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East Row – Rena Park | 6:24 PM
Frank arrives too late. His truck screeches to a halt, and he jumps out, rushing toward the scene swarmed by flashing lights and police tape. He sees someone getting wheeled into the back of the ambulance, as well as a body bag. His voice doesn’t come—just silence and a trembling hand. He gets out of his truck, and immediately, a woman recognizes him and calls out, “Frank.” It’s one of the neighborhood mothers.
Frank sees her sitting outside on her porch, “Mama Wilkes, what you doing out here? You should be in the house. You seen Blank?” He hugs her.
“That boy’s ‘round here somewhere… Those hoodlums shot somebody, baby. Loud enough I thought it was Independence Day. Lord, I pray those boys find their way to you.”
“Let me walk you in the house, Mama. You not supposed to be out here to see this stuff.”
Frank walks the old lady back into her home. He locks the top lock before shutting the door and continues to scan the crowd of people until he sees a familiar face.
There he is. Blank know what the fuck happened.
He walks out of the gate and onto the street, where residents are stunned and saddened by the violence that just occurred. Blank is standing on the corner closest to the crime scene, which police officers are now taping off. Frank approaches him.
“Blank. What’s up, man? We aight?” Frank asks.
A thick cloud of smoke rolls out as Blank exhales. The rough stench of weed pulls into Frank’s lungs as he gets closer.
“Frank? That you? Boy, it’s been a minute since you came back to the hood. What you doing over here?” Blank says, lighting his cigar.
“J-Baller called when shit was going down. I was on the opposite side of town. I just got off work—was at the bar when he called.”
“Oh yeah? Sure it was J Baller that called?”
“Of course. See?”
Frank shows Blank his call log, proving him right.
“Damn, it must've been his cousin using J-Baller’s phone. That’s him right there on the ground.”
“What?”
Frank turns to the street, seeing coroners zip up the victim on the ground. Frank gets ready to run, but Blank places his hand on his chest, preventing him.
“Now, now, young buck. What? You you think you bout to go over there and cry? Like some bitch? Nah.”
Frank crinkles his face, “Blank, what the fuck you talking about?! That’s my homie, man!”
“Lower your tone, little nigga. You came here to perform a duty, right? You still know what that means, don’t you?”
Frank sucks his teeth. “How the fuck am I ‘sposed to do that?”
Blank puffs smoke to the ground, “It’s Friday night, ain’t it? Scotts Park just put point some points on the board. I been fucking one of they hoes erry weekend. She tell me all they business. Guess where you can probably find the ones that did this?”
“Where—Blank?”
“The Strip. They like to slide up to Z’s Billiards on Starlight Blvd. My bitch hit me earlier, said they was having a celebration. She there now. Head over there, and I’ll confirm if the ones who did this pull up. If not, just go home. I’ll take care of this shit. You out the game, as far as I know. So you only got one shot.”
Frank looks back toward the bodybag again, seeing his old friend getting wheeled into the back of the Coroner’s vehicle. His blood begins to boil. He exhales sharply, turns back to Blank, and says, “Aight. I got you.”
Frank storms back to his truck, fury simmering beneath the surface. The engine growls to life—and just like that, he’s gone—headed for vengeance.
***
Hearthstone – Willis Residence | 6:37 PM
Tyson finally made it to his grandfather’s home. Inside, the atmosphere was warm, not heavy. His father, mother, and grandmother had already begun dinner, gathered around the table in quiet celebration—not of death, but of a life well lived.
The air was filled with the rich scent of Baltic forest candles and the comforting aroma of pasta—his grandmother had made her late husband’s favorite dish. It was a tribute meal, humble but sacred.
Now dressed in plain clothes, Tyson sits at the table and digs into his plate, hunger finally catching up to him. His father, Kent, couldn’t take his eyes off him. Tyson notices the lingering stare and wipes his mouth, confused.
“Dad. Something wrong?” he asks between bites.
Kent smiles gently, almost nostalgic.
“I love you, son. I’m really glad to see you. I want to show you something. Come on.”
Tyson sets down his fork, following his father down the hallway into his grandfather’s room. The walls were lined with portraits—dozens of them. Photos of fishing trips, graduation days, and military ceremonies. Tyson’s life, chronicled next to his father's, all with his grandfather in the center of it.
Kent reaches into the closet, retrieves a small cedar box, and tosses it lightly to Tyson.
“Your grandfather believed in tradition,” he said. “We all knew this day would come. So... he made sure you’d be ready. That’s for you.”
