The sun was beginning to dip low, casting long shadows across the empty streets of Sector 3. The concrete jungle of the lower levels still hummed with life, though its vibrancy had shifted over the years. New gangs had risen, old alliances had fallen, and the city had become a maze of ever-changing loyalties. Somewhere in all of it, Baz had found himself. But what Aemon didn't know—what no one in the city seemed to know—was that the man who had just spared his life had once been part of a dream that was now fractured.
Baz sat alone in his small, dimly lit apartment on the edge of Sector 3. The walls were lined with old, faded photographs. In one corner, a cracked mirror reflected the harsh glow of a solitary lamp. His boots were still caked in dust from their fight, his shirt torn, and his body buzzing with the remnants of resonance. He had been moving on instinct, fighting Aemon like he was chasing something—a memory, a desire, an unspoken fear.
But now, as he sat by the window, watching the sun sink behind the horizon, his thoughts drifted.
He reached over to a stack of old papers and picked up a photo—a younger version of himself, standing with his brother in front of an old warehouse, their faces a mix of youthful arrogance and confidence. There was a bond in that photo, a promise of shared futures that had long since turned to dust.
His brother, Ryke.
"Ryke…" Baz muttered under his breath. The name tasted bitter. He had made his peace with many things, but not with his brother's downfall.
It had been five years since it all happened.
Back then, Baz had been a rising star in one of Sector 3's many gangs. They were street-level criminals, but to Baz, it felt like something more. They weren't just thieves or enforcers—they were a family, a force that couldn't be touched. Together with his brother Ryke, they had run the streets with unmatched power, each pulling their weight as leaders of the group.
But everything changed the night Ryke had acquired resonance.
Baz remembered it vividly—the chaos that had erupted when Ryke suddenly began to glow, his body crackling with the unmistakable pulse of a resonance. It had been so sudden. The older gangs had always spoken about the dangers of resonance, how it made you a target. But Ryke hadn't known. None of them had. They'd never seen someone from their side get it, not like this.
The first time Ryke had activated his resonance, it wasn't a burst of light. It wasn't a weapon. It was his body—his body healing faster than the eye could track. Bones that should've been broken healed before they could set, wounds sealed in seconds. Ryke had become a walking miracle. But it had been too much, too fast. It was uncontrollable.
The older gangs had wanted him for his powers—his ability to heal himself and others—and the law wanted him locked away. They had called him dangerous. But Baz had seen it differently. Ryke wasn't dangerous because of what he could do. He was dangerous because no one understood what was happening to him.
The day Ryke was arrested was the day Baz's world fell apart. The enforcers had come for him—faster than they could've ever imagined. Ryke had been cornered in the middle of the streets, caught between his resonance and the law. At first, he had tried to escape. His body healed from the damage that would have killed anyone else, but it wasn't enough. The enforcers had been prepared, armed with tech designed to suppress resonants.
The last time Baz had seen his brother, he was being dragged away in shackles, his eyes full of rage, but also... fear. Fear of what his resonance had done to him, and what it would cost.
Since that day, Ryke had been imprisoned in the Resonance Containment Facility—a high-security, near-impenetrable place meant for the most dangerous of resonants. And Baz had been left to pick up the pieces of a shattered dream. He had buried himself in the gang wars, climbed to the top, but every moment of success felt hollow. The loss of his brother—the man he had fought alongside, the person who had been more than family to him—had left an unhealable scar.
Baz hadn't visited Ryke in years. The prison was too dangerous. Too much had changed. But still, the guilt ate away at him, gnawing at his insides.
He let out a heavy sigh and set the photo back down. Ryke had become a symbol of what could happen to anyone who acquired resonance. The law had made it clear: resonants were to be controlled. They were dangerous, unpredictable. Ryke was a reminder of that.
And now, Baz had met Aemon—a kid with resonance, with potential—and something about him had struck a chord. Aemon wasn't like the others he'd fought. He wasn't a killer. He wasn't some street punk. He was something more.
"I don't know what you're up to, kid," Baz muttered to the empty room. "But you've got me thinking."
His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door.
Baz tensed, instinctively reaching for his gun. He stood and moved to the door, peeking through the peephole. Aemon stood in the hallway, looking a little worse for wear but determined.
Baz's heart skipped a beat. He had expected the kid to run, to disappear into the shadows after their fight. He certainly hadn't expected him to come back.
Reluctantly, Baz opened the door.
Aemon stood there, hands in his pockets, his expression hard but not hostile. His eyes were clearer than they'd been during their fight, but there was still a hint of confusion.
"Can we talk?" Aemon asked quietly.
Baz raised an eyebrow but stepped aside, allowing him in. "Talk? After everything that happened?"
Aemon didn't answer immediately. He stepped into the dim room, eyes scanning the space, then looked at Baz. "I want to understand you. Why did you spare me?"
Baz didn't answer at first. Instead, he took a seat at the table, hands steepled in front of his face. "You should be asking yourself the same thing."
Aemon sat across from him, leaning forward. "I think I get it. You're not just a gangster. You've got a past. Something happened. And I want to know what."
Baz exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair. His eyes were distant. "You're right. I have a past. A complicated past. But it doesn't matter now."
Aemon pressed. "Yes, it does. I need to know, Baz. You've got something you're running from. And I think... I think I can help."
Baz froze.
"I want to rescue him, don't I?"
Aemon nodded, his eyes earnest. "Your brother. Ryke. I want to help you free him."
The words hit Baz like a slap, the old pain rushing back in waves. For a moment, he just stared at Aemon, the younger man's expression an open book of determination.
"I'm not sure why you'd want to help me after everything," Baz said, his voice hoarse, "but maybe you're right. Maybe it's time I finally did something about it."
Aemon's face softened, his own desire to help shining through. "You've been carrying this for too long. We can do it together."
Baz looked away, a conflicted look crossing his face. Then he spoke, his voice dark but steady.
"I've spent too many years running from this, but if you're serious, Aemon, then we need to make a plan. And it's not going to be easy. Getting Ryke out of that prison will be a battle. One we might not win."
Aemon stood, his eyes blazing with determination. "Then let's start planning. Together."
Baz looked at him for a long moment. He wasn't sure if this was fate, or just a strange twist of chance—but it didn't matter.
The fire had been lit.