Echoes of Fractured Loyalty

You push through the rusted chain-link gates of Winslow High, the midday sun glinting off the chain around your neck—a Merchant sigil disguised as cheap jewelry—while your trench coat flaps like a warning flag against the wind whipping through Brockton Bay's industrial sprawl. Sophia's your sister, tied by blood and the shared shadows of her cape life as Shadow Stalker, but blood means leverage in this city, not blind loyalty; you've come under the pretense of a family check-in, but really, it's to offload a fresh batch of your power-brewed enhancers to her track contacts, the kind that sharpen reflexes without the crash. The school's air hangs heavy with neglect, lockers dented and floors sticky with yesterday's spills, a microcosm of the Bay's decay where kids scrape by on fumes of bravado or despair. As you navigate the crowded hallway, your height and presence carving a path, a muffled cry pulls you toward the locker room annex—Taylor Hebert, that lanky outsider with the haunted stare, shoved against the wall by the trio, her glasses askew as Emma hisses taunts about her "freakish" figure, Madison scattering her notes like confetti from hell, and Sophia delivering a knee to the thigh that buckles Taylor's legs. Sophia's laugh rings out, sharp as a Ward's taser, but when her gaze locks on you, it shifts—recognition mixed with calculation, the kind siblings in the game trade like currency. This isn't just high school cruelty; it's a ritual that reinforces the pecking order, keeping potential threats like Taylor ground down before they trigger or ally with the wrong crowd, and you know the Merchants thrive on such fractures, peddling escapes to the broken. Your power thrums under your skin, analyzing the scene's tension like a chemist eyeing volatile compounds: Taylor's isolation screams for a hook, a vial of your custom neuro-stim that could numb the pain or ignite a rage potent enough to upend the trio's dominance, turning her into a unwitting pawn in your expanding network. Intervene, and you risk Sophia's ire, exposing your dealings to her Wards oversight; ignore it, and you miss a chance to sow discord in a school rife with Empire whispers and ABB scouts, where one desperate girl could tip the balance toward your crew's control over the Bay's shadowed veins. The hallway thins as stragglers hurry to class, but the trio presses closer, Emma's hand twisting in Taylor's hair while Sophia glances your way again, expectant. Your cargo pants conceal the weight of your hidden anatomy and the pouch of product at your hip, both tools in a trade where vulnerability is the real commodity—Taylor's on the edge, and your choice here could forge an alliance from her ruins or ignite a feud that draws capes like flies to the Merchants' rot.