Chapter 1

Rome Art Exhibition: A Prodigy's Struggle in the Shadow of a Legend

By: Alessandro Rossi, Art Critic

February 19, 2224

_________________________________________________________

In the heart of Rome, amidst the ancient splendor and modern vibrancy, an art exhibition has recently captured the attention of the world. Spearheaded by Locke Lamora, the only son of the late, great Anya Lamora. A woman whose art once danced between the realms of reality and imagination, the exhibition is a critical juncture in determining the legacy of the Lamora artistic dynasty.

Anya Lamora, renowned for her unique quirk that allowed her paintings to transcend their canvases, creating experiences that were more than just visual feasts, left the world too soon. Her death, when Locke was merely four years old, left a void in the art world that still echoes with her absence. Anya's art wasn't just seen; it was an experience, a spectacle that even the wealthiest of patrons considered a privilege to witness.

Now, more than half a decade later, her son Locke, devoid of the familial quirk that made his mother a legend, attempts to carry the heavy mantle. The question on everyone's lips: Can Locke uphold the legacy of a mother whose art literally came to life?

The answer, unfortunately, seems to be a resounding murmur of doubt and disappointment. The exhibition, while showcasing a technical proficiency that is commendable for his age, lacks the soul-stirring magic that Anya's works were known for. Locke's art is grounded in reality, a stark contrast to Anya's which defied it. Where Anya's paintings were a gateway to another world, Locke's are merely windows - well-crafted, yes, but windows nonetheless.

Critics and art lovers alike find themselves torn. On one hand, there is an undeniable skill in Locke's work, a meticulous attention to detail and a clear understanding of form and color. On the other, one cannot help but feel the gaping absence of the quirk - that extraordinary ability to breathe life into art, something that Locke, through no fault of his own, lacks.

This exhibition has thus become a polarizing event. Some argue that Locke should be judged on his own merits, not compared to the otherworldly talents of his mother. Others are less forgiving, seeing him as a pale shadow, unable to step out from under the immense shadow cast by Anya Lamora.

One cannot help but wonder: is Locke's pursuit a tribute to his mother's legacy, or an unwitting journey towards tarnishing it? Only time will tell if Locke Lamora can redefine what it means to be a prodigious artist in a world where extraordinary is the norm, and in doing so, perhaps find his own kind of spectacular.

In the meantime, the Rome art exhibition stands as a testament to a young artist's struggle, a son's love for his mother, and the harsh reality of a world that often conflates talent with the supernatural. For Locke Lamora, the journey has just begun. Whether it leads to triumph or tragedy, is a story yet to be written.

_________________________________________________________

He gawked at the photo attached to the article, those youthful peepers forever caught in a moment, trapped by ink and paper. He traced the image with his fingertips, giving it a once-over before he chucked the newspaper onto the coffee table with a dramatic flair. Uncrossing his legs, he sprang to his feet and began a restless march back and forth in front of the plush leather sofa he'd just vacated. Every so often, he'd massage his forehead, sneaking peeks at the offending article as if by some miracle it might rewrite itself.

"This is all kinds of wrong," he grumbled under his breath, his eyes squinting in disapproval.

"Wrong? What's wrong, Locke?" The woman's voice was tentative, her gaze flitting nervously between the crumpled newspaper and her stepson.

Locke halted, his gaze drilling into hers for a heartbeat before he resumed his restless pacing. "Angle's off," he complained, flinging a dismissive hand toward the paper. He started counting off on his fingers, "My left side, that's for digital." A second finger popped up, "My right side, that's old-school, for print." Whirling to face her, he threw up his arms in exasperation, "Am I the only one in this town with a shred of common sense, Delilah?"

Before she could get a word in, he bolted to the coffee table, snatching up the newspaper and shoving it next to his face like it was a wanted poster. "See this?" he jabbed a finger at his own photograph, his voice rising. "The lighting's all wrong!"

"I can't see..." she began, but her words were lost in the wind of his frustration.

Flipping the paper to face himself, he scowled at it, completely tuning her out. "My face is too round- oh god, they made me look fat." he gasped. His nose crinkled in pure, unadulterated disgust. "Un-believable. These guys are like the villains in a bad movie. Knew all along the picture would be fuzzy," he muttered, then, with a sudden movement, his gaze snapped to her. She looked back, a storm of emotions playing across her face.

He sighed, his eyes dropping back to the offending article. "Why am I even bothering with this?"

Then, with a flick of his wrist, the paper sailed through the air, straight into the fireplace, getting gobbled up by the flames in seconds.

