The reporter's voice trembled, barely keeping pace with the images behind her.
Two figures stood in the center of a shattered avenue.
One wreathed in light.
The other wrapped in shadow.
Every step they took cracked asphalt. Every clash sent shockwaves through buildings miles away. Windows shattered. Cars flipped like toys. Drones circled helplessly, their feeds cutting in and out as power surged.
The boy leaned forward.
His heart wasn't afraid.
It was racing.
"Come on," he whispered, fists clenched. "Hit him again."
On screen, the brighter one was driven back—skidding across the street, carving a trench through steel and stone. The darker figure raised a hand, the air folding inward like it was being pulled into a wound.
The boy cheered.
Not because he understood who was right.
Not because he knew what they were fighting for.
But because it was real.
Because something mattered enough to shake the world.
The reporter shouted now, words tumbling over each other.
