For James, denial had begun when the firefighters arrived and he watched the scene unfold before him. They were busy dousing the flames which had engulfed the house but had lessened in intensity. The flames were finally reduced to burning embers and the strong putrid smell of the burning house almost made him vomit.

The scene of the burnt and unrecognizable bodies of his parents being carried out and being covered should have been enough proof for him. He came up with every single excuse for what his unblinking eyes were seeing: it was a hallucination, a figment of his imagination, or it was a dream, and he would soon wake up in his bed with his bedside clock reporting that he had five minutes to reach school. But it didn't happen. He had a vague recollection of someone taking his arm and helping him to a seat and people asking him something, but his eyes and mind never left the bodies.

They weren't dead.

They couldn't be dead.

Time seemed to have slowed down for him, his surroundings a blend of haze and colours till his mind registered nothing but the two bodies covered by white cloth. Memories of their selves were branded into his memory, from his mother's long golden hair to her bright smile and the faint hint of lilac that remained after she had left the room. For the rest of his life, James would always associate the flower with his mother and the memory would bring tears to his eyes. Just as he would associate rough corduroy and Saturday morning cartoons with his father. Natasha Callaghan would be remembered as the celebrated author just as Steven would go down as the youngest yet one of the most gifted professors of Harvard University, but James would always remember them as the people who had sired him and raised him.

"Kid?"

Someone was calling him, but it was faint, almost like an annoying hum in the background as a silence engulfed him, causing him to wrap his arms around his head and hunch in defeat.

"Hey, kid," a paramedic placed a hand on his shoulder. "I need to examine you for any injuries-"

"They're not dead," James whispered, his throat hoarse from his desperate screams. Tears pricked his eyes again as his face morphed into an expression of denial. "They can't be."

The paramedic sighed, understanding what he was going through. He had been in this line for ten years, and if there was one thing about his job that he hated, it was informing a person's death to their kin. Children never took it well, especially when they died in front of them.

"Kid, nobody could survive that," he said gently, fearing that his words could shatter the sanity of the devastated boy in front of him. "They have been examined. They didn't make it..."

****

He who called himself Vector stood by the glass and watched the world below him with a smile of satisfaction.

Even though the building was not the tallest in the city, it was more than sufficient to provide him with a panoramic view of New York. When he had first ordered its construction, he wanted to build something that had presence without needing to be aesthetically pleasing. The architects seemed to think that buildings should be high but he preferred to remain grounded, because as far as he was concerned, the heavens were extremely overrated.

Our monsters do not come from the ground, they come from the sky, he thought.

What satisfied him about his building was not the height that was considered impressive by the citizens of New York, but its dark façade of black stone and dark glass that gave it all the more sinister vibes. From this building, Vector ruled his giant corporation not unlike a god ruling over his empire. This building that was called the "Monolith" by tabloids and newspapers was the centre of Vector's kingdom which spread to the farthest corners of the globe. Leaving behind the view of New York, Vector returned to his desk. He lived in the penthouse suite attached to this room, below the swimming pool and gardens that took up the space on the roof.

Fortune 500 had called him one of the most powerful men in the world but the appellations meant little to him. Power was something that was subjective and could be taken away at a second's notice. The tendrils of Vector's power went beyond the boardroom to realms most would never even dream of. The potential of humanity was limitless and Vector had spent a great many years of his life exploiting that boundless potential.

He was a puppet master, handling things from behind a veil of secrecy from behind the scenes. Secrecy was the cornerstone of his empire and Vector prided himself in how far his influence extended. His agents were far and wide and they worked for him with unswerving loyalty because they knew the price of failure. However, they were also well rewarded for their efforts and because of this, his reach extended into the highest echelons of power. There were heads of state that would be grateful for his attentions.

Of course the public knew nothing of this and that was exactly how Vector preferred it.

Vector lowered himself into the leather chair before the marble desk as the door opened, relishing the smoothness of the dark stone. The office had a stygian feel about it with smooth dark surfaces and had a Spartan air by the lack of personal items. Vector had as much use for these as he did people, which was, to say, very little.

"Henry," he greeted the man who walked in. "Did you get it done?"

"Have I ever failed you, sir?" The same man whom James had met in Central Park, now clad in a dark suit, replied. "We have retrieved the artefact as you asked, and the targets have been marked and eliminated. The fire ensured that all noted and documents that could have led to us have been destroyed."

"Good work," Vector replied, pleased. His personal aide and confidant seldom failed him; he was someone trained to kill and he was really good at it. "Where is the artefact now?"

Henry stepped forward, retrieving a black orb from a satchel and placing it on the desk. Vector picked it up gingerly, running his calloused fingers over the ornate designs carved into the surface. The centre of the orb shone with a fierce, red fire, which was reflected in the dark irises of Vector.

"This is no fake," he finally replied as he set it down. "Take it to Science; tell them they have their power source now. I want things to be exactly on schedule."

"It shall be done, sir," Henry replied, placing the orb back in the satchel. "There is another thing you need to see," he said, removing the contents from a manila folder he had been holding under his arm.

"This was caught on security cameras last night," he said, placing the photographs on the desk before him.

The pictures were grainy, but held enough definition for Vector to be able to make out what had caused Henry such concern.

"They are here," Henry pointed out. "They have followed us all the way here. It is but a matter of time before they strike again."

"Indeed," Vector nodded, feeling less anxiety than Henry did. "I did not expect to have them off our back for long. As long as we exist, the Council of Shadows will always try to hinder us. But they are hardly in any position to be a threat to me."

"We should end them once and for all," Henry looked at him. "We have contacts in the NYPD and the underworld that could make it look like an accident. We could finally end the threat..."

"You will do nothing of this sort," Vector rose to his feet and glared at him, his gaze sending icicles of fear through the ex-SAS operative. He was a man trained to kill and instil fear in others, but Vector was one of the few people who could make him feel fear. "Destroying the Council will only result in the intervention of the divine ones, and we are not equipped to resist them. The Council's destruction will be closely followed by your death. Is that understood?"

Henry felt himself shudder at the darkness of his eyes and nodded stiffly. "Yes sir."

"Good," Vector lowered himself back into his chair. "What you will do is make sure the investigation of the Callaghans' deaths is brought to a standstill and who has the power to wrap up the investigation at the earliest. Is it clear?"

"Yes, sir," Henry nodded. "But what if they won't do it?"

Vector blinked as if he had asked him something ludicrous. "They will if they want to live."