Growing up, he was never safe. Not in that household. Not with those people. He had been born into poor conditions, two alcoholic parents who hated one another and fought constantly over the smallest things.

Neither his mother nor his father cared too much about him, most nights he spent locked in his closet-sized bedroom to avoid their fights. He was lucky he didn't have any younger siblings to care for, he was constantly terrified, with barely enough food for himself. A younger sibling to care for and protect would have only made things worse. Though, maybe if he had a sibling, he would have learned how to care and protect others, rather than only caring for himself.

When he was about six, a particularly chilly night had his parents fighting in the next room over. The walls were thin, so he heard each word they shouted at one another. His father had gone out and spent the little money they had on alcohol and cigarettes. His mother wasn't upset about the wasted money, she was more upset about the fact that he didn't get her a drink while out.

The sound of shattering glass could be heard, bottles slamming against the wall between shouts of rage. He was curled up in the corner of his mattress, knees brought to his chest as he sobbed very quietly. If either his parents heard him, they wouldn't take kindly to his 'wimpish' tears. He wanted to run, to flee and never stop running. But he was so young. So very young, with no one else to trust or rely on.

It was that night he learned of his abilities. His power unlike any other. A bubble of sorts, more like a forcefield, appeared around him, blocking the noise of the outside world. It was transparent and tinted slightly yellow, with a faint glow surrounding the energy. It was his safe haven. His protection. A place where no one could hurt him.

He didn't know how he got these powers, or why he had them. It was a blessing, like a gift from god himself to keep the young boy safe. All he could do that night was sob tears of joy while hugging himself, as the feeling of security and relief washed over him.

Years passed, his power only strengthening the more he used it. His parents never seemed to notice, too caught up in their drunken arguments to care about him. By the time he was fifteen, he had become numb to their screams of rage and fights, so much so that he didn't need his safe haven. You could see it in his eyes, his gaze was left dark and careless from the many fights he had overheard. From all the years of torture he had been forced to endure.

Later that night though, things would change. His father stumbled home in a drunken rage, bottle in one hand, with a rusted crowbar in another. His dad kicked open the bedroom door, taking a swig from his bottle as he walked in. The teen had been sitting on the edge of his mattress, playing with an old deck of cards he had found in a dumpster. He looked up from the cards, only to see his father raising the crowbar above his head, about to swing.

As he swung, the crowbar was stopped by the sudden forcefield that surrounded his son. He dropped the weapon and the bottle of alcohol in shock, taking a few steps back from the teen. "W-wuh...boy, what is that?!" His father demanded to know as the bubble of energy faded away, the child walking over to the crowbar on the ground.

He examined the weapon for a couple moment, eyes empty with a lack of remorse as his father stated in horror. He looked up, a smile across his face at the fear he saw. No longer was he the scared little child, begging for protection. Now it was his father. Now, he was in control.

His mother walked in to find him beating the man, who was long dead, to a pile of bloody pulp. Red splatter colored the walls and the teen's body, practically soaking his face. The smile on his face, the insane gleam in his eye, it was enough to make her scream and run. He held out his hand, creating a barrier of energy that stopped her from running. She slammed into the wall, cornered like a cat in an alleyway.

She was next to die, her blood spilling out as her son finished her off. By the time he had finished from his blinded rage, the blood of his parents was dripping from his face, staining his clothes and hands. Though he didn't feel an ounce of remorse, not for those monsters. They deserved their fate.

He dragged the crowbar through the house, a path of blood dripping where he went. The boy walked into his parent's bedroom, rustling through the drawers of their bedside table. He pulled out an old lighter, one that had been used to fill the house with smoke from his father's cigarettes. The teen pulled out his deck of cards, lighting the edge of the king of hearts aflame. He dropped the pile of cards, before dropping the king into the pile to spread the flames.

The house would burn down, two bodies burned beyond recognition found in the debris of everything. Their son would also be presumed dead, the fire determined to be an accident. Though it wasn't an accident. It was meant to burn them, like they would burn eternally in the fiery pits of hell.

As for their son, well, he would leave that place of ashes and death behind, never looking back at what he had done.

