THE ART GALLERY — DELAROKE, PORT HARCOURT — EVENING
The front doors burst open.
Security personnel rushed forward—not to greet, to intercept. Their hands went to their belts, to the radios on their shoulders, to the guns hidden beneath their jackets.
Destiny walked through them like they weren't there.
His red glasses–Foresight–caught the track lighting. His white suit was immaculate. Behind him, a man followed—tall, broad-shouldered, built like a war machine. Desire. 5'11". 174 lbs. A physique that didn't belong to someone who attended art galleries.
Security grabbed at them.
Desire moved.
Men flew. Sculptures toppled. A painting of a woman in a gele tore down the middle as a body crashed through it. The crowd screamed. Wine glasses shattered.
"Everyone calm down," Destiny said. His voice was quiet, almost bored. "We're just looking for a mother and her daughter."
A man in a suit pulled out a gun. Fired.
Destiny wasn't there. He had stepped aside—not after the trigger, before. Like he knew where the bullet would go before the man decided to shoot.
Desire dusted his white suit. A fleck of blood on his sleeve. He frowned.
"We can kill the men, right?"
"Yes, That would be acceptable."
Ruth stepped forward.
"Please." Her voice was shaking. "I don't want anymore people to die in my gallery today. Please spare him."
Rachel held her mother's arm. Her six cornrows were damp with sweat. Her cream-colored dress clung to her frame.
Destiny tilted his head.
"Check those women first. Desire."
Desire moved toward them.
He stopped.
Ten feet away. Flat on the ground. Thrown. Ivie stood between Desire and the women, her forest-green dress still, her sleeves rolled down, the Monarch's Gauntlet hidden.
Destiny laughed.
It was soft. Genuine.
He turned.
Ezra was behind him. David beside him. The Executioner and the rookie, standing in the broken gallery like they belonged there.
Ezra threw a jab.
Destiny dodged it. Before the punch left Ezra's shoulder, Destiny was already leaning.
He knew.
Ivie raised her hand. Blue light exploded from her palm—Everliving–, bigger than any David had ever seen or done, filling the gallery with cold radiance.
When the light faded, the room was empty.
Ezra, Ivie, Ruth, and Rachel were gone.
David and Desire remained.
---
OUTSIDE OF THE GALLERY —CAR PARK—
Ivie opened the door. Ezra guided Ruth inside. Rachel followed, confused, resisting.
"Why are we running?" Ruth demanded. "Who are you? Where are you taking us?"
"Somewhere safer," Ezra said.
"I can't leave my gallery—"
Ivie touched her neck. Ruth went limp. Ezra caught her.
Rachel tried to speak. Ivie touched her too. She folded.
Marcel drove.
---
BACK AT THE GALLERY
People screamed. Crawled. Ran.
David stood in the center of the chaos, hands raised, not to fight—to direct. "This way. Move. Go."
Desire watched him.
"You're not fighting me."
"I'm evacuating civilians. There's a difference."
Desire tilted his head. Then he moved.
David blocked. Barely.
They clashed—hand to hand, fast and brutal. Desire's style was unfamiliar. Not Covenant. Not military. Something else. Something studied.
He stepped back.
"What fighting style is this?"Desire inquired.
David lowered his hands. "What does it matter?"
Desire's face twisted. Disgust.
"You disrespect martial arts, you're doing rubbish. Have you no training?."
David stared at him. "I'll learn here."
Desire's eyes went dark. A memory flickered across his face—someone else, another time, another voice saying the same thing.
"Just like that damn Phobia."
"Do you have a Gift?"
David nodded.
"How come I've never heard of you?"
"I really don't want to fight a fellow human," David said. "Can you just stop being a danger to people?"
Desire smirked.
He manifested a staff. Brown. Wooden. Goliath.
It expanded—wide, long, fast—shooting toward David like a battering ram.
"Page 307."
Green ink flowed over David's feet. Stride. A sketch of Tessy's boots, rendered in manga lines, wrapped around his sneakers.
He moved.
The staff hit empty air. David was already across the room, evacuating another group, herding them toward the back exit. He tried to land a hit on Desire—faster than before, but not fast enough.
Desire recalled Goliath. The staff shrank to normal size. He spun it, manipulating the air, and shot.
Wind exploded from the staff. David dodged.
The wall behind him was gone.
"Do you believe in God?" Desire asked.
David wiped dust from his face. "My mom does. You?"
"I love God," Desire said. "From the bottom of my heart."
He twirled Goliath. The wind followed.
"The gifts He created are the very best. I have studied different Gifts, different fighting styles, to understand them all. Then I finally got my own."
He held up the staff.
"Goliath. The creation I looked up to. Gifts are the best sensation ever."
David was still. Still evacuating. Still buying time.
Stride takes its toll, he thought. And this is just a sketch. Tessy is so good. I'm already out of breath, and this guy stopped to talk. Like he wasn't even using his full power.
He moved.
Desire dodged. Stepped back.
David landed, breathing hard.
I could have gotten a clean hit. He just got past me.
He looked at the remaining civilians. Still retreating. Still not safe.
His power level is way ahead of mine. I have to retreat. Catch up with Ivie and Ezra.
I have to charge up and leave.
"So," Desire said. "Back to the question. That ecstasy was only momentary. Why does a brat like you have a Gift?"
David looked at him. Confused.
"Could say the same for you."
"How cruel." Desire's smile didn't reach his eyes. "In that case, won't you tell me the reason you're using your Gift? I want to know if you're worthy of having one of God's gifts."
David saw them. Israel. CJ. His mother.
"To destroy fear. To save the weak. To keep moving. That's all it amounts to."
Desire's expression hardened.
"As I thought. No one besides me understands God. Every scroll, every book, even the Bible—I read them all. It was the same. I couldn't even stomach looking at it. Only insults, referring to Him as Jehovah."
He pointed Goliath at David.
"Even if you say something interesting here and there, there's only one reason to give a Gift."
David took a breath.
"You don't understand anything, do you?" Desire continued.
Desire expanded his staff. It grew—wide, long, fast—slamming into the entrance, blocking the exit. A pillar of brown wood, impossible to move.
He slid down to the ground floor, landing lightly.
"The Gifts are the ultimate weapon of massacre."
"Stop," David said.
Desire recalled Goliath. The staff shrank. He spun it. Wind gathered. A hurricane began to form.
"They only exist for the sole purpose of stealing lives."
David moved into the wind.
Not away. Into.
He vanished. Reappeared. Vanished again. Each time, a civilian disappeared from the gallery—moved outside, moved to safety, moved away.
The hurricane expanded. The gallery crumbled. Paintings tore from walls. Sculptures shattered. Glass rained.
When the wind stopped, David stood in the rubble. Alone. Beaten. Blood and bruises everywhere.
Desire stared at him.
"You pushed past your limit."
"You don't understand anything," David said.
"Stop acting strong. You're clearly not suited for that construct you're using." Desire gestured at David's feet—the sketched Stride, already fading. "Do you really think having good intentions is enough to save everyone?"
His phone rang.
He ignored it.
"Good intentions. Those words are not suitable for God."
"Shut the hell up," David said. "You talk way too much."
He charged. Faster than before. Not sustainable. Not survivable. Just desperate.
Desire spun Goliath. Wind gathered. The phone rang again. Louder. Insistent.
The wind exploded.
David moved into it—and out the other side.
The gallery was empty.
He collapsed onto the rubble, panting, his phone already in his hand.
"Ivie," he said. "I'm on my way now."
He hung up.
He didn't move for a long time.