I matter.”
Hector didn’t scold. Didn’t even frown.
He just clapped a strong hand on my shoulder and looked me dead in the eye. “You do matter. But don’t let your powers define that. You’re more than what you feel. Or what you make others feel.”
I swallowed hard.
And maybe that was the first time I really understood.
My powers weren’t just cool tricks or flirty party games. They were dangerous. Beautiful. Addictive.
And I was walking a tightrope between euphoria and disaster.
But at least… I wasn’t walking it alone.
Hector would always be there.
To steady me.
To ground me.
To remind me who I was.
Then he leaned forward slightly. “Try again. This time, focus on just one memory. Shut the others out. Don’t follow the noise. I’ll try to help by pushing one forward—just a small one. That way you’ll have something clear to grab onto.”
I drew a deep breath, settling again. “Okay. Let’s try again.”
Damian nodded, his expression steady. “You’ve got this.”
I reached out with my mind, letting myself sink into the familiar rhythm of focus. This time, I didn’t try to see everything. I focused on one thread, one spark that Damian was gently pushing forward. As I did, I realized with some surprise that this whole time—since we’d sat here—he hadn’t flirted with me once. Not a single innuendo, not one sly comment. He’d just… been here. Supportive. Serious. It was unexpected, and I appreciated it more than I expected.
The memory came to life slowly—faint colors and warmth, and then…
A quiet evening. A campfire. Damian, younger, maybe twelve or thirteen, sitting beside Hector on a stack of rocks. Hector was showing him how to whittle with a pocketknife—careful movements, calm words. Damian was listening, really listening, nodding along with each instruction. There was something so patient, so brotherly about Hector in that moment. I felt Damian’s deep sense of safety, of trust. Like no matter what the world threw at them, Hector would be there.
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It was sweet. Soft in a way that surprised me.
And then—
The memory shifted.
New colors. Dim lighting. A different kind of warmth.
Suddenly I was seeing Damian—older now—pressed against a wall, kissing some girl with messy hair and a crooked smile. The air was charged, full of heat and wild laughter, the kind that spoke of stolen moments and carefree escapes. Her hands tangled in his shirt, his fingers trailing down her spine—it was messy, chaotic, and deeply personal. I could feel the rush in his chest, the freedom in the touch, the surge of being wanted and known, even if just for a little while. Laughing into her neck, he held her like he never wanted to let go.
I gasped, eyes flying open, and yanked myself out of his head.
Damian burst into laughter.
I smacked him in the arm. “Damian!”
He just kept laughing, shoulders shaking. “You should’ve seen your face!”
I tried to look outraged, but the sound of his laughter broke something loose in my chest, and I started laughing too.
“Gods, you’re impossible,” I muttered, but I couldn’t stop smiling.
He winked. “Hey, you wanted a memory.”
We laughed for a bit more, the sound echoing warmly through the quiet campground. I caught movement from the corner of my eye and turned my head—Xandor and Peter were watching us now. Xandor leaned against the edge of the truck, brow slightly raised, while Peter wore a look of quiet amusement. Neither said anything, but I could feel their curiosity from here.
I turned back to Damian, still grinning as he bumped my shoulder with his.
“So,” he said with a smirk. “Want to try again?”
I narrowed my eyes and shook my head. “Not a chance. I am not going back in there. It’s filthy.”
That made us laugh again, real and bright. My voice was teasing, but the truth was I felt lighter than I had in a long time.
Damian wiped at his eyes, still chuckling. “Alright, fine. But if you’re not going to mess with my memories, whose are you going to practice on?”
Before I could answer, Xandor stepped forward. He didn’t say anything right away—just folded his arms across his chest, face unreadable.
Then he met my eyes. “I’ll volunteer.”
My breath caught.
Of course he would. That was who Xandor was—steady, reliable, the first to walk into the fire if it meant someone else didn’t have to. But something about the way he said it, so calm and certain, made my pulse flicker. He didn’t look away from me, and I didn’t want to look away either.
