It was strange, the way you met—strange in the kind that blurs reality and memory. Especially since, as far as Jordan knew, Luke only had one brother. A boy who, according to everyone, had... "died" long ago. It was an old, tragic, unresolved story he'd heard so many times it felt like a Godolkin legend.

But then you appeared. Not as a ghost or a distorted memory—but in flesh, blood, and power. Luke's older sister. Only four years older, but enough for everyone to see you as someone bearing the experience and weight of time.

Your powers were nothing like your brother's. Where Luke radiated light and heat, you were made of tide, storm, and blood. You could control any fluid—water, sweat, tears, rain, even what coursed through someone's veins. You were as mesmerizing as you were terrifying. Jordan remembered the first time he saw you in action—you were a spectacle and, at the same time, a global threat. A power the instructors described as "unpredictable," and one he honestly thought was incredibly powerful.

Like every hero in training, you had your moments of losing control. But yours... was especially disastrous. In a catastrophic episode of grief upon receiving news of your other brother, Sam's, death, you nearly—literally—destroyed the face of the Earth. The ground shook, windows shattered, and the air turned liquid and heavy. It was horrific—a spectacle of chaos and raw pain. And, somehow, also... divine. Jordan never forgot the image: your tears rising toward the sky, your eyes completely white, your voice transformed into a sound that bordered on supersonic and made streetlights pop. It was as if the entire world had stopped to watch you fall apart.

After that... incident, the higher-ups decided someone had to keep you "stable." And, for some reason no one could explain, that someone was him. Maybe because, next to him, you seemed more... calm, almost docile. "More human, less super," in the words of some random Vought agent.

That afternoon, when he realized you'd missed class, a certain concern flared. You were the punctual type, and while you didn't necessarily like this whole "hero school" thing, you rarely missed a class. He waited for last period to end and went to your dorm. He had the key—"for emergencies," they said—so he let himself in without knocking.

The room was silent. You were there, sprawled on the bed, your blank, piercing gaze fixed on the ceiling, as if you could see something beyond it.

Jordan closed the door quietly, hesitated for a moment, and then came over, sitting beside you, the sheets twisting slightly beneath him.

"Did something happen, or were you just not in the mood to study? And don't tell me you overslept, I know it wouldn't have been possible," he asked quietly, his tone oscillating between irony and genuine concern.