The warmth of silk sheets and the dull ache at the back of his head greeted Jackson as he stirred from unconsciousness. He blinked slowly, wondering how he got back into his suit.The last thing he remembered was reading the letter that his father had left for him, and the next thing was everything suddenly turning black. He probably had fallen down—he couldn’t tell but he knew something had happened in that room that was beyond what the human mind can conceive.He was still in his thoughts when he saw Mr. Copper, seated quietly in the armchair near his bed, a glass of warm brandy in one hand and a datapad in the other. He looked up the moment he noticed Jackson stir.“You’re awake,” he said calmly, setting both items aside. “I was beginning to wonder if the Flame had done too much at once.”Jackson sat up, his chest rising with a shaky breath. “What… what happened?”“You collapsed,” Mr. Copper replied. “After reading the letter and touching the emblem, you blacked out. I found you ly

Jackson sat in the rooftop garden of Sky Tower, his marked hand clenched around a warm mug of tea that had long gone cold. He had barely slept since the dream of his father. Since the warning about the Red Eclipse. Since the words—“Never trust the Phoenix who speaks in silver”—refused to leave his mind.“Hello, Jackson.” A beautiful female voice called him from behind.Jackson didn’t have to look to know who had just called him.It was Bella.She had texted him the night before that she was coming to visit him this morning and Jackson had told her that he’d be waiting for her. But somehow the dream he had of his father had almost made him forget that he was supposed to meet up with Bella.He had been so happy when he saw Bella with the others during his birthday party and now that she was here again, he felt happier.Bella stepped forward cautiously, her black coat drawn tightly around her frame. Her long brown hair fluttered slightly in the wind as she stood at a distance, unsure if

It was 9:00 a.m. that morning when Congressman Fabian Banks walked up to the podium at the National Press Hall in Washington, D.C., flanked by his aides and flashing cameras. The hall was packed with reporters, politicians, campaign volunteers, and curious citizens. Whispers had already flooded the internet that Banks was about to make a “historic statement,” and now all eyes were locked on the seasoned lawmaker whose name had dominated headlines just weeks before.Behind him, two flags waved—the national flag and the flag of the Economic Reform Alliance, his own campaign platform. But as he cleared his throat and adjusted the microphone, everyone knew something seismic was about to shift.“Ladies and gentlemen of the press, fellow Americans,” Banks began, his voice composed but heavy with gravity. “For the past six months, I have stood before you as a candidate for the presidency of this great nation. I ran on the promise of economic inclusion, governmental transparency, and restorin

The screech of tires, the roar of the engines, and the wild cheering had all been replaced by one single, deafening sound—the crash.Jackson’s car skidded to a stop several feet away as the matte black Camaro slammed into a steel barrier, its front half crumpling with a horrific crunch. Sparks shot out from under the hood, smoke hissing upward into the night like a silent scream.For a heartbeat, no one moved. The street kings and their entourage stood frozen, watching as dust settled and the smell of burning rubber filled the air.Jackson threw open his door and ran toward the wreck.The Camaro’s driver named Larry was slumped over the wheel, motionless. The airbags had deployed, but they weren’t enough. His chest rose with faint, wheezing breaths, and blood streamed from a gash above his brow. His left leg was clearly broken—twisted at an impossible angle.Jackson didn’t waste time. He yanked open the jammed door with surprising force—whether it was adrenaline or the Flame within hi

The hospital ward was quiet, save for the soft beep of the monitor and the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. Larry sat propped up against two pillows, flipping idly through a sports magazine that had been left on the bedside table. His arm was still bandaged, but he was looking really okay, and the bruises had faded with unbelievable speed.When Inspector Evans Tony entered the room, Larry looked up, slightly confused but polite.“You're Larry, Professor Koeman’s grandson right?” Evans asked, stepping forward with a calm, authoritative voice.Larry nodded. “Yes, sir.”Evans gave a small nod of acknowledgment, pulling a chair closer to the bed before sitting. “I’m Inspector Evans Tony, Central Intelligence Agency. I’m here about the accident. Just a few questions—nothing too formal.”Larry frowned slightly, but nodded again. “Sure, okay.”Evans leaned forward. “Can you walk me through what happened last night? From your own memory.”Larry shifted uncomfortably. “We were racing. I