Rain hammered the SUV's roof as Mason killed the engine. Michael squinted through the windshield.
A flickering neon sign buzzed in the downpour:
BALLHAWK SPORTING GOODS – CLEATS 50% OFF!
The storefront looked like every other rundown baseball shop he'd ever seen—dusty gloves in the window, faded posters of players he didn't recognize, and a "CLOSED" sign dangling crookedly on the door.
But the hair on his neck stood straight up.
Something about the way the raindrops curved around the building's edges, as if repelled by an invisible force, felt… wrong.
Mason didn't bother with an umbrella. "Move fast," he grunted, shoving the door open.
Michael stumbled after him, the icy rain soaking through his hoodie before they'd taken three steps. His bandaged hand throbbed with every heartbeat, the skin underneath pulsing an angry red.
The Phoenix Vial's poison was spreading—he could feel it like hot wires snaking up his veins.
The store's bell jingled as they burst inside. Racks of baseball bats lined the walls, but their barrels shimmered faintly under the fluorescent lights. A display case near the register held ordinary-looking baseballs, except their seams glowed gold.
"You're late."
The voice came from behind the counter.
A girl around Michael's age stood polishing a catcher's mask with a rag. She had jet-black hair tied in a high ponytail and a scar cutting through her left eyebrow.
Her nametag read JANE in block letters, but the way she gripped the rag—like she could strangle someone with it—suggested "Jane" wasn't here to recommend the best aluminum bat.
Mason tossed his car keys onto the counter. "Traffic."
Jane's sharp eyes flicked to Michael. "Him?"
"Him."
She snorted. "Back room?"
"Yep."
Michael opened his mouth to ask what the hell is going on, but Jane cut him off with a glare.
"Don't touch anything. Don't ask questions. And if you puke, you're cleaning it up."
Mason gripped Michael's shoulder, steering him past racks of batting gloves and a life-sized cardboard cutout of Babe Ruth.
The Bambino's eyes seemed to follow them as they pushed through a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY.
The back room was nothing like the storefront.
Stainless steel tables lined the walls, cluttered with beeping machines that looked like a cross between a heart monitor and a microwave. Cabinets overflowed with vials of glowing liquid—some neon green, others pitch black. A single metal chair sat in the center of the room, its armrests fitted with leather straps.
Michael froze. "Am I getting a flu shot or a lobotomy?"
"Detox." Mason nudged him toward the chair. "Sit."
"What's with the straps?"
"So you don't chew your fingers off when the pain hits."
Michael's pulse spiked. "Hard pass."
"Your funeral." Mason shrugged. "But without the detox, that Phoenix goop'll liquefy your organs by sunrise. Your pick."
Thunder rattled the building. Somewhere in the store, a phone rang. Jane's muffled voice snapped, "No, we don't have Bryce Harper's autograph—stop calling!"
Michael sank into the chair. The metal bit into his back. This is how horror movies start, he thought as Mason buckled the straps. Next thing you know, they'll be harvesting my kidneys.
Mason slapped a wristband around Michael's good arm. It looked like a Fitbit, except the screen flashed symbols he didn't recognize. "This'll monitor your vitals. Try not to die—paperwork's a bitch."
"What's supposed to—"
Jane barged in carrying a tray of syringes. The needles glinted under the harsh lights, filled with a liquid so dark purple it looked black.
"Wait," Michael croaked. "What's that?"
"Antidote." Jane tapped a syringe, her scar twisting as she smirked. "Mixed with essence from a Frost Wraith. Should counter the Phoenix fire in your blood."
"Should?!"
"Relax, newbie. Worst case, your insides freeze into popsicles." She jammed the needle into his arm before he could flinch.
The cold hit instantly. Michael gasped as ice flooded his veins, crystallizing in his chest. His breath came out in white puffs. The bandages on his left hand stiffened with frost.
"Phase one," Jane said, watching the Fitbit-like device. "Essence clash incoming. Try not to scream—it's annoying."
Phase one? What's phase two—spontaneous combustion?
The answer came fast.
Fire exploded in his gut. Michael's back arched against the restraints as the Phoenix essence roared to life, battling the Frost Wraith's power. His vision blurred—one second his skin crackled with ice, the next, flames licked at the straps. Sweat froze on his forehead only to melt and refreeze.
"H-How… l-long?!" he gritted out.
Jane checked her phone. "Depends. Got any plans tonight?"
Mason leaned against the wall, crunching on a protein bar. "Focus, Cobb. The vial's essence is sentient. It's fighting the antidote. You gotta fight it too."
Sentient? The word barely registered before the pain dialed to eleven.
Images flashed behind Michael's eyes—a desert under a blood-red sun, a colossal bird made of fire circling a mountain of skulls.
The Phoenix. Its shriek pierced his skull, claws raking his mind.
It roared.
"N-No!" Michael's voice came out strangled.
Jane frowned at the monitors. "He's seizing. Boost the Wraith essence!"
"Already at max!" Mason snapped.
Michael's left arm burst into flames. The restraints melted. Jane cursed, ducking as he thrashed.
"Hold him down!"
Mason lunged, pinning Michael's shoulders. "Fight it, Cobb! This is your body!"
Memories flooded Michael—pitching in the state finals, Katie's smile from the stands, the screech of twisting metal as the truck plowed into his car. The agony of waking up with no right arm. The pitying stares. The dragon's fire.
"No." Michael's voice gurgled, blood trickling from his nose. "I'm… done… losing."
He bit down hard, tasting copper. The Phoenix recoiled as Michael clawed back control, muscle by muscle. The frost spread, smothering the flames.
YOU CAN'T—!
"GET. OUT."
With a final surge, Michael forced the Phoenix's essence into a corner of his mind. It hissed, trapped but not defeated. The fire died.
He slumped in the chair, drenched in sweat and shivering. Jane stared at him, her usual smirk replaced by something like respect. "Huh. You're not totally useless."
Mason checked the monitors. "Vitals stabilizing. Kid's got a Talent, that's for sure."
"T-Talent?" Michael rasped.
"Later." Mason unstrapped him. "Boss wants to talk."
"Now?" Every cell in Michael's body screamed for sleep.
"Now."