Pittsburgh mornings had a flavor all their own—a strange alchemy of steel-gray skies, chimneys puffing clouds into the heavens, and the smell of asphalt and coffee. The city grumbled awake like an old beast shaking off rust from its bones. It was in this iron-coated womb of a city that Raynor walked the cracked sidewalks, his boots kicking at loose pebbles, his hands shoved into the pockets of a worn leather jacket.
He moved like a shadow, not rushing, not dragging—just flowing through the world, an iceberg of a boy with only a sliver above the surface for others to see. The rest of him—the storm, the legacy, the name—remained buried deep.
His breath steamed in the morning chill, curls of mist dancing around his lips like smoke. His long blond hair, tied at the nape, caught the pale morning light like golden thread. Students passed him, some offering nods, others pretending not to notice. But they always noticed—Raynor Odinson was hard not to notice. He wasn't the loudest. He wasn't the tallest. But he carried something beneath his skin, something ancient. Something heavy. A presence.
He turned the corner and approached Roosevelt High, a red-bricked relic from the 50s trying desperately to keep up with the modern world. Its front lawn was trimmed but tired, the American flag halfway up the pole as though even the stars and stripes were too exhausted to rise all the way. The entrance buzzed with teenage life—kids huddled in cliques, laughter echoing, the sharp snap of gum, sneakers squeaking on pavement.
Raynor walked through them like a ghost.
Some nodded. A few girls giggled behind their hands. The football team watched him pass with that wary glance predators give other predators.
He said nothing.
He pushed open the school doors and stepped inside. The scent of linoleum and adolescent musk hit him instantly. Lockers lined the hallway like rows of forgotten shields, and the morning bell groaned above like a dying horn.
He paused in the main corridor. Stood still. Eyes scanning. Not looking for anything—just... acknowledging the battlefield.
"Just another day," he muttered, almost to himself. His voice was low, gravel-rough, edged with the accent of someone who hadn't fully belonged to any place in particular.
The hallway buzzed around him, but Raynor's stillness cut through the motion like a sword through silk.
He moved again, making his way to his homeroom, brushing past the usual suspects: the drama kids talking about some musical, the nerds quoting Doctor Who, a goth girl with eyes lined in endless black. They knew him. Not well. But they knew. Everyone knew the boy who didn't speak unless he had to. The boy who never flinched when the fire alarm rang. The boy who once caught a falling locker door mid-air with one hand like it weighed nothing.
His classroom smelled of old books, plastic desks, and worn-out ambition. Mr. Kelman, the history teacher, already had his PowerPoint of World War II loaded, though he seemed more interested in his thermos of coffee than the lesson.
Raynor slid into his usual seat at the back, nearest to the window. He liked the window. It reminded him there was still a world outside the routine.
He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. His notebook remained unopened.
The class droned on. Maps. Strategies. Axis and Allies. It all felt... distant. Like the memory of a war he had fought in another life. The names meant little. The weapons even less. Mortal history amused him in a way—so much fire and blood spilled over things that would be forgotten in mere centuries.
Halfway through the period, his eyes wandered. He stared at the clouds beyond the window. Grey. Brooding. Thunder was coming.
A note slid across his desk. He didn't look at it, just glanced sideways.
It was her.
Jasmine. Brown hair. Sharp cheekbones. One of the few girls brave—or foolish—enough to try and tame the storm that was Raynor. They had dated for three months. She liked danger. He liked silence. It didn't last.
Still, she smiled at him. Coy. Testing waters already sailed.
He opened the note.
"Party at Morgan's. Friday. You should come. Might be fun to see you actually smile. – J"
He looked at her. She raised an eyebrow. Smirked.
He nodded.
She gave a small triumphant grin and turned back to her desk.
After class, she waited for him at the door.
"You going to act mysterious the whole week or just during history?"
He shrugged. "Probably the week."
Jasmine laughed. "I'll save you a drink. Bring your storm cloud self."