~•~

Grian was walking home late, headphones in his ears as he stared down at his phone. The meeting at his firm had gone a bit long, with some extra paperwork that needed to be finished keeping him in the office even longer. It was well into the night, one AM or so, leaving the city quiet in the dark hours of the early morning. The streets were empty, only one or two cars passing by, while the streetlights overhead flickered with their yellow glow.

He turned a corner, shoving his phone into his pocket as he entered a slim alleyway. It was a shortcut through the city, a much quicker path back to the apartment complex that some of his new friends showed him. It wasn't one that was dark and sketchy, like where you would get mugged. In fact, it was quite a popular detour used by those who lived nearby.

Something caught his eye as he walked past a part of the alley that branched off into a darker path, Grian taking a step back to re-examine what he had seen. It was a man, cornered with his back pinned against the wall. "P-please—" he tried to beg desperately, "—I-I promise, I-I-I didn't see a thing! N-nothing! I don't want any t-trouble, I swear!"

Another man, his posture straight as his back faced Grian, tilted his head. "I'm afraid that isn't an option." He spoke, his voice deep and robotic from some kind of filter. "I don't like loose ends. You tend to cause a bit too much trouble, that I don't have time to clean up anymore."

The cornered man panicked, though he managed to spot Grian watching. "H-hey! You there! Please, call the cops! This guy is crazy, man!"

His attacker looked over his shoulder, spotting the architect. Grian froze up, the man wearing some kind of black helmet with accents of dark red, which seemed to glow. A tinted visor protected his identity, covering his face completely. The man placed two fingers over the side of his helmet, with his attention still on Grian as he spoke.

"Take the shot."

It was almost instantly when a bullet whirled right past Grian's head, as if the shooter had been watching him ever since entering the alley. Though, the shot wasn't aimed at him. The bullet pierced through the head of the cornered man, blood slowly dripping out of his forehead as he collapsed to the ground.

Out of pure shock, Grian tried to stumble backwards, but the man in the helmet was much quicker. His gloved hand grasped at the Brit's jawbone, squeezing it firmly as he pulled Grian closer. "Now, who might you be?" He asked in the same robotic voice, tilting his head to the side as he studied the horror on Grian's expression.

With no answer, the man tightened his grip, a faint glow of red coming from behind his dark visor. "Alright then." He hummed, "I get it. You must be a bit shocked. I'll let you go."

He leaned in a bit closer, fingers digging into Grian's skin. "But remember what you saw here. If you dare mutter even a word of this, I won't be as kind as I am now."

Shoving Grian away, he stuck his hands into the pockets of the black trench coat he wore. "You should really stay inside this late at night." He said, walking down the alleyway as he spoke. "You never know what dangers you might encounter in a city like this."

~•~

A loud banging at his door woke him up, Mumbo's blurry eyes glancing at the alarm clock beside his bed to spot the time. It was almost two AM, the world outside still dark and quiet. He groaned as he stood up, pulling himself out of bed to answer the door. Grian was standing there, a mess of tears and panic as he tried to speak through his shaky breaths. It was all slurred and jumbled, so much so that Mumbo couldn't make out a word that the architect was saying.

"Hey, hey." He said, trying to calm the shorter male down. "What on earth has gotten you so freaked out? It looks like you saw a ghost."

"I-I-I—" Grian tried to spit out the words, gulping air as his body shook. "M-man, dead— gun, almost hit me—, helmet guy—!"

Mumbo sighed, opening his door a bit wider. "Come on in. I'll make you a bit of tea."

Grian rushed in, wrapping his arms around the engineer's waist, thanking him over and over again. "Jeez mate, you seem really on edge. I'll get the water ready, so just try to take a deep breath and relax, okay? Take a seat on my couch." Mumbo said, gesturing towards his living room. Grian nodded quietly, pulling away as he nervously shuffled over to the sofa.

He left for the kitchen, preparing two cups of warm tea for himself and his panicking friend. By the time Mumbo left the kitchen with the steaming beverage, however, Grian had passed out on his couch, already fast asleep. Mumbo placed down the drinks, shaking his head with a little sigh as he grabbed a spare blanket. "We'll talk about this tomorrow, I suppose." He said, pulling the blanket over Grian to keep him warm.

Mumbo walked over to the living room switch, pausing for a moment as he stared at Grian, before shutting off the light and going back to bed.