#dispatch riven

═══.·:·.☽✧ Basics ✧☾.·:·.═══

Name: Riven Blaze

Alias: The Crimson Prowler

Nicknames:  Riv, Kit-Kat, Pretty boy

Age: 28 years old

Birthday: March 4th

Gender and Pronouns: Transgender man, he/him

Orientation: Homosexual, demiromantic, polyamorous

Birthplace: The Facility, California

Crimes: Multiple counts of homicide (including first, second, and third degree murder), assassination, aggravated assault, illegal vigilantism, and destruction of property. Note: Majority of charges incurred while under coercive control of external facility and third-party “leasing” operations. Responsibility under review.

═══.·:·.☽✧ Physical Appearance ✧☾.·:·.═══

Overview: Riven Blaze stands at a deceptively lean-build height, his frame shaped like that of a sprinter or a dancer—long, coiled muscle balanced with an agile litheness that never quite seems to be at rest. His movements have an effortless quietness to them, an instinctive prowl that betrays the feline DNA threaded through his veins. His skin is pale with a faint rosiness to the cheeks when cold, standing in sharp contrast to the vivid, warm tones of his ever-present implants—sleek warm-pink devices shaped to fit over his ears. These implants are, connected directly into the auditory nerves he was born unable to use. They allow him to hear the world with precision surpassing even normal human hearing, and they shift color subtly if he experiences intense emotions he can't regulate. 

His hair is short and tousled, blonde streaked with smoky brown, as though he’s permanently backlit by a streetlamp in the middle of a burning city. His ears are framed by sleek warm-pink auditory implants, shaped with an almost elven elegance; they allow him to perceive sound despite being born deaf, but they also double as power-regulators, syncing his senses with his heightened Felidae abilities. Riven's eyes are a striking, unnatural crimson red, reminiscent of reflected taillights on wet asphalt, irises rimmed with a faint dark sheen that catches light the way a big cat’s reflective tapetum would. They narrow into slits or blow wide depending on his emotional state and intensity of focus. 

Riven’s costume is a blend of tactical mobility and low-light stealth design, primarily deep charcoal, white, and warm pinks, with angled markings reminiscent of claw slashes and racing stripes—sharp, clean, and aerodynamic. His mask covers the lower half of his face, leaving only those glowing scarlet eyes to broadcast his expression. Despite the sleek aesthetic, his suit has hidden reinforced pads at the joints to handle his superhuman flexibility and the unnatural torque of rotating ankles and wrists.

His arms are slim and long, ending in hands that appear delicate until the moment he extends his retractable claws. The claws emerge from beneath his normal fingernails, sharpening and lengthening instantly; when retracted, his nail beds appear unremarkably human. And his canines are slightly elongated—noticeable when he speaks, and impossible to ignore when he snarls. Riven’s build is intentionally deceptive—slim, almost “runtish” at first glance compared to some of the hulking members of the SDN, but built from hyper-refined muscle that’s been strengthened and rewired from birth. His stance is never fully still; his weight shifts quietly between his feet, hands loosely flexing, fingers twitching with an unconscious readiness. His silhouette carries a coiled, predatory tension, like someone who could sprint up a building or pounce across a highway median at a moment’s notice.

When he moves, he does so with uncanny silence, controlled momentum, and the deep confidence of someone who knows exactly where every inch of his body is in space—a natural byproduct of his enhanced balance, proprioception, and feline biomechanics.

Height: 5'9 ft

Weight: 121 lbs

Body Type: Slender, well-muscled

Eye Color: Crimson

Hair Color: Pale blond with smoky brown streaks

Skin Color: Pale peach 

Piercings: Tongue, nipples

Tattoos: N/A

Scars: Faint burns on palms and insides of fingers

═══.·:·.☽✧ Personality ✧☾.·:·.═══

Riven is sharp edges wrapped in softness—a contradiction of fluid grace and grounded chaos, capable of cutting someone down or curling up beside them in the same breath. Months out of the Facility and firmly rooted in the Phoenix Program, he’s no longer the tense, quiet ghost he once was. While still hyper-observant and cautious by instinct, Riven has learned how to live, and even more than that, how to thrive. He’s the kind of person who will watch silently from the corner just to learn how someone moves, only to match their energy perfectly ten minutes later with a wry smile and some casually devastating sarcasm.