Silence hung heavy in the room, broken only by Locke's restless pacing and his occasional mutterings in Italian that sounded like curses in some ancient language.

"So... you're not upset? Angry?" Delilah ventured, her voice laced with uncertainty.

Locke paused, his forehead creasing in bewilderment. "Upset about what?"

Her gaze lingered on him, puzzled. "About what they wrote. I thought it might get to you. You put in so much effort, after all," she said, her voice a gentle whisper, before taking a delicate bite out of her buttered toast.

Locke cracked a half-smile, the kind that didn't reach his eyes. "Oh, that? No, that's just fluff. You know, like the stuff they use to fill teddy bears or bad sitcoms." He resumed his pacing, his steps less frantic now.

Delilah watched him, her expression still laden with concern. "You know, most people would be thrilled to have an exhibition in Rome. It's a big deal, Locke."

He stopped, a chuckle escaping him. "Thrilled? Delilah, the only thing thrilling about this is the free orange juice and the fact that I haven't tripped over my own feet in front of a naked sculpture... yet." His face took on a troubled shade, as he contemplated the consequences of such a thing.

Delilah couldn't help but smile, despite herself. "I guess it's all about perspective, huh?"

"Exactly!" Locke exclaimed, suddenly animated. "Perspective. That's what those critics lack. They're all, 'Oh, Locke Lamora, he's no Anya.' But you know what? I'm not trying to be my mom. I'm trying to be Locke. Locke with a side of extra Locke."

Delilah laughed, her worry dissipating like fog in the morning sun. "Extra Locke, huh? Sounds like a risky dish."

Locke grinned, his mood visibly lifting. "Risky, but worth it. Like eating spaghetti with a white shirt on." He paused, a thoughtful look crossing his face. "You know, maybe I should do that. Host a spaghetti dinner at the gallery. Show them the real Locke Lamora experience."

Delilah raised an eyebrow. "And what would that experience entail?"

Locke spread his hands wide, a theatrical glint in his eye. "Messiness, chaos, a splash of tomato sauce, and a whole lot of heart. Maybe a live band playing off-key. Oh, and everyone gets a free napkin. Can't be too reckless."

She shook her head, still smiling. "Only you could turn an art exhibition into a pasta party."

"Well, they say art imitates life," he shrugged.

He vaulted over the couch, giving Delilah only a quick, mischievous glance as he made a beeline for the kitchen. There was an almost magical glint in his eyes as he rummaged through the pantry, a treasure trove of culinary possibilities.

"You know," he mused, tapping his chin thoughtfully, "everyone raves about my paintings, but they're missing out. Cooking's an art too. Just like dancing, fighting, snapping the perfect photo, strumming a guitar, directing a movie, designing buildings... Oh! Speaking of which, we should totally check out the Leaning Tower of Pisa." He emerged from the pantry, a veritable Everest of ingredients obscuring him from Delilah's view.

Strolling back, he frowned, a storm cloud over his sunny disposition as he set the items down. "How does that tower even stay upright? From what I've seen, it looks like the architects kinda... missed a few lectures on straight lines." He scowled; his fist clenched in a theatrical gesture of exasperation. "If I find out it's just shoddy planning, I swear I'm gonna... I'm gonna..." he scratched his cheek awkwardly, "I don't know, I'll figure it out later."

Delilah let out a mischievous giggle, bounding up from her seat like a sprite. She waltzed over to Locke, who was already knee-deep in culinary chaos, sleeves rolled up like she was preparing for battle. "So, Chef, what culinary adventure are we going on today?" she chimed, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.

Locke flashed her a grin that could light up the darkest of kitchens. "Prepare yourself, Delilah, for we are about to embark on a quest to create the mightiest of pastries - croissants!" he announced with a flourish that would make a magician jealous.

Delilah's face lit up, her enthusiasm rivaling that of a hero ready to slay a dragon. "Then we mustn't dally! To the ovens, we march, if we're to grace the show with our triumphant treats!" she declared, her tone full of heroic determination.

In a whirlwind of motion, Locke snapped his fingers, his eyes bulging as if he'd just remembered the most crucial part of a spell. "The show! How could I forget?" he cried out, suddenly transforming the kitchen into a frenzy of flour and butter. He handed Delilah ingredients as if passing her the tools to save the world, one pastry at a time.

As time spun its web, the kitchen became their battlefield, and they emerged victorious, munching on their hard-earned spoils in the back of a limousine, a chariot speeding them towards the Colosseum.

