Phoenix Force

The passage of time had sculpted Auzra into someone almost unrecognizable from the small, uncertain child Joker had found all those years ago. Now, at thirteen, he stood taller, his once-soft features now defined with the early traces of maturity. His body, though still lean, bore the marks of discipline—toned muscles forged through relentless training, reflexes honed to perfection. He moved with the quiet confidence of someone who had seen far more than most his age, his mind sharpened by experience, his instincts refined through countless trials. At 160 cm, he wasn't the biggest presence in a room, but there was a weight to him—a presence that demanded attention even in silence.

Life with Joker had never been easy, but it had always been structured—built upon unshakable foundations of discipline, precision, endurance, and control. These weren't just lessons Joker had taught him; they were rules etched into his very being, principles he had internalized through years of rigorous training and relentless trials. Every day had been a test, a push beyond his limits, and Auzra had met each challenge head-on, determined to master what Joker had given him.

His flames, once unpredictable and erratic, had become something more—an extension of his very will. No longer did they flicker aimlessly or lash out uncontrollably. Now, they responded to him with perfect obedience, bending and twisting at his command. His accuracy had been sharpened to the point of instinct, whether it was the precise flick of a flame or the controlled precision of his movements in battle.

And yet, despite all he had achieved, despite the control he had cultivated, Auzra knew he was far from being done.

…

Auzra's POV

The morning air was crisp, carrying the lingering chill of the night, but I barely felt it. My body was already burning—not from the cold, but from the relentless exertion of training. Every muscle in my arms and legs ached, a dull but familiar pain that I had long since learned to push through.

I exhaled slowly, steadying my stance as I extended my arm forward. The warmth of my flames flickered to life along my fingertips, golden and controlled, moving with purpose. They were no longer the wild, unpredictable inferno they had once been. Years of discipline had refined them into something far deadlier—precise, efficient, obedient to my every command.

Before me stood a training dummy, a simple wooden figure reinforced for durability, its surface already marred by scorch marks from previous exercises. It was motionless, waiting, offering no resistance.

I closed my eyes for a brief moment, shutting out the world around me. No distractions. No wasted movement.

One shot. One strike. Absolute accuracy.

With a sharp snap of my fingers, a concentrated stream of fire shot forward in a perfectly straight line, cutting through the air like a bullet. The impact was precise, striking the exact center of the dummy's chest. A burst of golden heat engulfed the target for a second before fading, leaving behind a blackened scorch mark that spread outward like a sunburst.

The dummy remained standing, its wooden frame charred but intact.

I opened my eyes, exhaling slowly. Close. But not enough.

Not enough power.

I clenched my fists, frustration simmering beneath my skin like embers waiting to ignite. The strike had been precise, but precision alone wasn't always enough. Strength mattered. Impact mattered. And I wasn't quite there yet.

With a quiet exhale, I wiped the sweat from my forehead, the back of my hand coming away damp. My body ached, but I pushed the discomfort aside. Training wasn't supposed to be easy. I repositioned myself, grounding my stance for another attempt.

Just as I prepared to strike—

PSSSSHHH!!

My entire body tensed. That was not the sound of wood splintering under heat. That was not the sound of controlled fire meeting its target. No, that was the sharp, unmistakable hiss of something else entirely.

Then came the next set of sounds—

CRACKLE. SIZZLE. A harsh, hacking cough.

I snapped my head toward the house, my heartbeat quickening. Smoke. Thick, curling plumes of it, rising from the open kitchen window.

I sighed, my shoulders slumping in exasperation. "Oh no. Not again."

For the third time this month, Joker had tried to cook. And for the third time, the kitchen was on the verge of being reduced to ashes.

I stepped inside, and immediately, the acrid scent of charred food assaulted my senses. The kitchen was thick with smoke, tendrils of it curling toward the ceiling in silent protest.

At the center of the disaster stood Joker, utterly unbothered, flipping something in a pan with all the confidence of a seasoned chef—despite the overwhelming evidence to the contrary. The stove was a mess, oil splatters decorating the surface like battle scars, and the pan itself looked like it had seen things no cookware should ever witness.

Joker barely spared me a glance as he continued his reckless assault on whatever poor ingredients he had thrown together. "You're up early," he remarked casually, as if the very air around us wasn't thick with the scent of burnt failure.

I crossed my arms, narrowing my eyes at the crime scene before me. "I've been up. What exactly are you trying to make?"

Joker tilted the pan slightly, revealing what I think was meant to be an omelet. The edges were charred beyond recognition, curled and blackened like old parchment, while the center remained disturbingly undercooked. A pool of oil shimmered around it, as if it were trying to escape its own existence.

