Predictions. Probabilities.

They were all attempts to grasp the unknown and mold it into something measurable.

No, perhaps attempt at something comprehensible.

Yet, at their core, both were guesses.

Predictions relied on knowledge, experience, and patterns of the past. Probabilities accounted for variation, randomness, and likelihood.

One was built on insight, the other on calculated uncertainty.

But neither guaranteed the truth.

A prediction could be wrong. A probability could betray expectations.

And yet, they were necessary.

But dealing with any of these required a certain amount of risk. You'd be risking everything on a prediction—or worse, a probability.

Nightwalker knew he could break her. From the moment she said she'd be going for the next trial, he'd been putting certain measures in place.

But there were still uncertainties at every turn, if she'd pick her husband over the train was a prediction, if she'd pick the train over the trial was another.

But he always made sure he was a step ahead. The first step was finding her weakness, although that wasn't hard.

Whenever a hero chooses to have a secret identity, it could only mean they have a regular life away from the suit.

And in V.A.L.O.R, at least one person had to know your secret identity to keep the hero accountable, and differentiate them from a vigilante.

So once he got word of who Spectra's handler was, it was a simple game of how close were they, really.

The subtle glances, the flirty winks, the slight quicken of heartbeats, the suppressed smile that tugged at the lips—to an outsider, it'd be unnoticeable.

But for someone who knew exactly what he was looking for it was child's play.

Then after the weakness was found, he needed the insisting event.

Something he could leverage against her and absolutely drive her insane, he'd considered her daughter but killing a child was a bit too heinous.

But slitting her husband's wrists, tying him up and dangling him as he bled out?

...That was just the right amount.

Next was convincing the director to side with him over Spectra, even though he knew the director hated him.

Charisma and Leverage. They go a long way.

While other Paragons' God Traits were astonishing, Nightwalker's Star child literally gave him the ability to control the sun.

With a flick of his finger, he could crank up the heat till everyone non awakened dried up like a desert snake.

So whether the director liked him or not, Nightwalker had him by the balls. The only way he could be defeated was in a place without a sun.

... Like a Tundra.

***

CLINK. CLANG.

Kate's chains rattled as she was led by two armoured guards to the visiting area.

The chains were, however, just for show. In Supermax, the most secured awakened prison in Veltharion—on an island in an undisclosed location, the dampeners were at every corner, in every wall.

They stopped in front of an open room. The door slid to the side with a soft hiss, so, she stepped him.

Clad in the beige overalls, bound in chains, she stood in front of the window in the room.

The only window she'd seen in this entire place since getting here. The air there was sickening—it'd been recycled so many times it smelled like copper and shit.

She turned back as the door hissed open again. Her expression remained neutral even as the urge to strangle him rose up within her.

"How you doing?" Nightwalker said, sliding into the chair at the centre of the room.

He wasn't in his suit for the first time in forever, and his face had already healed.

Just a long black overcoat, a simple white shirt and his curtain bangs that cupped his face perfectly.

"..."

Not getting an answer from her, he pressed on. "Heard you have a private room, that's nice."

"How'd you do it?" She asked out of nowhere. Kate had no interest in playing mind games with him.

"Me?" He gestured at himself with a sick smile. "What part?"

"The director," she continued while staring out the barbed window. "He hated your gut, how'd you convince him to sell me out."

Nightwalker sighed. Leaned back and manspread. "No matter how much the director hated me, he knows he needs me.

With the snap of my fingers."

——TCHK!

"I can make Earth feel like mercury. Two. Optics. I told you this before but let me double down on it.

Optics, that's the most important weapon in a hero's arsenal. No one cares if you're right or wrong, but as long as the majority believe you're right... Then you're right."

Shaking her head, she still didn't turn to him. "So, my colleagues sold me out for optics?..." She let out a short, humourless laugh. "None of you have the right to call yourself heroes."

He shrugged nonchalantly. "Does it really matter? I gave you a chance to be a God, and you rejected it, for who?" He chuckled. "For them?"

"They're not the problem," she hissed. "You are. The entire concept of monetising saving lives is the problem. And when I get out of here—"

"Get out of here?" He cut her off. "Oh, no. Sweetheart, you actually think you're getting out of here?

There's no trial, there's no investigation, no secret journalist seeking answers.

This—" he gestured around them. "—is where you'll spend the rest of your life. Both as Spectra, and as Kate."

She didn't show any emotion, nor did she reply.

So he stood, "goodbye, Sweetheart. Pick a better side next time." He added before exiting the room.

...

Leaving her alone in her thoughts without a visitor for about the next six months.

Before someone unknown came to see her, someone she hadn't met before.

A burly man with rough disheveled black hair, a similar beard and white eyes sat from her in the visiting room.

The silence stretched between them as neither spoke but the man swept on a smile that was too chilling, and oddly familiar.

"Who are you?" She asked finally. "And what the fuck do you want?"

The polite Kate had been withered away in Supermax, after all someone thought it'd be a good idea to place her in a prison where she'd sent most of its inmates.

Most didn't recognise her but those who did, it wasn't pretty.

"Oi," He spoke with a hoarse Australian accent. "Y'know what they said ye name was on the prison files?"

"What?" She slightly raised a brow. "Who are you?"

"They said ye name is Suzy Blakkard, not Spectra, not Kate Orvin, but fuckin' Suzy."

Kate already intended up as soon as he mentioned her real name. As far as she knew only Nightwalker and Alice knew that.

"Who. Are. You?" She asked slowly and more intently.

"A friend," he smiled and leaned back. "Let's just say we might be in business together."

She listened to his words but that wasn't what kept her interested. What she was actually watching was just movements.

Where had she seen this before?

She shook the thought from her mind, maybe it was just paranoia. "Look, I don't know who you are—" she stood from the chair and headed for the door. "—so don't come here again."

About to knock on the door for the guards—

"Name's Anthony Anderson." He said finally.

"Anderson?" She muttered under her breath, trying to piece something together, but he answered before she could.

"Yeah, I'm Nightwalker's brother."

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