As they alighted, Locke and Delilah peered up to see a flag, grand and mysterious, fluttering like a sail on the high seas. It bore the image of a grinning clown set against a sea of black, as ominous and thrilling as a pirate's banner. Locke's eyes mirrored the flag, wide and full of wonder, as he took in the sight of the throng of people, like a tide of adventurers, surging through the gates into a world of wonders.

Locke and Delilah, now partners in pastry-crime, approached the gates of the Colosseum with the excitement of two kids on the first day of hero school. The Pilo Family Circus had set up its grand tent here, a place where the ordinary met the extraordinary, and where every act was a leap into the fantastic.

"Think they'll have someone who can juggle fireballs? Or maybe a tightrope walker who defies gravity?" Delilah mused, her eyes scanning the crowd. They were a mosaic of quirks and colors - some attendees had skin that shimmered like starlight, others had wings folded neatly behind their backs. It was like walking into a page of a comic book, where every character was more dazzling than the last.

Locke, with his usual mischievous glint, replied, "I'm holding out for a clown who can turn invisible. That'd be a hoot!"

As they shuffled through the entrance, a ticket collector with hands that glowed like lanterns checked their tickets, giving them a nod that was both welcoming and slightly ominous. "Enjoy the show, but beware - the circus always has a few tricks up its sleeve," he said, his voice echoing with a hint of mystery.

Inside, the circus was a labyrinth of wonders. The air was thick with the scent of popcorn and the sound of laughter, a symphony of joy and anticipation. Locke couldn't help but sneak a peek backstage as they passed a slightly ajar tent flap. There, the performers were a whirlwind of quirks in action - one was stretching her arms like rubber to tie decorations, while another seemed to be practicing a trapeze act, soaring through the air without any ropes, his body flickering like a flame.

"Did you see that?" Locke whispered, his eyes wide with amazement.

Delilah, grinning, waved their tickets and nudged him playfully. "Come on, let's go find out places."

They shuffled through rows of people, bumping knees and stepping on toes, spouting copious amounts of apologies before finally finding their seats, right in the heart of the big top. The buzz of the crowd was electric, a current of excitement that ran through everyone. Locke leaned over to Delilah, his voice barely audible over the din, "I feel like we're about to witness something incredible."

Delilah's smile was all the answer he needed. As the lights dimmed, they settled in, their hearts pounding in unison with the drumroll that began to fill the tent.

The lights dimmed further, plunging the big top into a realm of shadows and anticipation. Then, with a burst of light and a crescendo of music, the show began. The first act was a duo of acrobats, their bodies twisting and turning in the air, defying the very laws of physics. They moved as if gravity was a mere suggestion, leaping and soaring with an elegance that left Locke and Delilah speechless.

"Are they even human?" Locke whispered, his eyes wide with disbelief. The acrobats seemed to float, their movements synchronized to the beat of the music, a dance between earth and sky.

Delilah leaned in, her voice tinged with awe. "This is the Pilo Family Circus, Locke. I'm not sure 'human' applies here."

Next came a magician, but not the kind that pulled rabbits out of hats. This one manipulated fire, his hands weaving through the air, creating shapes and forms that danced in the darkness. Flames appeared and disappeared at his command, swirling around him like fiery serpents.

Locke's jaw dropped. "I thought I'd seen it all in the art world, but this..." he trailed off, unable to find the words.

Delilah nudged him playfully. "You said it yourself, art's not just on canvases. It's everywhere."

The climax of the show was something straight out of a fantasy. A performer, clad in shimmering attire, took center stage, her presence commanding the attention of every eye in the tent. She began to sing, and as she did, the air around her shimmered and shifted. It was as if her voice had a quirk of its own, painting the air with colors and shapes that moved to the melody.

Locke was spellbound, his artist's soul captivated by the visual symphony before him. "Now that's art," he breathed, his earlier frustration forgotten in the face of such beauty.

Delilah smiled, watching Locke's expressions shift with each act. As the act came to a close, and the performers took their bows under the thunderous applause of the audience, Locke felt a stirring in his heart.

He turned to Delilah, a newfound determination in his eyes. "I've got an idea for my next exhibition," he said, his voice filled with excitement.

Delilah raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Do tell."

Locke's smile was a thing of pure inspiration. "It's going to be about-" his voice was buried beneath the thunderous explosion that rocked the entire Colosseum.

He stared up curiously, the world turning upside down. The roof, ablaze, sent shadows dancing wildly across his face as clown-masked terrorists descended through the gaping wound like fallen angels, their laughter a chilling echo. Locke's eyes widened in shock and fear, shivering as he stared at the nightmare before him.

