Falcon wasn't like the other students.
He didn't get into Los Angeles High School No. 18 through talent or connections. Hell, he didn't even get in through hard work—at least, not the kind people respected. He got in by rooting through the trash and selling gadgets he'd scavenged and fixed. Sometimes, he even improved them, making broken things a little less useless.
His annual income barely scraped 6,000 Cancerian dollars, which might sound like a lot for some, but when you lived in a world where Authority was everything, money didn't mean jack unless it was tied to power.
The rich kids? They had Luck. They had silver spoons and fortunes that would make most people choke on their dreams. Their parents raked in millions of Cancerian dollars annually. They could afford to sneer at someone like Falcon—the "lower-trash" kid with zero power.
Authority. It was what separated the gods from the ants. With it, you could bend reality to your will—fly, turn invisible, tear through space, you name it. And everyone knew, the paths to gaining Authority were simple in theory, but in practice?
Not so much.
First, there were Rulers—those born into power. Kings, princes, governors. People who had the influence to make the world dance to their tune. Second, there were Builders—those who honed their bodies to an almost supernatural degree. With enough sweat and blood, they could manipulate the elements, break through the limits of the human form. But they didn't control the rules of reality. They were just strong.
Falcon was neither. Not yet, anyway. Sixteen was the age when most kids started their journey toward Authorizing. He still had a few months to figure it out. Not that he had any idea how to begin.
Lost in his thoughts, Falcon bumped into someone—a tall, muscular guy with golden hair tied into braids.
"Watch it, trash," the guy sneered.
It took Falcon a second to realize who it was—Maxwell, one of his usual tormentors. A bully with a silver spoon lodged so far down his throat it was a miracle he could speak at all.
"Sorry, I didn't see you there," Falcon muttered, half-heartedly trying to gather himself. He started to back away, but Maxwell's smirk only deepened.
"'Sorry, I didn't see you there'… Trash, you can do better than that. Looks like you're in need of another reminder," Maxwell mocked.
Falcon's stomach sank. He'd heard that line before. And he knew exactly what came next.
Maxwell snapped his fingers, and like clockwork, his lackeys appeared, surrounding Falcon before he could take a single step back. The beatdown was quick and brutal. A few punches, a couple of kicks, and when they were done, they even took his pocket change—a whole three Cancerian dollars. Not that he cared. It wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't be the last.
But stealing from a broke kid? That was low. Even for Maxwell.
Something inside Falcon snapped. He grabbed a potted plant nearby, swung it at Maxwell's head, and—
Shatter.
The pot exploded into shards, but Maxwell barely flinched. He was too used to this kind of thing.
He just smiled, picked up a shard from the broken pot, and slashed it across Falcon's right eye. The pain was immediate and excruciating—more like he'd just been branded than wounded.
As if on cue, a school drone buzzed overhead, its red light blinking like it was about to give a lecture.
"Mr. Maxwell and Mr. Falcon are engaging in unsanctioned physical activity. If continued, this may result in serious injury, death, or disciplinary complications. You are advised to cease immediately or risk expulsion—or Pit Time."
Maxwell gave Falcon one last cold, disdainful look, then backed off. "Stay out of my way, unless you're begging for an extra round next time."
Then, just like that, he was gone.
Falcon lay on the ground, staring at the artificial sky above him. He wasn't sure what hurt more—the slash to his face or the endless cycle of humiliation. He replayed the whole scene in his head, wondering if maybe he was just born to be the punching bag.
Then everything started spinning. His vision blurred. His body went heavy. He could feel his consciousness slipping away, and just as the darkness crept in, a soft voice cut through.
"Hold on…"
It was a girl's voice—her face a blur in his fading vision.
Then—nothing.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Falcon's eyes fluttered open to an unfamiliar room. He looked up at what seemed like a floating crystal encased in crystalline glass. What the hell? Where was he?
He tried to sit up but quickly realized he was lying on a bed. His body felt sore, but the worst of the pain had faded. His eyes scanned the room and landed on the logo.
Renin Family.
The Renin Family—the richest, most powerful family in the world. Their name was associated with the invention of Rejection Equipment. This groundbreaking technology had saved humanity from what would've been mass extinction when ordinary humans started developing Authority without the proper safeguards. The result? Cerebral Dysplasia—a gruesome, painful condition that resulted in death for anyone without Authority who tried to use too much of it.
The Renins were the heroes who saved the world, but they were also the reason Authority was so strictly regulated. And now, Falcon was in their hospital?
"Patient No. 1456 is awake…" A woman with brown hair and a cybernetic eye entered the room, her voice clinical, detached.
"Ehmm… doctor, who sent me to the hospital and why?" Falcon mumbled.
The nurse's eyes flickered with mild amusement, though her voice remained dripping with sarcasm. "Well, some Renin kid came in and claimed you were her boyfriend and that I should help you. You know, this hospital is owned by the Renins, so we had to take you in, even though you're basically lower-trash, son of a gun."
Falcon's eyes narrowed, but he stayed quiet. He didn't have the energy to argue, especially not with her.
But then, without warning, he smirked and said, "Well, that's what your mom said to your dad."
Before the nurse could react, Falcon was already out the window, leaving her staring in stunned silence.
Back in his dump of a room, Falcon quickly changed clothes. The clock was ticking. He had a job to do.
Trash diving.
He threw on his jacket and was about to head out when something caught his eye—a one-eyed monocle, worn and weathered.
As he pocketed it, a flash of memory stirred. Marco. His gang. And the black pearl necklace Marco had been wearing. Something about it felt off.
Falcon was already on the move. He found Marco and his crew loitering in the alley, and without hesitation, he slipped behind Marco, grabbed the necklace, and vanished into the shadows.
Marco didn't even have time to react.
One second, he was holding it.
The next, it was gone.
"Hmmm… this seems highly sus," Marco muttered, glancing around in confusion.
And Falcon? Well, he wasn't sure what he'd just grabbed. But it felt like it could be the thing that changed everything.