The rusted metal cabinet screeched as Lance dragged it across the charred floor, leaving a trail in the ash like a slug’s path through garden soil. Titan’s Den’s lobby—or what remained of it—smelled of wet concrete and scorched dreams. His scorched dreams, technically, though Rick’s mind control had been behind the wheel that morning.

  The Tank—Marcus—stood in what used to be the gym’s entrance, his massive frame silhouetted against the early afternoon light. The owner’s usual booming voice was oddly subdued as he surveyed the destruction. “Watch the wiring there, Lance. Some of those cables might still be live.”

  He adjusted his path, skirting around a tangle of exposed electrical lines that snaked across the floor like the veins of some dying mechanical beast. The cabinet was heavier than it looked, packed with waterlogged membership files that had somehow survived both the fire and the subsequent dousing by the fire department. His Tier 2 power made the task manageable, though the cabinet’s awkward grip and bulk tested his balance.

  “Over here.” Marcus gestured to a relatively dry corner where they’d been stacking salvageable items. The space looked pathetically empty—a few dumbbells, some partially melted gym equipment, and a stack of miraculously unburned yoga mats that had been sealed in their plastic wrap.

  Lance set the cabinet down with a grunt. His shirt clung to his back, soaked with sweat despite the winter afternoon’s bite. They’d been at this for hours, picking through the wreckage of what had once been a cozy neighborhood gym. Now it looked like something out of a post-apocalyptic movie, all twisted metal and blackened walls.

  “Found something.” Marcus’s voice echoed from somewhere near the former free weights area. Lance picked his way through the debris, careful not to disturb anything that might be structurally unsound. The insurance adjusters would need to document everything.

  Marcus stood before a partially collapsed wall, holding what appeared to be the gym’s signature lion head logo. The metal was warped and discolored, but the snarling expression was still recognizable. “Remember when we installed this? You were just starting out here.”

  Lance did remember. It had been before the NARS, before arma energy had changed everything. Before he’d gained powers that made him both more and less than human. Before Rick had hijacked his mind and turned him into an unwilling arsonist.

  “The installer charged me double because he said it was too heavy,” Marcus continued, running a hand over the scorched metal. “Could’ve used your enhanced strength back then.” He attempted a laugh, but it came out hollow.

  Lance felt the familiar twist of guilt in his gut. “Marcus, I—”

  “Don’t.” Marcus cut him off with a wave of his massive hand. “We’ve been through this. It wasn’t you.”

  But it had been his powers, his body, his hands spreading the flames that had consumed the gym. The fact that Rick had been controlling him didn’t change that reality. He looked around at the devastation—the melted equipment, the structural damage, the thick layer of ash that covered everything like volcanic fallout.

  Marcus set the lion head aside and pulled out his phone, thumbing through what appeared to be emails. “Insurance company’s giving me the runaround. Say they need more documentation about the ‘enhanced incident’ before they can process the claim.” He shook his head. “Could be months before I see any money.”

  “There has to be something we can do.” Lance picked up a partially melted dumbbell, testing its weight. The rubber coating had fused to the metal in strange patterns.

  “The detective’s report helped. At least they can’t claim it was negligence on our part.” Marcus pocketed his phone and grabbed a push broom, attacking a pile of debris with more force than necessary. “That young lady was a blessing, making sure everything was documented properly.”

  Lance nodded, remembering the detective’s sharp eyes and sharper questions. In the end, her detailed report had probably saved both their asses. The justice system’s mercy still felt undeserved, a weight heavier than any cabinet.

  I should be in a cell right now, he thought. Not standing here with the man whose business I destroyed.

  “She talked to Sarah too,” Marcus added, each word softer than the last. “Poor girl’s still pretty shaken up.”

  Lance’s hands stilled on the dumbbell. Sarah had been working the front desk that morning, had seen him—no, seen Rick controlling him—torch the place. “Maybe I should talk to her, explain—”

  “Don’t.” Marcus’s tone left no room for argument. “Girl’s been through enough trauma. Seeing you might make things worse.” He leaned on the broom handle, his expression serious. “I’ll talk to her again when she’s ready.”