"Locke!" Delilah yelled, pulling hard on his hand, his body jolting at the rough treatment. He blinked back his tears, his gaze turning numbly to the woman who was desperately leading him away. He watched her mouth move, yet he couldn't hear anything.

Beams crashed down, their metal bones twisted and groaning. The ground shuddered violently, opening up like the jaws of some great beast. Stumbling, Locke watched as people were flung about, like dolls tossed by an angry child. His heart raced, grip tightening on Delilah's hand.

Screams pierced the air, sounds that made his skin crawl. The fabric of the tent, once a canopy of dreams, now draped like fiery ghosts over the fleeing crowd. He watched them, disappearing into walls of smoke and ember, wondering if that was the right way. Locke's mind reeled, each breath a battle against the mounting smoke and heat.

In a desperate lunge, Delilah tackled him, dodging a falling light fixture, its sparks like sinister fireflies. His heart pounded in his ears, drowning out the sounds of his whimpers. They stumbled over debris, each step a gamble, his little feet often finding purchase on wobbly rocks that threatened to twist his ankle.

As he went to take another step, a large man shoved through forcefully. He watched in terror as his hand slid out of Delilah's. With a deafening crack, the ground beneath them finally gave way. They fell, the world a blur of fire and shadow, down into an abyss that swallowed screams and hopes alike. The fall felt like an eternity, a descent into a hellish unknown.

His vision spun, a dizzying kaleidoscope of sky and ground, as Locke hit the ground hard. His breath escaped in a whoosh, leaving him gasping, winded.

A sharp, searing pain shot up his spine, sending waves of agony throughout his body. He writhed on the ground, a fish out of water, his desperate attempts to alleviate the pain proving fruitless.

The ground beneath his palms felt like a desert, dust swirling into the air, invading his lungs. His violent coughs rattled his chest, each convulsion sending a wave of agony through his body, reverberating to the back of his head.

Rubbing his eyes fiercely, Locke pushed himself up on unsteady arms. The world was a muffled echo around him, his ears still ringing from the fall. Somewhere, distantly, the sound of water murmured, but the stream lay meters away, a misleading symphony to his disoriented senses.

He blinked rapidly, realizing something critical - Delilah wasn't there. Panic clawed at his insides, a wild, desperate thing.

His heart pounding in his chest, Locke spotted a piece of reinforced concrete nearby. He moved towards it, each step an effort, each step punctuated by a ragged cough tearing from his throat. The concrete walls around him seemed to swim and shift, as if he were viewing it through water. Peering over the edge of his makeshift shelter, Locke intended to call out for Delilah, but the words died in his throat. From the corner of his eye, through the smoke's hazy curtain, a figure emerged - a grinning clown mask, the colors of its garb grotesquely bright against the dreary backdrop. Locke's heart skipped a beat, and he ducked behind the wall, his breaths coming in short, heavy bursts.

Everything seemed to slow down, the crunch of glass underfoot a sinister rhythm in the eerie quiet. To his horror, Locke's ears picked up a whimper, a soft, terrified sound that pulled at his very soul. He clenched his teeth, daring another glance.

What he saw next would haunt him forever.

It had been a woman's scream that pierced the air, a desperate plea for help that drew the clown's attention. Locke's heart pounded against his ribcage, a futile attempt to escape the horror unfolding before him. His nails scratched at the wall, watching as the clown's hand moved with chilling deliberation, a pistol appearing as if conjured from thin air.

Three shots rang out, echoing in Locke's skull. The woman crumpled; life extinguished in an instant. Terrified, he watched as the light fled from her eyes, as her emerald gaze lost its luster. A strangled whimper escaped his throat, causing the clown to turn sharply. Color drained from Locke's face as he cowered behind the wall, the only barrier between him and the nightmare.

Body trembling uncontrollably, he curled into himself, his arms cradling his head, as if he could somehow muffle the world and its horrors. He tried desperately to stifle his sobs, heart-wrenching sounds, as his eyes quivered with fear and shimmered with tears.

The crunch of glass drew nearer. Locke held his breath, the raspy breathing of the clown now terrifyingly close, muffled by the mask. Its footsteps paused, the scent of cologne and smoke wafting over to him, as sweet and unpleasant as flowers on a grave. Then, as suddenly as it had approached, the sound began to fade, the footsteps moving away.