He stepped closer and settled down beside us in the soft patch of grass beneath the tree, his knee brushing mine. The dappled afternoon light filtered through the leaves overhead, casting gentle shadows across his face. Sunlight danced across the grass in warm patches, and a soft breeze stirred the air around us. Even with the hum of distant movement in the campground, it felt like we were in a quiet world of our own. And I suddenly felt very aware of just how close he was.
Damian arched a brow. “Well then, here’s your next victim.”
But I wasn’t laughing anymore. Xandor was sitting so close now, I could feel the quiet gravity that always clung to him—like the calm before a storm, or the stillness right before your feet leave the ground and you fly.
He didn’t say anything else. Just waited, steady and sure, like he trusted me completely.
It made something in my chest tighten and warm all at once.
Damian’s voice came from beside me, gentler now. “Alright, same thing as before. Don’t go chasing everything you see. Pick one thread, something that stands out. Focus on it and let the rest fade.”
I nodded, letting out a slow breath. My fingers twitched slightly as I reached out with my mind, not to Damian this time—but to Xandor.
His presence felt different. Calmer. Like wind brushing through trees, steady and vast. I slipped into it carefully, expecting resistance, but finding none. He trusted me. He really trusted me.
Images came fast and unfiltered at first. Flashes of wind-torn cliffs, golden skies, open roads beneath a motorcycle’s wheels. A starlit night spent alone with a telescope. A quiet rooftop where he’d once stood and stared at the sky, searching.
It was too much. I pulled back slightly, remembering Damian’s advice. Focus.
I narrowed in on one thread—Xandor’s face, younger, squinting in bright light as he stood before a group of kids and pointed up at a domed ceiling. A planetarium. He was giving a tour. The joy in his voice was quiet but real, grounded in wonder and awe. I could feel it, like I was there too—his love for the sky, for the stars, for the feeling of open space above him.
And underneath it all, a wish.
A wish to fly beside someone.
“Zoe,” Damian’s voice filtered through softly, grounding me. “Try looking for something more specific. Something that meant a lot to him. Maybe something with you.”
I nodded slightly, eyes still closed, and refocused my search. A memory began to take shape—a younger Xandor standing at the edge of a cliff, wind tugging at his jacket, uncertainty flickering in his eyes.
And I was there.
Smaller, younger, my golden wings flickering in the light. I stood beside him, grinning with a confidence I barely remembered having. I told him the wind was part of him, that the sky was waiting. And I held out my hand.
He took it.
The wind lifted around us, swirling and alive. I launched into the air first, circling back as he closed his eyes, stepped forward, and let the wind carry him.
It wasn’t perfect. He faltered, dropped a few feet, but he didn’t fall. Not completely. I flew beside him, laughing, encouraging, and together we hovered for a moment in open air—just two kids daring the sky to catch them.
The memory was warm, glowing, threaded with hope.
And I held onto it.
Then Damian’s voice cut through again, quieter this time. “Zoe… try changing it.”
I flinched.
Change it? My whole body recoiled at the thought. That was Xandor’s memory—his moment. Sacred, untouchable. “I—I can’t,” I whispered, pulling out of his mind in an instant. The world snapped back into focus, afternoon light filtering through the branches above. I turned to Damian, heart racing. “I can’t change his memories. They’re not mine to touch.”
Damian frowned, but not unkindly. “Zoe, you’re going to have to practice. If we’re going to free the others… if Cole twisted their minds, you’ll need to learn how to untwist them. How to fix what’s broken.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but then Xandor reached out and gently took my hand.
His skin was warm, grounding. “Hey,” he said softly. “I get it. But we need to help them. And I trust you.”
I looked up at him, into those silver-flecked eyes, glowing faintly in the filtered sun. His expression was calm, unwavering. “Whatever you mess up, I can handle it,” he said with a slight smile. “You’ve got this.”
I breathed in slowly, then nodded. “Okay. I’ll try.”