  Lance set the dumbbell aside with more care than it deserved. He wanted to argue, to insist that Sarah needed to know the truth, but Marcus was right. Some wounds needed time to heal.

  They worked in silence for a while, the only sounds being the scrape of metal on concrete and the occasional crash of debris being sorted into piles. Lance found himself falling into a rhythm—lift, sort, stack, repeat. It was almost meditative, like one of his training sessions, except instead of building something up, they were clearing away destruction.

  The sun climbed higher, streaming through the gaps in the partially collapsed roof. Dust motes danced in the light beams like tiny stars, and for a moment, he could almost pretend this was just another afternoon at the gym. Almost.

  A car door slammed outside, the sound sharp and official-sounding. Marcus straightened up, his expression wary as he peered through the entrance. “We expecting anyone?”

  Lance followed his gaze. A black sedan had parked directly in front of the gym, its polished surface jarringly out of place among the construction equipment and debris. The standardized government plates were ones he’d learned during his ROTC days, and then the driver’s door opened.

  A woman stepped out—close-cropped black hair, earth-toned suit. She studied the damaged building with the careful attention of someone who didn’t miss details. Another suit. Detective? Federal agent? Doesn’t matter. Lance’s exhaustion warred with his resolve. He’d face whatever came next—he’d made his choices, now he’d live with them.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “Mr. Lawthorn.” Her voice carried clearly through the ruined space. “Do you have a moment?”

  He exchanged a look with Marcus, who gave him a slight nod. Be careful, the gesture seemed to say.

  The official-looking woman waited by her car, her posture straight as a ruler, every movement precise and measured. Lance made his way through the wreckage toward her, suddenly very aware of the ash coating his clothes and the sweat staining his shirt and the dust caking his boots.

  He suddenly felt cold as he stepped outside to meet her. Only then did he realize he’d been standing in warmth while his brain replayed that night’s destruction. Behind him, the ruins of Titan’s Den loomed like a monument to everything that had gone wrong in the past few weeks. And in front of him stood a federal agent whose presence could only mean one thing: his actions at the Durview Hotel hadn’t gone unnoticed.

  Her eyes flickered briefly to his hands—the same hands that had crushed Rick’s face beyond recognition. “Lance Lawthorn? Special Agent Garvin, Enhanced Development Agency. We should talk.”

  He crossed his arms and met her gaze, making her work for it. He felt his muscles tense, ready for... what? Flight? Fight? Neither seemed like good options against a federal agent. They were stupid options, all told.

  She must have noticed his reaction because her mask thawed for a moment. “This isn’t an arrest, Mr. Lawthorn. Just a conversation.” She opened the car’s passenger door. “Shall we?”

  “Look, unless this is an arrest, I’m busy. Come back in three hours.”

  “My schedule is quite full today, Mr. Lawthorn.”

  “Then I guess it’s not that important.” Lance turned back toward the ruins.

  They’ll have to drag me out of here in cuffs. Even tired as he was, he knew that much for certain. Marcus was in there, sorting through the wreckage of his life’s work. He wasn’t about to walk away from that.

  “Mr. Lawthorn, this conversation could have significant bearing on your future.”

  “Everything has significant bearing on my future these days.” Lance kept his back to her. “Three hours. Or arrest me.”

  One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. He had picked up the counting habit during his Krav Maga training, another thing he owed to Marcus. Three Mississippi. Four—

  “Three hours then. But I strongly advise you to be more cooperative when I return.”

  Lance didn’t bother responding. The car door shut, followed by the engine starting. He waited until he couldn’t hear it anymore before heading back inside (if this counted as inside anymore).

  Probably shooting myself in the foot here. But what’s one more self-inflicted wound?

  The next three hours passed without weight or measure, time losing meaning among the wreckage. Marcus kept trying to crack jokes, and Lance kept pretending to laugh. Neither of them was fooling the other.