It was then, that the foul stench hit Locke like a physical blow, an assault on his senses that made his stomach churn. He gagged, the acrid smell of death and fear mingling with something far more primal and humiliating. The realization dawned on him in a nauseating wave - the woman, in her final moments, had lost control of her bowls.

Pushing through his revulsion, Locke forced himself to move. The clown's path of destruction was marked by man-made ravines.

He lurched forward, each step punctuated by a ghastly splash. Staring down, he saw the crimson tide lapping against his shoes, a realization striking him with the force of a thunderbolt - it was blood, not water. His eyes shot upwards, scaling the harsh fortress of jagged concrete and stone, encountering a gallery of statues far removed from Michelangelo's masterpieces.

Instead, he found a chilling exhibition: men, women, and children, frozen in time. Their eyes, wide open, bore into him with silent accusation, their mouths agape in eternal screams.

His legs gave way, forcing him to lean heavily against the nearest wall. He was surrounded by a macabre tableau - dozens of lifeless bodies, each face etched with an indelible mark of terror. Breath became a stranger to him; he gasped for air, but it was like trying to inhale in a vacuum. Panic and fear sent his thoughts into a frenzied whirl, his mouth as parched as the dust coating his trembling fingers. Desperately, he clutched at his shirt, twisting the fabric in a futile attempt to wring air from his constricted lungs.

"I-I can't..." he gasped, tears carving paths through the grime on his cheeks. His gaze fixated on a woman, her black hair a tangled mess, marred by blood and sweat, her face streaked with the same scarlet horror. His mind played cruel tricks, superimposing Delilah's features over the woman's, sending shivers of terror through Locke's already unsteady frame.

With a blink, the illusion shattered, but his panic remained, unyielding. His head whipped frantically from side to side, a desperate hunt for Delilah. The thought of her, possibly hurt or worse, fueled his steps, lending him a grim determination. He followed the shallow stream, heading up towards the surface. Before long he arrived at an opening where, amidst the carnage, he saw her.

Delilah lay pinned beneath a massive steel beam, her small frame almost lost under its oppressive weight. Blood matted her hair and stained the ground around her head, a stark, crimson halo that sent a jolt of horror through Locke's body.

He rushed to her side, his own pain forgotten in the face of her suffering. "Delilah!" he called, his voice cracking with fear and urgency. But she lay motionless, her once vibrant face ashen and still.

"Oh god, oh god, this can't be happening!" Locke's hands shook like leaves in a storm as they hovered over her face. Tears clouded his vision as he laid a trembling palm on her neck, fumbling to find a pulse. He whipped around, coughing into his elbow, his eyes widening at the sight of smoke weaving through the debris, engulfing the space like a hungry beast.

"Locke..." Delilah's voice was a faint whisper, her eyes glazed with pain, as if she was seeing through a fog. Her voice sent shivers down Locke's spine, his head snapping towards her, eyes alight with a flicker of hope.

"Just hang in there, Delilah. Please, hang on..." His voice cracked, breaking like thin ice underfoot. He sobbed, gently lifting her head, cradling it in his lap like the most precious treasure.

"I-I can't feel my legs, Locke..." she whispered, her voice as fragile as a spider's web, before a violent cough racked her body. Her eyes fluttered open, the sapphire blue of them shimmering, holding back an ocean of tears. "The smoke... you need to go." Her trembling hand reached out, her delicate fingers wrapping around his with a strength that belied her condition.

"What are you talking about?!" he burst out, his grip tightening on her hand. "We're getting out of here together. Someone's got to come for us... right?" His gaze was desperate, pleading, searching her face for any sign of hope, and it was enough to break the dam in her eyes.

"Locke..." she sobbed, turning her face away. "Please, you have to..."

"I can't lose you, Delilah. Not you too."

Freeing her hand, her finger reached for his shirt, a silent plea etched in every line of her face. "You must. For both of us..."

Then, the crunch of glass. Locke's ears pricked up, his eyes widening in grim realization.

"In the mist, where shadows dwell,

Lurks a tale I'm here to tell.

A grinning face, a silent scream,

In this twisted, nightmarish dream.

Beneath the mask, where horrors hide,

In the smoke, I smoothly glide.

With every step, the fear grows thicker,

For I am the clown-faced snicker.

A dance of death, a twisted joke,

In the haze, your spirit I evoke.

Beware, my friend, for when you choke,

It's I who laughs, in the smoke."

