Neo-Gen's Midtown office glittered like a surgical instrument. Frostbite sat stiffly in the conference room, his perfectly styled hair failing to hide the healing cut above his eyebrow.
On the large screen, a grainy surveillance video played—footage of the fight between Frostbite and Liam. It was dark, the figures barely discernible. The video had not been released to the public; Neo-Gen had kept it under wraps to preserve the image of Frostbite and the corporation.
"Classify him as B-tier for now," said the woman in the gray suit—Director Vance, head of Superhuman Regulatory Division.
She looked up from her tablet after watching the video. "Standard non-compliant Superhuman protocol."
Frostbite's knuckles whitened around his coffee cup. A thin layer of ice spread across the surface. "You didn't see what he did. That wasn't some street-level—"
"We have twelve B-tier Superhumans who can manipulate temperature," Vance finally glanced up. "What makes this one special?"
"He stole mine. Mid-combat."
A pause. The analyst in the corner replayed the surveillance footage.
Vance set down her tablet. "Describe it in detail again. "
Frostbite exhaled sharply. "I grazed his shoulder with an ice spike. He dodged and touched my wrist... stop."
He pointed at the screen. "Right here."
The analyst immediately paused the playback.
"Then..." He made a vague gesture. "It felt like a shock, like my power was drained for a second, then came back."
The analyst frowned. "Could be a new variation of power suppression. We've seen—"
"No." Frostbite cut him off. "He didn't weaken me. He copied the ice. And used it against me." He tapped his temple. "I felt it, just for a moment. It was taken."
The analyst furrowed his brow, tapping his pen against the tablet.He glanced up at Frostbite. "Was it a one-time use? Or... is there a time limit?"
Director Vance snorted, swirling the ice in her glass. "Did you watch the footage? He got dropped like a sack of potatoes right after. How the hell would he know?"
Frostbite's expression darkened, his grip tightening on the coffee cup. "Don't remind me," he muttered, the air around him dropping a few degrees. A thin crack split his coffee cup.
The analyst shifted uncomfortably. "Copying... this is a power we've never seen before. We can't determine whether it's a one-time use, has a time limit, or even if it's permanent. We also can't be sure if it's capable of copying from just one individual or multiple... " He glanced at Vance."So how do we proceed with the assessment?"
Vance leaned back, tapping a manicured nail against her tablet. "Time-limited. Has to be. And no way in hell he's stacking multiples—that'd be ludicrous." She waved a hand. "Bump him to A-tier. Provisional."
The analyst's fingers flew across the tablet, documenting the assessment with clinical precision. Vance rose from her seat, straightening her gray suit jacket with a sharp tug.
She didn't look up. "Send the conclusion to Power Enforcement Division. Issue a wanted notice. Use the composite sketch from the forensic artist."
Frostbite's coffee cup shattered in his grip, jagged ice shards embedding themselves in the conference table. "You should've put him down on sight!"
"That's not your call." She collected her tablet, slipped it into her leather case with smooth efficiency. "But between you and me—" She glanced back, lips curling into a faint smile. "The board will be very interested in someone who managed to copy your powers... and then flatten you with them."
The silence stretched until Frostbite stood abruptly, his chair screeching against the floor. The temperature plummeted as he stormed out, leaving behind a conference table glazed with inch-thick ice.
Vance let out a sharp breath, glaring at the sheet of ice.
"Unbelievable. Someone get maintenance in here—now."
————
SCENE: 01:04 AM, Midtown Convenience Store
A buzzing fluorescent light flickered above rows of instant noodles and overpriced energy drinks.
Liam stood near the back cooler, a can of soda in one hand, the other still tucked in his hoodie pocket. He looked tired—skin pale under the artificial lights, jaw shadowed with stubble. His reflection in the glass door stared back: disheveled, unremarkable, anonymous.
The cashier was half-asleep behind the counter, chin in palm.
The small wall-mounted TV above the cigarette shelf played muted news. The channel cut from a weatherman to a red banner breaking news alert.
"—Breaking update: Last night's Chinatown incident suspect has been identified as an unregistered Superhuman. Neo-Gen Industries released this composite sketch—[image switches]—A warrant for his apprehension is now in effect."
Liam's head snapped up.
The TV showed a hand-drawn composite sketch.Wrong chin. Wrong mouth. But the eyes—
Too close.
The sketch stared out at the city, paired with flashing text:
"UNREGISTERED SUPERHUMAN: PROVISIONAL A-TIER"
He froze,the soda can slipped from his hand and hit the linoleum with a dull thud.
The cashier stirred, looked over lazily. "You good?"
Liam forced a smile, ducking his head. "Yeah. Thought I grabbed the wrong flavor."
He left the soda behind and walked to the door.
Outside, the streets were mostly empty.
Cold wind tugged at the hem of his jacket.
He took a sharp left and vanished into the shadows.
This place was burned.
They knew his face now.
He needed to disappear.