Thursday, January 26th, 2023 – Brooklyn University, North Field Training Grounds
After Collage time .
Elena Grey had always believed herself to be level-headed. Raised with poise, patience, and privilege, she'd spent much of her academic life being the grounded voice in the room—the filter between chaos and clarity. Being the daughter of Brooklyn University's founder and director came with expectations. But even with the weight of legacy on her shoulders, Elena never played the queen. She played the observer. The one who watched.
And lately, she had been watching him.
Ethan Vale .
The name had floated through faculty lounges and student council whispers long before she'd ever truly paid attention. A third-year anomaly. Stoic. Mysterious. Too composed for his age. Too silent for someone that sharp. Rumors had swirled since his rejection of Professor Denz's co-authorship offer—an academic golden ticket most students would've killed for.
But Ethan? He'd tossed it aside like it was cheap perfume.
That's when her curiosity mutated. Into obsession. Not romantic—at least, not yet. But deeper than simple intrigue. The same way a codebreaker gets obsessed with a cipher they can't crack.
Which is why she stood here, fingers curled around a cup of green tea, coat barely shielding her from the sharp Brooklyn wind—watching Ethan from a distance as he trained on the old calisthenics bars of the North Field.
He wasn't just working out.
He was building something.
Shirtless despite the cold, muscles coiled like tempered steel, Ethan moved through impossible bodyweight exercises with surgical control. Front levers. Planche holds. One-arm pull-ups. A vertical flag hold on a metal pole—his body perfectly horizontal, frozen like a blade held by will alone.
Elena's breath caught. "That's not normal…"
"Tell me about it."
John's voice came from beside her, fries in hand, mouth half-full. "Three years ago, he couldn't even do ten push-ups without sounding like a dying rhino."
Elena turned slightly. "And now?"
John shrugged. "Now? Now he's Bruce Wayne on a discount budget."
Ethan dropped from the bar with barely a sound. Sweat shimmered over his back. He didn't turn toward them—though Elena was sure he knew they were watching. He always knew. His awareness wasn't loud. It was calculated.
"Elena…" John said, lowering his voice. "You're the Vice President and the daughter of him. Why are you here watching my lunatic best friend train like he's prepping for the apocalypse?"
She didn't answer immediately. Her eyes were still on Ethan as he began a perfect slow-motion handstand push-up against the bar.
Then: "Because he's... not training for attention. He's training like he owes something to the version of him that once broke."
John blinked. "Damn. Okay. That was deep. I need a soda to keep up with your metaphors."
She smiled faintly, but it was the kind of smile that comes with a dozen tangled thoughts underneath.
Ethan finally turned—just once—to glance toward them. Not a nod. Not a smile. Just a flick of his gaze, like a gunshot without sound.
Then he went back to his routine, strapping resistance bands around his shoulders and dropping into archer push-ups on uneven surfaces.
"Why did he change so much?" Elena asked quietly.
John sighed. "That's the golden question. Somewhere between year one and two, he disappeared from the radar for months. No texts. No socials. Just... gone. When he came back, he was like this. Mentally bulletproof. Physically lethal. Emotionally locked up."
Elena sipped her tea, gaze steady. "And no one knows why?"
"Nope. Not even me. And I've lived with the guy."
They watched in silence as Ethan balanced into a full planche, arms trembling slightly from the strain. Elena could see his scars now—faint, but there. Etched along his ribs, his forearm. Not decorative. Not for show. Real ones.
He'd earned them.
And yet he wore them like shadows: visible only if you stared hard enough.
"I want to talk to him," Elena whispered, almost to herself.
John grinned. "That's adorable. Just... bring gloves. And maybe a fireproof ego."
She didn't laugh.
Because in that moment, Elena Grey—Brooklyn University's babygirl, the director's daughter, vice-president of the student body—was no longer just watching Ethan Vale.
She was circling a black hole.
And the closer she got, the more she felt her logic dissolve.
Ethan stood now, breath steady, eyes closed. Centered. As if he could feel something approaching.
Because he could.
The next move wouldn't be his.
It would be hers.
And she knew, deep down—
Once you stepped inside the storm that was Ethan Vale, you didn't walk out the same.