It began, of all things, with a conference on a jet—because of course it did. When you were that rich, the skies were your boardroom, and turbulence was just the universe politely coughing before you declared war on your rivals.
The jet sliced through the stratosphere like a bullet forged from gold and pure ego. Inside, seated around a long obsidian table, were three of the world's most dangerous young men—each an empire wrapped in a tailored suit and a superiority complex.
"Your little missile factory is cute, Damian," said Kael Arclight, reclining lazily in his seat with a tablet glowing in his lap. His platinum-blond hair was annoyingly perfect, his voice dripping with tech-bro sarcasm. "But my quantum reactor just vaporized a mountain by accident. You should consider catching up."
Across from him, Damian Voss didn't flinch. Tall, cold-eyed, and dressed like a funeral director who moonlighted as a war criminal, he simply clicked his pen—a sound that somehow felt like a threat.
"Mountains don't move," Damian said flatly. "People do. My weapons make sure they don't get back up."
"Wow," Kael mused. "Such poetry. Did you hire a ghostwriter, or is that just PTSD talking?"
In the corner, half-leaning against the bar and completely ignoring the tension like it owed him money, was Riven Cross. He was dressed in combat boots, dog tags, and a leather jacket that still smelled faintly of gunpowder and blood. He sipped straight whiskey like it was water and had the permanent look of someone who once strangled a tank into submission.
"You nerds are adorable," Riven drawled. "One of you builds toys, the other plays with stars. Meanwhile, I'm out there stabbing dictators in their sleep. But please—keep measuring warheads. I'm entertained."
"Do you ever go five minutes without referencing murder?" Kael asked.
"Five minutes ago, I killed your mood. That count?"
The tension between them wasn't just banter. These men were titans, each trying to outshine the others in different fields: Kael, the eccentric genius who believed science was just misunderstood magic; Damian, the cold-blooded weapons magnate who sold fear in bulk; and Riven, the mercenary king who'd made half the world's warlords kneel before his blade.
Their rivalry had escalated to the point where world leaders held emergency summits just to monitor their meetings. So naturally, when all three agreed to share one plane for a "private summit," at least four intelligence agencies had heart attacks.
The stewardess offered champagne. None of them took it. Even their hydration choices were a power play.
Outside, the sky turned a shade darker. The clouds seemed to freeze in place. The pilot's voice crackled through the intercom.
"Uh… gentlemen, we're experiencing some kind of… system failure. Altitude's steady but—wait… what the hell is that?"
And then everything stopped.
The sky ripped open. Not metaphorically—literally. Like a canvas being torn by an invisible claw. A rift the size of a skyscraper spiraled across the heavens, shimmering with colors no human eye should have seen.
Inside the jet, time seemed to stretch like molasses. The lights flickered, then exploded in sparks. Gravity flipped. Their drinks floated. So did the stewardess.
"What the hell did you do?" Riven shouted at Kael.
"Me?! I didn't build a dimensional nuke this week, thank you very much!"
Damian stood calmly in the center of the chaos, hair barely ruffled, as glowing runes began to etch themselves across the fuselage like they were being written by the air itself.
"This isn't science," he said, eyes narrowing. "This is something older."
The last thing any of them heard was a low, thunderous hum—like the entire universe inhaling.
And then, the sky swallowed them.
The jet was gone.
No explosion. No debris. Just a gust of wind, and silence.