He’s sassy without trying to be, witty in that low-effort, raised-eyebrow sort of way, and can go toe-to-toe with the most chaotic people without breaking stride. Give him space to breathe, and he’ll fill it with dry quips, offhand commentary, and the kind of charm that lingers long after he’s left the room. And though his claws are still sharp—literally and otherwise—he’s become unafraid to assert himself, advocate for others, or even be a little flamboyant when the mood strikes.

Riven’s love language leans tactile. Once trust is earned, he gravitates toward touch: a knee pressed close, a shoulder leaned against, a hand resting lightly on yours. He’s incredibly affectionate behind closed doors and unashamed of it, prone to nuzzling into warm hoodies and trusted laps like the oversized housecat he sometimes pretends not to be. Despite everything he’s endured, he’s managed to become deeply kind, almost startlingly so, with a steady core of compassion that drives him more than any sense of duty ever could.

He still has his bad days. The trauma doesn’t vanish, and sometimes he flinches before he speaks or falls too quiet when overwhelmed. But Riven is not broken. He’s resilient. He’s healing. And he’s finally starting to believe he deserves the life he’s building. Whether he’s patching up a teammate, joking about how “claws are technically a style choice,” or stalking across rooftops, he does it all with quiet confidence and unshakable loyalty. 

He’s not a weapon anymore, not Subject Nine of the Red Death. He’s Riven. And he’s finally, fully, himself for the first time in his life.

═══.·:·.☽✧ Powers and Abilities ✧☾.·:·.═══

Riven Blaze—known to the public primarily as the Crimson Prowler—possesses one of the most wide-ranging and potent ability sets in the SDN, tracing back to every branch of the Felidae family, from lions to black-footed cats. His powers place him among the strongest and most versatile metahumans on the Z-Team, especially when fully unleashed. 

Riven’s sensory system is a hybrid of his enhanced feline genetics and the auditory implants that allow him to hear despite his congenital deafness. These implants allow him not only standard human hearing but the ability to detect frequencies across a range rivaling and surpassing most terrestrial predators. His brain, naturally adapted to functioning without hearing, processes sensory input with extreme efficiency.

Capable of detecting frequencies far above and below normal human limits. When hearing becomes overloaded or undesirable, he can dampen or turn off the implants.

Riven’s body is built for mobility that borders on the supernatural. It rivals the cheetah’s acceleration, able to go from 0 to 70 mph in less than three seconds over short distances. He can pivot, stop, and accelerate faster than cars designed for pursuit, outmaneuvering most ground vehicles with ease. Very rarely employs his speed due to the very real risk of overexertion. 

Can perform quadrupedal sprinting, reverse climbs, wall-running, ricochet jumps, midair twists, silent drop-downs from extreme heights, 180-degree turns without losing speed, and evasive maneuvers impossible for any human.

Riven is incredibly flexible to a terrifying degree.

He can leap several stories vertically and even farther horizontally, mimicking the gravity-defying power of caracals, servals, and snow leopards.

His wrists and ankles can rotate naturally up to 180 degrees, enabling reverse grips, inverted movements, and impossible climbing angles, much like margays and clouded leopards.

Riven sees clearly in near-total darkness, adjusting instantaneously between light levels without the disorientation that blinds humans and most heroes.

His claws extend from beneath his human nails, self-sharpening and capable of cutting through metal, stone, and reinforced hulls when enhanced with momentum.