With an air of misplaced confidence, Joker grabbed a plate and unceremoniously dumped the tragic creation onto it. He slid it across the counter toward me, the smirk on his face entirely too self-satisfied for someone who had just committed an unforgivable culinary sin.

"Breakfast," he announced, as if the abomination before me deserved such a title.

I stared at the monstrosity on my plate. Then at Joker. Then back at the so-called "omelet."

"…Are you trying to poison me?"

Joker shrugged, completely unfazed. "You'll live."

That wasn't reassuring.

Cautiously, I prodded at the omelet with my fork. It shouldn't have been possible, but somehow, it was both burnt to a crisp and undercooked at the same time. The laws of cooking—and possibly physics—had been utterly disregarded in the making of this dish.

I shot him a suspicious look. "You've been making breakfast for years. How are you still this bad at it?"

Joker leaned lazily against the counter, smirking like he hadn't just created something that belonged in a hazard containment unit. "I never said I was trying to improve."

I groaned, but since I did need to eat, I forced myself to take a bite.

Instant regret.

The texture was rubbery, like old shoe leather, with a delightful aftertaste of charcoal and despair. My jaw protested as I chewed, and swallowing felt like a battle I was barely winning.

Joker, the absolute menace that he was, watched me struggle with visible amusement. "So?"

I forced the bite down and cleared my throat, determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing me suffer. I set my fork down with a solemn nod.

"Perfect," I said. "The perfect training tool."

Joker raised an eyebrow.

I grinned. "If I can survive this, I can survive anything."

For a moment, he just stared at me, then—to my absolute shock—he actually laughed. A real, genuine laugh, deep and unguarded.

"Fair point," he admitted, shaking his head.

…

After barely surviving breakfast—and questioning all of my life choices that led to this moment—Joker gestured for me to follow him.

He led me down a narrow hallway, past rooms I had already memorized, before stopping at a door I had never paid much attention to.

"Follow me," he said simply, pushing it open.

I hesitated. That was ridiculous. I had lived here for years, and yet I had never noticed this part of the safe house before. How was that even possible?

Joker glanced back at me, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Something wrong?"

I narrowed my eyes. "This room has always been here?"

He smirked. "Has it?"

That didn't answer anything. Typical.

With a sigh, I stepped inside.

Inside was an armory.

And not just any armory—a crazy one.

The walls were lined with weapons of every kind. Blades of different lengths and shapes, from sleek daggers to massive broadswords. Pistols, revolvers, sniper rifles—all meticulously arranged as if each had a story to tell. Some gleamed under the dim lighting, their polished surfaces reflecting a lifetime of careful maintenance. Others bore the marks of battle—scratches, dents, signs that they had been used rather than merely displayed.

My gaze swept over the collection, my mind struggling to process the sheer number of options. This room had always been here? I had lived in this safe house for years and never once noticed it.

I turned to Joker, suspicion creeping into my voice. "You had this the entire time?"

Joker smirked, leaning casually against the doorframe. "What, you thought I was just guessing where to find weapons?"

I crossed my arms. "…Yes."

He let out a low chuckle, clearly enjoying my disbelief. "Kid, I might be reckless, but I'm not stupid." He gestured toward the collection with a lazy wave of his hand. "Go on. Pick something that fits you."

I hesitated.

The short sword on the nearest rack caught my eye. Sleek, deadly—but too close-range for my style. I moved past it. A pistol? No. Too ordinary, too inefficient. My fingers traced over the cool metal of a rifle, but even that felt wrong.

I needed something precise. Something that let me strike from a distance—something that played to my strengths.

And then I saw it.

I reached for it, fingers grazing the cold metal as I lifted it from its place on the rack. The weight was perfect—not too heavy to slow me down, not too light to feel flimsy. It was balanced, sturdy, right.

I pressed the stock against my shoulder, testing the grip. The rifle molded into my hold like it had been waiting for me all along.

Joker watched, arms crossed, an amused smirk tugging at his lips. "Figured it. You were never the reckless type."

I adjusted my stance, bringing the scope to my eye. The world narrowed into a single point of focus, distant yet clear. Precision. Patience. Control.

This was me.

I exhaled, steadying my grip. "Accuracy is everything," I murmured, the realization settling deep. A sniper rifle—it was perfect.

Joker twirled a knife between his fingers, nodding in approval. "Then let's get to work."

From that moment on, my path was clear.

I wouldn't just be another fighter, throwing myself into the chaos of battle. I would be the unseen bullet, the silent force in the shadows. The one shot that never missed.

…And maybe, one day, I'd be able to dodge Joker's cooking.