With that, she vanished down the hall, already wrapped up in her friends.
Raynor turned the opposite way and nearly collided with someone he actually didn't mind seeing.
"Yo, Ray," said Devin, a lanky teen with tight curls, a crooked smile, and a hoodie two sizes too big. "You zoned out again?"
"Little."
Devin lived two blocks down from Raynor. They weren't friends exactly—but in the complicated ecosystem of high school, they shared a mutual understanding. Devin didn't ask questions. Raynor didn't offer answers. It worked.
They walked together through the school grounds, where the wind picked up between the buildings. Leaves danced across the walkways like spirits fleeing.
They sat on the stone ledge behind the gym, overlooking the rusting football field where the jocks were running half-hearted drills. Between the cigarette burns on the concrete and the carved graffiti of forgotten names, this place was their version of neutral ground.
"So, Jasmine again?" Devin asked, kicking at a soda can.
Raynor just gave him a look.
Devin whistled. "Dangerous waters, man. You know she likes 'fixer-uppers.' You're just a fantasy for her."
Raynor snorted. "I'm no one's fantasy."
"Sure you are," Devin grinned. "Mysterious guy. Viking genes. You could model for axe shampoo."
They laughed quietly, the kind of laugh that came more from breath than joy.
Then it happened.
Across the field, near the bleachers, a group of football players had cornered a smaller boy—freshman, skinny, pale, glasses too big for his face. Classic prey.
One of the jocks shoved the kid into the lockers, jeering. Another held up the boy's backpack, dumping its contents onto the grass—books, notebooks, an inhaler.
Raynor saw it. Devin saw it. But neither moved.
"I hate this part of the movie," Devin muttered.
"They never learn," Raynor said, almost like reciting a proverb.
Then the victim looked up.
His nose bleeding slightly, hair wild, desperation in his eyes—and he called out.
"Raynor!"
Time paused.
Even the jocks blinked.
All heads turned toward him.
Raynor stood still. Hands in pockets. Like he hadn't heard.
But the boy—whoever he was—called again. "Raynor! Please—help!"
Devin looked sideways. "You know him?"
Raynor didn't answer. The air around him had changed. He could feel it—the crackle. That old itch beneath his skin. Like sparks on bone. Like thunder in his lungs.
The football captain—a broad-shouldered bruiser named Kyle—chuckled, turned to Raynor with a sneer.
"Your little fanboy's got guts, I'll give him that," Kyle called. "You his bodyguard now, Thor Jr.?"
Raynor exhaled. Slowly.
He stepped forward.
Devin sighed. "Well. There goes the quiet life."
Raynor crossed the field with the weight of someone who had walked battlefields. His boots crushed grass, echoing louder than they should have. The jocks straightened, suddenly unsure if this was still a joke.
He stopped a few feet from them.
"Let him go."
Kyle scoffed. "Or what? You'll write a poem at us?"
Raynor's eyes met his. Pale blue. Icy. Unflinching.
"I said—let. Him. Go."
The tension thickened.
Then Kyle, perhaps emboldened by the crowd, smirked and shoved the freshman again.
"Make me, freak boy."
What happened next was not theatrical.
There were no flashing lights. No explosions. Just speed.
Raynor moved like a coiled beast released. One hand grabbed Kyle's jersey, lifted him like a rag doll, and slammed him against the metal bleachers with a force that dented the steel and knocked the wind out of the jock's lungs.
Gasps. Screams. Phones out.
"Holy—!"
Kyle dropped to the ground, wheezing.
Raynor turned to the others. "Pick up his stuff."
They obeyed. Swiftly. Wordlessly. Like soldiers suddenly remembering their place.
He walked back to Devin as the kid scurried away, eyes wide with gratitude and terror.
"You promised me a normal week," Devin muttered.
Raynor didn't answer.
But as he looked up, the sky above was no longer gray.
It was darker.
And somewhere in the heavens, a low rumble echoed—like a distant growl of something ancient, watching.
Thunder was coming.