  They worked methodically, the “save” pile staying stubbornly small while the “trash” heap grew past their shoulders. Marcus had managed to salvage $47.16 in various bills and coins, plus a stack of burned notes he’d have to exchange at the bank.

  Just keep moving. Don’t think. Lance focused on the simple rhythm of sort, decide, stack. Until the black sedan from three hours ago pulled up outside.

  “Unfortunately, we’re not even close to being done here.”

  “Mr. Lawthorn, I cleared my schedule for this meeting.”

  “I apologize for the inconvenience, but I can’t leave yet.”

  Her jaw tightened. “This isn’t a request.”

  “Look, I’ll make you a deal. Pick me up at my apartment tomorrow morning, whatever time works for you. I promise I’ll talk then.”

  “The situation is time-sensitive.”

  “That’s my offer. Take it or leave it.”

  Lance watched her eyes narrow, her fingers drumming once on her car’s roof. He recognized that look—someone used to being in control, discovering they weren’t.

  “Seven AM sharp. And Mr. Lawthorn? Don’t make me regret this accommodation.”

  “I’ll be there.” Lance pivoted back toward the gym before she could respond. Time-sensitive. Right. Everything’s time-sensitive these days.

  Paper rustled under Lance’s boot. He looked down at what appeared to be a workout journal, its pages warped from water damage. The cover was black with heat, but the metal spiral binding had protected some of the pages. He flipped it open, and his stomach clenched.

  Diego’s messy handwriting was still visible through the char marks: “Day 47 - Finally hit 315 on deadlift. Tank says form needs work.”

  He turned another page. More numbers. More achievements. A whole year of Diego pushing himself, growing stronger the old-fashioned way before arma changed everything.

  “Find something?” Marcus’s shadow fell across the journal. “Man loved tracking his progress.”

  “Yeah.” Lance’s throat felt tight. He set the journal in the ‘save’ pile, though they both knew it was ruined.

  “You know, this ain’t my first business disaster.”

  “No?”

  “Had a supplement shop back in ‘15. First thing I did after leaving the Corps. Put everything I had into it.”

  “What happened?”

  “Partner cleaned out the accounts. Disappeared to Mexico—I think,” Marcus said. “Spent six months wanting to find him, break his legs.”

  “Did you?”

  “Nah. Built this place instead. Sometimes the only way forward is to start over.”

  His hands. Just hands, really. Normal hands that once held grocery bags and typed emails and... his hands that crushed bones like eggshells. His hands that wielded such frightening power. His hands that ended a life while his mind screamed no, no, no—

  “Have you ever...” Lance stopped, unsure if he should continue.

  “Have I what?”

  “Have you ever killed anyone?”

  Marcus went still, pursed his lips, then said, “Yeah. Kuwait, 2008.”

  Lance looked up sharply.

  “Supply convoy,” Marcus continued. “Guy with a bomb vest. Had to make a call.”

  “How do you...” Lance’s voice caught. “How do you deal with it?”

  “You don’t. Not really. Just learn to carry it better.” Marcus picked up another piece of equipment, examined it. “Not proud of it, but sometimes that’s what needs doing.”

  Lance hadn’t expected that answer. His mind had sorted people into neat categories—those who had killed and those who hadn’t. Those who could understand and those who couldn’t. But Marcus didn’t fit in any box.

  And now he did.

  “I’ll help rebuild. As long as it takes.” Lance said, though the math told a different story. The insurance money wouldn’t cover half the damage, and his savings from Qualtech were almost gone.

  Marcus nodded anyway, accepting the lie for what it was—a promise to try.

  They worked until sunset, sorting through the remains of what used to be home. With each piece of wreckage they moved, Lance felt the weight of his actions settle deeper into his bones. Some stains, he was learning, didn’t wash away. You just learned to live with the marks they left behind.

  [A security camera blinked in the corner. Its footage would end up in some insurance database, filed under “Enhanced Incident #274.” But it wouldn’t show what passed between them, or how Marcus understood without needing to say more. Some things don’t make it onto the record.]

  “Aight.” Marcus clapped his hands once. “Sun’s getting low. Time to rack out—we’re done here.”