Tyson opens it.
Inside: a set of keys, a folded letter, and a signed deed. His name—Tyson Willis—was listed as the new owner of multiple luxury rental properties in Crystal Palms.
His throat tightens.
He looks up at his father, whose eyes brim with quiet pride.
“He loved you too, son. And now... I’ve got a mission for you. Marine!”
Tyson instinctively stands at attention, snapping into salute. Kent steps forward and returns it, nose to nose, with his son.
“You’ve done well for yourself. And I couldn’t be prouder. Now go check out those houses. And tell me what else you find.”
They pulled into a firm embrace—tight, unrelenting. Streams of tears roll down both their faces.
From the hallway, Tyson’s mother steps in. She didn’t say a word. She simply wraps her arms around them both, completing the circle.
It was the first time in years Tyson felt the full weight of his parents’ love.
***
Viperial Expo | 7:00 PM
The Viperial Expo is now underway.
Young innovators, families, and global press fill the exhibition halls, marveling at technology promising the future: smart cities, sustainable energy models, and interactive simulations of Luxigen-powered engines.
Ashley and Yvette enter the Science & Energy Wing of the Expo, strolling beneath glowing banners and floating holograms. Digital light refracts across their faces as artificial stars twinkle overhead.
Yvette twirls beneath a kinetic sculpture that moves in response to the sound waves.
“This place is magic,” she says, eyes wide.
Ashley grins. “Told you. VIP access pays off.”
They continue their tour, approaching the Luxigen core exhibit—an enormous cylindrical chamber sealed behind glass. The crowd thins here. Only the more curious and technical linger.
A tour guide addresses their small group:
“This is a model replica of the actual Luxigen core housed beneath the Expo stage. Its architecture includes hex-alloy bracing, insulated feedback nodes, and a glowing pulse to simulate Luxigen's natural form.”
Ashley leans in, her brow furrowed with genuine intrigue.
Yvette snaps a picture on her phone.
“This the thing that's supposed to change the world?" She whispers.
Ashley smirks. “Change it or end it," she mutters, half-joking.
Behind a Restricted-Access Door
In the dark, sterile chamber behind the exhibit wall, the real Luxigen core rests—sealed in a containment unit.
Marcus Shawne, dressed in a white lab coat, stands alone, adjusting a terminal screen. The chamber glows with faint orange light, the hum of stored energy rising to an unnatural pitch.
He holds an unfamiliar device—alien in design.
Unlocking the casing, he steps forward to the core.
“This will give me the power of my father,” he says quietly, “For eons, he praised my brother for his purity…and shunned me for being half-blooded. But I deserve this more than my father. I deserve everything. I deserve my vengeance.”
The core pulses brighter.
As he approaches, its radiant heat intensifies— burning through the fibers of his coat, blistering the skin along his arms. He grits his teeth, breathing hard. The light begins to peel away his disguise. Beneath the human skin…a purplish-grey alien body emerges. His true form.
Veins glowing purple. Eyes darker. Skin smooth and unnatural.
He places the device against the rear panel of the core—click. It latches. He steps back and reseals the casing.
From behind him, a voice calls out.
“Hey—uh, Mar-Marcus, right?”
Marcus turns.
An older Expo tech, holding a tablet, stands in the middle of the room—paralyzed in place. He stares at Marcus’ exposed alien form, eyes wide, mouth trembling.
“Wh-what-what are you?” The tech whimpers.
Marcus begins to heal his human form. In a sinister, deep voice, he replies, “It’s not what I am. It’s who…I am. I’m Marcus Shawne. Who else could I be?”
The tech backs away. Panic flashes across his face as he turns to flee.
Too late.
Marcus moves—inhumanly fast.
His left arm pierces through the man’s chest like a spear.
The tablet drops with a dull clap. The tech gasps, eyes wide in disbelief. Blood pours from his mouth.
Marcus sighs. “This is bad timing.”
He withdraws his arm, bloodied but composed. The man collapses. Lifeless.
Marcus looks down at the body, disappointed. He wipes the blood off his lab coat, then drags the body into the utility closet. The door clicks shut.
Ding.
His watch buzzes. Showtime.
He chuckles quietly.
Walking back to the core, he unlocks the wheels beneath it, detaches the brake, and begins rolling it out of the room.
As the lights shut off behind him and the door locks with a magnetic hiss, he mutters under his breath—
“The show must go on.”
***
Ready for the next chapter of Birth of the Warriors? Jump into Chapter 6: The Surge!