Damian leaned back, visibly relieved. “Start small. Nothing big yet. Change something inconsequential. Like…” he tilted his head, thinking. “Change the color of your hair in all his memories. See if you can do that.”
I nodded slowly, then closed my eyes and slipped back into Xandor’s mind.
The rush of memories swirled around me—flashes of light and feeling, sounds, voices—but I focused. I had to find each one where he remembered me. Every time he saw me, thought of me.
I started with the earliest. A memory buried deep beneath layers of years—Xandor at seven years old, standing in the courtyard of the compound.
And there I was.
Tiny, barely four, with golden hair that stuck up in soft curls, my feathered wings still too small to fly. I stood near the edge of the group, clutching a stuffed bird someone had given me. My eyes were wide with fear, uncertainty, the kind that comes from being taken from everything you knew.
He saw me.
And I felt the moment something changed in him—his protectiveness rising like instinct. Like fate. He didn’t know me, but he decided right then he would be my shield, my big brother.
The emotion in him, even then, surprised me. It pulled at something deep in my chest, and for a second I got lost in it.
But then I remembered what I was supposed to do.
I concentrated. Silver hair, I told the memory. Picture her with silver hair.
Nothing happened.
I pushed harder, threading the thought into the memory’s edges like I was stitching a new image into place.
Slowly, the gold in my hair shifted. Became softer. Paler. Silver.
It worked.
I moved to the next memory—another moment, another version of me. This time the change came easier. And then the next. And the next.
Over and over, I found myself—older, stronger, braver—and altered the hair, each one like brushing paint across a canvas. But as I moved through the memories, something unexpected happened.
There were so many of them. So many moments I had forgotten, but he hadn’t. All these glimpses of us—of laughter, training, small talks in quiet corners, shared looks, victories, losses. And through all of them, I saw myself as he had always seen me.
Beautiful. Brave. Powerful.
It stunned me. The quiet way he admired me. The strength he saw even when I didn’t feel it. Every memory carried emotion—warmth, loyalty, protectiveness, even something gentler hiding underneath. I was getting to know Xandor in a way I never had before.
Not just the calm warrior at my side… but the boy who had always seen me. Until finally, I pulled out.
I blinked and looked at Xandor.
He didn’t open his eyes at first, but then he stirred. His gaze lifted to mine, and he frowned. Confused. He reached out, fingers brushing a lock of my golden hair.
“I thought…” he said slowly, “I thought your hair was silver.”
Damian and I broke into wide smiles—and then burst out laughing.
We were still catching our breath when Bay and Phoenix rolled back into the campground—not in the truck, but in a van. It was old but sturdy, with enough seats for all of us and plenty of room for supplies. They looked far too proud of themselves, and we didn’t even ask where they got it.
We ate as the sun dipped lower, sitting in a loose circle beneath the trees. As we passed around water and energy bars, I kept catching Xandor looking at me—specifically, at my hair.
Finally, I turned to him. “What? Do I have a leaf in it or something?”
He shook his head slowly, a small smile playing on his lips. “No, it’s just… my brain knows it’s gold. But it still thinks it should be silver. Like, every time I look at you, there’s a second where something doesn’t quite match.”
The laughter faded into something quieter. The group settled into conversation again, this time about what had just happened—what I had done. What I could do.
Peter leaned forward, brows drawn. “If you can rewrite memories… that’s what Cole’s doing to them, isn’t it? Maybe not the exact same way, but something close.”
The others nodded slowly. The implications hung in the air.
My stomach twisted. For the first time, I really thought about it. About how easy it had been to change something. About how much power I might have if I pushed further.
Damian must’ve noticed the way my shoulders tensed, because he nudged me gently with his knee. He didn’t say anything, but I knew what that meant.
He saw the fear in me—because it mirrored the fear he had about his own powers.
The kind that didn’t just break bones or tear through monsters.
The kind that messed with people’s minds.
And I wasn’t sure which was worse.