The events of the day weighed heavily on Grapple's shoulders as he walked back toward his brother and the group of captured criminals. His mind lingered on the same thoughts that had followed him throughout the day. No matter how hard he tried, he could not stop comparing himself to his brother. His brother had always been the better hero—the stronger one, the one everyone admired. Grapple wondered if he would ever be able to live up to that greatness.
As he turned the corner of the street, he spotted his brother standing in the distance. Relief washed over him almost instantly, and he raised his arm to wave. Yet the motion stopped halfway. His arm remained awkwardly suspended in the air as an unfamiliar feeling crept through his chest.
It began as a faint unease, but within seconds it grew into something far worse. A terrible sense of dread spread throughout his body, tightening his chest and sending a cold chill down his spine. Grapple locked eyes with his brother across the street, and for a moment the distance between them seemed to stretch unnaturally far, as if the world itself had begun pulling them apart.
Before he could identify what was causing the sensation, a sound echoed faintly in the distance. It was a crisp, quiet click—sharp yet subtle, like the snap of someone's fingers carried by the wind.
In the next instant, something impossible happened.
For less than a second, it felt as though time had stopped entirely. The world seemed to pause and then resume again without anything passing between those two moments. Yet something had changed.
A deep, clean cut had appeared across his brother's throat.
The hero stood still for a brief moment before collapsing to the ground, blood pouring from the wound as his body struck the pavement.
Grapple rushed forward immediately, panic overtaking his thoughts as he dropped beside him and tried desperately to help. His hands trembled as he reached for the wound, but even before he touched him, he knew the truth.
It was already too late.
Too much blood had been lost, and it had happened too quickly for anyone to intervene. The most beloved hero in the city had died in a matter of seconds, killed on what should have been an ordinary day by an assassin no one had even seen.
In the days that followed, the city mourned.
The funeral drew countless people—citizens, heroes, and officials alike—all gathered to honor the man who had once protected them. Speeches were given, memories were shared, and many tears were shed.
But none of those voices truly reached Grapple.
After the funeral had ended and the crowds had dispersed, he returned home alone. He sat in the quiet living room in the same chair he had always used, staring blankly across the room at the chair where his brother used to sit. The sight of it felt heavier than anything else that day.
His eyes were dry and red after weeks of crying. At some point, the tears had simply stopped coming, leaving behind only a hollow exhaustion that settled deep within his chest. Feeling as though there was little reason left to continue moving forward, he eventually drifted into sleep while sitting there.
Far above the city streets, another man had been watching the events unfold.
From the balcony of a penthouse overlooking the district, Hacker leaned casually against the railing as he observed the world below. The luxurious apartment had been acquired through an unusual method—by becoming something resembling a mob boss.
It was not power or wealth that motivated him. In truth, he simply valued his time.
Hacker disliked unnecessary interaction with other people, and he had discovered long ago that fear was a very effective way of avoiding it. If people were afraid of him, they would keep their distance.
For the most part, the strategy worked. Of course, maintaining such a reputation required followers—individuals who would spread stories about him and enforce his influence.
Ordinary followers, however, were troublesome. They asked too many questions and demanded too much attention.
So Hacker simply altered their memories.
Through what he casually referred to as "hacking," he rewrote parts of their minds, convincing them that he was their boss while leaving their personalities and knowledge intact. This allowed them to function normally while remaining completely loyal to him.
It was the perfect arrangement.
With his position secured and his solitude preserved, Hacker spent most of his time observing the world from afar, watching the rare moments that managed to capture his interest.
The death of the hero had been one such moment.
After witnessing the tragedy between the two brothers, his attention drifted further down the street to another individual who had caught his curiosity.
The man had just exited a nearby convenience store with a bag of snacks in his hand. Under normal circumstances, there would have been nothing remarkable about such a sight. Yet something about this man immediately stood out.
On each of his hands, the ring finger and pinky finger were bound tightly against his palm, leaving only three fingers free for use.
He wore a loose red long-sleeved shirt paired with black pants, but the most striking part of his appearance was the black cloak draped over his shoulders and head. At first glance it appeared to hang loosely in place, but closer observation revealed thin strings extending from the cloak and wrapping discreetly around his torso beneath the fabric of his shirt, anchoring it securely.
His face was partially hidden beneath the shadow of the hood, though enough could be seen to reveal a weathered expression and a noticeable scar along the right edge of his chin. Strands of black hair extended slightly beyond the hood's edge.
Despite his unusual appearance, the man was not a criminal.
He was a magician.
More specifically, he was one of the most famous magicians in existence.
Within the magical community, he was known by several titles: the Pillar of Reality, the Magic Man, and most commonly, Strand.
Strand was not simply powerful—he was something far rarer.
He was a Pillar, a living embodiment of a magical concept. In his case, that concept was reality itself. His abilities allowed him to alter the structure of the world, rewriting reality as easily as a person might edit a sentence on a page.
Despite possessing power that could rival that of gods, Strand rejected the idea of divinity entirely. Instead, he chose to live among ordinary people as though he were one of them.
For that reason, it was somewhat surprising that he had attended the funeral.
Yet during the gathering of mourners, he eventually noticed Grapple sitting alone and decided to approach him.
"How did you know the deceased?" Strand asked calmly.
Grapple did not look up. "He was my brother."
"I see," Strand replied quietly. "It is difficult to lose someone close to you."
Grapple's hands tightened slightly. "Some people say loss fades with time," he murmured. "But I don't think this pain will ever leave."
Strand remained silent for a moment before speaking again. "Others say that loss is only a beginning."
The words lingered in the air long enough to draw Grapple's attention. For the first time, he looked directly at the man standing beside him.
"How did you know him?" Grapple asked.
"I met him on a few occasions."
"That's strange," Grapple said. "I've never heard of you before."
Strand chuckled softly. "That would make sense."
Grapple frowned slightly. "Why do you say that?"
Strand paused before answering. "Because I am a magician. Your brother came to me regarding a magical ability he possessed, known as Charge. It was a powerful ability, but extremely difficult to control without proper training. He asked me to erase it."
Grapple stared at him in disbelief. "Erase it?"
Strand nodded. "Removing a magical ability is an extremely painful process. Imagine performing open-heart surgery on someone while they are fully awake. Knowing this, I instead chose to erase the memories associated with the ability—including the memories of me."
He spoke as though the explanation were perfectly ordinary.
The revelation, however, struck Grapple like a physical blow. He had believed he knew his brother better than anyone, yet this man was claiming that his brother had secretly possessed magic all along.
"So… does that mean I have the same ability?" Grapple asked, his voice tinged with fear.
Strand exhaled slowly before turning to face him.
"Yes," he answered.
The single word sent a chill down Grapple's spine.
"That's why I'm here."
Something in Strand's tone carried an unintended edge, and the cold realization that followed left Grapple standing completely still.
.