Locke's eyes filled with pure terror as the clown emerged from the grey veil. With a flourish, the man conjured a fireball in his hand and casually tossed it to the ground. The flames eagerly devoured whatever fuel lay hidden, blazing up into a ferocious inferno that trapped them in a fiery ring. The clown's mask, twisted into a grotesque grin, seemed to leer at them, head cocking as if puzzled by their fear.

Delilah, her breath shaky, suddenly found a surge of strength. She pushed Locke, urgency etching her voice. "RUN! Don't look back, just run! For me, please."

Locke hung his head, a moment of despair washing over him, before he stood tall, positioning himself protectively in front of Delilah. His small body was a live wire of fear and determination. "I can't lose another one... not another mother," he whispered, his voice breaking, the words heavy with unspoken pain.

Delilah's reaction was instant - her eyes wide with shock, her tears momentarily halted in their tracks. The clown's chuckle, sinister and muffled by the mask, sent a shiver down Locke's spine.

Time seemed to freeze for the boy. The scene was burned into his memory, every detail sharp and haunting - the clown's breath visible against the mask, the insane gleam in those crimson eyes, flickering with malice.

"You think you can save her?" The clown's voice slithered through the air, dripping with a malicious curiosity.

Locke, shaking his head but resolute, replied, "No, but I have to try."

"How touching," the clown snickered, pulling a pistol from his jacket and pointing it squarely at Locke. "But..." his voice dropped to a rumble, "...we both know how this ends."

A gunshot echoed, a stark, lonely sound. But Locke felt no sting of pain, only a hollow ring in his ears. Maybe he couldn't feel pain anymore. Maybe he was already slipping away. He tumbled backwards, the ground rising up to meet him with a harsh, undeniable reality. Pain shot through him - oh, he felt that alright.

His eyes fluttered open, expecting the worst. Instead, he saw a surreal sight: a towering figure, cloaked in white flames, standing amidst a sea of smoke and fire. The air was filled with booming laughter, rich and deep, as a man with fiery red hair straightened up. "Fear. No. More," he bellowed with a confidence that seemed to shake the very ground.

The man's mouth opened, and a startling jet of white flames erupted, swirling back to engulf his face, leaving only piercing red eyes visible through the tempest of fire. He turned, fixing those intense eyes on Locke for a moment before facing the clown.

In a blur of motion too quick for the eye, the man reappeared right in front of the clown, placing a hand on his shoulder with unyielding strength. The clown reacted instinctively, firing bullet after bullet into the man's chest. But Locke watched, eyes wide with a mix of horror and awe, as the bullets simply melted away, dripping from the man's suit in sizzling rivulets.

With a glowing white-hot hand, the man reached out, pressing his palm against the clown's chest. The fabric of the clown's costume ignited instantly, revealing a gaping charred hole as the man withdrew his hand. The rest of the clown's body succumbed to the flames, disintegrating into ash in seconds, leaving Locke in stunned silence.

The man turned to Locke, allowing the boy a full view of his savior. Locke recognized him immediately - Ignition, Europe's number one hero. A fiery mane of white flames obscured his head, red eyes gleaming with a fierce determination. His suit, a deep crimson adorned with a symbol of white flame, seemed to radiate power. And fluttering behind him, a black cape danced in the wind. Locke had never seen anything so awe-inspiring.

Locke could feel the ground tremble with each deliberate step that Ignition took, like a drumbeat in a hero's march. The man's movements were purposeful, heavy with the weight of strength and certainty. He approached Delilah, who let out a faint groan, her voice tinged with both pain and protest. Locke's eyes were wide, his breath caught in his throat as he watched the scene unfold with a mix of awe and disbelief.

Ignition reached down, his hand hovering over the oppressive steel beam pinning Delilah. There was a moment of tense silence, and then, with a mere touch from Ignition, the beam cracked. It didn't just crack, though; it crumbled away like it was made of nothing sturdier than dust. There wasn't even a hint of heat or fire in the process - it was as if the beam simply decided to give up in the face of Ignition's resolve.

With a gentleness that seemed at odds with his imposing figure, Ignition scooped up Delilah. He did it with such care, as if she were a fragile artifact from a long-lost civilization, priceless and irreplaceable. Then, turning to Locke, Ignition extended his free arm. The hero's movements were smooth and assured, a stark contrast to the chaos and destruction that had surrounded them just moments ago.

Locke found himself being lifted effortlessly, cradled securely in Ignition's arm opposite Delilah. In a blink, the three of them found themselves soaring through the air, the ground far below. Peering through his hair, Locke saw the comforting smile of Ignition.

"My Hero..." the boy mumbled, fainting moments later.