It was night in Greybridge City.
Snow drifted lazily from the sky, melting into the neon-lit streets below. Streetlamps glowed through the mist, casting golden pools across old cobblestones and slick asphalt. Black cabs rumbled past modern glass storefronts. Somewhere, distant music pulsed from a nightclub down the alley, mixing with the laughter of late-night crowds and the occasional honk of a horn.
Near the corner of Locke Street, outside a pub called The Serpent's Pint, a woman stood under the awning, shivering as she fought with a broken lighter. The wind tugged at her coat. She cursed quietly, the unlit cigarette wobbling between her lips.
"Need a light?" a voice asked.
She turned.
A young man stood just a few feet away, half-smiling like he already knew the answer.
He was short, handsome in a street-smart kind of way. His waiter's uniform looked too well-fitted to be standard issue—sleek black vest over a rolled-up white shirt, dark slacks, polished shoes. A crimson bandana tied around his forehead gave him a roguish edge. A single braid of hair hung over one eye like it didn't care where it fell.
He pulled out a silver lighter shaped like a dragon curling around a flame chamber. Stylish. Slightly pretentious. The kind of thing someone only used if they liked being noticed.
He flicked it.
Click.
Nothing.
Again.
Click.
Third time—click.
Still no flame.
He gave a sheepish grin. "Bit of a diva, this thing."
On the fourth try, it caught.
He leaned in and lit her cigarette. She took a long drag, thanked him, and turned away—none the wiser.
She didn't feel his fingers slide the bracelet off her wrist.
Didn't see the flash of silver vanish into his back pocket with practiced ease.
The movement was so fluid it might as well have been magic.
But someone saw it.
Inside the bar, seated quietly near the window, a man stirred his drink without taking a sip. Middle-aged, maybe early forties, with a tailored coat slung over one shoulder and a quiet, self-contained air. His face was clean-shaven, his jaw sharp, and his hair slicked back with a few grey strands at the temples. But it was his eyes that stood out—clear and icy blue, like they saw more than they should.
He watched the exchange, tapping a single finger against the glass.
If his vision weren't exceptional, he'd have missed the trick. But he saw it all.
---
The young man returned inside, whistling as he grabbed a rag to wipe down the tables. Closing time. Most of the crowd had already spilled back onto the street. Neon signs buzzed faintly outside the fogged windows.
He didn't notice the man still sitting there.
Didn't feel his presence.
And Matteo was good at noticing things. Which is why it bothered him.
He turned, and there the man was. Watching.
"That was a nice technique," the man said casually.
Matteo blinked. "Sorry?"
"The bracelet. The flick of your hand. The lighter distraction. Classic moves that were executed well."
"I think you're mistaken, sir."
The man leaned forward, still calm. "Don't be shy. You've got good instincts. Fluid movements. High perception. Impressive coordination. And very fast fingers."
Matteo raised an eyebrow, smile flat. "You feeling alright, sir? Maybe you've had one too many. You should probably head home."
The man stood, smooth as glass.
He approached Matteo and gave his shoulder a light pat, his voice low but clear. "It was interesting watching you work. I've got an offer, if you're curious."
Matteo tensed slightly. "Okay sir, I'm gonna have to ask you to leave now."
The man nodded like he expected that.
He turned and walked toward the door, but just before he stepped out into the cold, he glanced back.
"We'll probably meet again."
Then he was gone, swallowed by the night.
---
Matteo exhaled slowly and sat down on one of the stools at the blackwood counter, the bar now mostly empty. He tapped the edge of the polished surface, thinking. Wondering.
"One beer," he muttered.
The bartender poured it without asking questions.
Matteo reached into his back pocket, expecting the cold feel of stolen silver.
Nothing.
He frowned. Checked again.
Still nothing.
He rummaged through all his pockets, jacket, vest, trousers. No bracelet. He was sure he pocketed it.
No way he missed.
Then, his fingers brushed against something else.
Thin. Paper.
He pulled it out and unfolded it.
Scrawled across the front in fine handwriting:
"Thou shall not commit theft."
"…Motherfu—"
He flipped the note over.
A phone number and a name: Benson.
And beneath it, another line:
"Prepare yourself for the Third Cataclysm. Contact me if you survive."
---
You're probably wondering what that means.
The Third Cataclysm.
Earth has already endured two.
Massive, world-shaking events that changed everything from biology to borders, even science.
The First Cataclysm brought Aether to the world. A strange, glowing energy that infected the air and rewrote human DNA. People adapted. Evolved. Those near oceans developed sea-born traits—gills, webbed fingers, enhanced pressure resistance. Others, near mountains or volcanoes, gained draconic features—scales, markings or claws, and immense Aether reserves.
The Second Cataclysm brought pieces of other worlds to Earth.
Islands that floated. Forests that whispered. Cities carved from bone and crystal. Entire realms dropped like puzzle pieces into the planet. Along with them came the monsters.
Behemoths. Titans. Eldritch horrors that didn't belong in this reality. Some were barely physical. Some were too real.
People with Aether powers rose to fight them.
But not everyone awakened.
Only sixty percent of the entire global population awakened these powers.
Matteo didn't.
He was part of the unlucky forty percent.
No magic. No wings. No fire.
Just a mask.
It slipped from beneath his vest, smooth and pale. No eyes, no nose, just a grinning mouth painted in red. Simple and eerie.
He'd stolen it from a dusty antique shop when he was thirteen.
Since then, he hadn't been able to let it go.
Or maybe it hadn't let go of him. He tried dumping it in a lake, burning it, throwing it in the trash. But everytime it just reappeared under his pillow.
The Mask of Mischief, he called it.
It gave him something—not quite powers, but... presence. And sometimes, a voice in his head that wasn't entirely him. Loud. Daring. Chaotic. Annoying as hell. But powerful, in its own twisted way.
It was the closest thing Matteo had to magic.
---
Midnight struck.
Ding.
Ding.
Ding.
The old Greybridge Clock Tower glowed in the distance, its hands pointing straight up as snow settled on its stone shoulders.
Matteo stepped outside.
The wind had died.
The city was quiet.
And the moon hung huge in the sky—low, too low, so close it felt unreal. You could see the craters with your bare eyes.
It glowed faintly blue.
Matteo froze when he saw this scene. Afterall he had witnessed one of these in the past.
And as the third chime echoed across the city, the lights flickered.
Then faded.
The streetlamps dimmed.
The neon signs blinked out.
The night swallowed Greybridge whole.
And everything went dark.
The third cataclysm had now started.