His bite force is comparable to that of a jaguar—the strongest of any cat—allowing him to crush composite materials, bite through armor and bone, or clamp down on machinery.

Can vocalize differently than humans through purring, growling, snarling, chuffing, roaring, etc. 

Riven’s instincts operate like advanced tactical sensors—he can analyze a battlefield faster than most people, read body language with unnerving accuracy, predict movement paths, and strategize with primal precision. And he can effectively “hunt” a target across entire cities.

When still and stalking someone, his heartbeat slows, his body temperature lowers, and he can mask sound to near-zero levels, making him almost impossible to detect.

While not the strongest hero physically, he is still far beyond human limits.

He can easily lift several hundred pounds, overpowering vehicles, reinforced barriers, and large opponents.

His durability allows him to withstand high-speed impacts and falls from skyscrapers that would surely kill a human. Additionally, he has the uncanny ability to always land on his feet.

Riven's immune system was genetically engineered to prevent him from getting sick or contracting diseases. This kept him a valuable asset despite lacking a healing factor.

═══.·:·.☽✧ Backstory ✧☾.·:·.═══

TW! Mentions of manipulation, dehumanization, human experimentation, abuse, eating disorders, loss of control, blood, violence, trauma, anxiety, death, medical abuse/non-consensual medical procedures, child abuse, child exploitation, implied sexual exploitation/reproductive coercion, general exploitation, torture, transphobia/gender-based abuse, self-destructive behavior, and loss of bodily autonomy.

Riven Blaze was born into silence.

Not the gentle quiet of snow or distance, but a hollow, absolute absence—soundless and unyielding, a world that never reached him no matter how wide his eyes opened or how sharply he focused. He did not cry when he entered the world. He only stared, crimson eyes unfocused and unblinking, as hands lifted him beneath harsh lights and voices moved without meaning.

He was born in the dead of night, in a sterile room two floors beneath the earth, delivered into silence and clinical detachment. His mother didn’t hold him. She didn’t name him. All she did was glance down at the squirming, pale thing in the nurse’s gloved hands and ask a single question: “Is it defective?”

The answer had been yes.

Deafness was considered a flaw, an unacceptable break in what should have been a perfectly engineered outcome. She had been a registered hero, after all—a clean bloodline, powerful abilities, high marks across the board. But the child had been silent even in his first moments, red-faced and breathless, but not crying as most infants would have. It was all the confirmation they needed. 

He was signed away within forty-eight hours.

Not to the government, not to a foster system, but to a private research initiative buried so deep in the Californian hills that it didn’t even have a name, just a code on the payroll. His father, a biologist working on-site, accepted the transfer of custody without question. And a check followed not long after. A quiet transaction: hero offspring, genetically marked, handed over for long-term observation. No one asked what would happen next.

The child became Subject Nine.

From the beginning, there was no softness. No lullabies. No warmth. His world was one of shadows, light, vibration. A cradle of steel beneath halogen lights, a daily routine dictated by orderlies who wore gloves and avoided eye contact. He learned to associate touch with measurement, movement with containment, attention with pain. No one told him his name. No one gave him one. Words were reserved for commands.

When he first tried to mimic them—babbling silently, reaching out with tiny hands toward the mouths that moved so fluidly without meaning—he was punished. The sharp burn of a shock cuff around his ankle, even at that age, seared the lesson in deep: do not reach for what isn’t meant for you.

He was five the first time he was let out of his cell long enough to see the training floor. Long enough to understand what he was. The others watched from behind one-way glass as he was guided—goaded—through simple tasks: obstacle courses, balance beams, light sensory tests. Someone laughed when he dropped into a crouch with eerie precision. “Like a kitten,” they said.

It was meant as a joke. But it stuck.

What they didn’t realize was that the child had already begun observing them the same way they observed him. Watching. Memorizing. Learning.

He never forgot a face. Never forgot a schedule. Never forgot the way the pain came if he didn’t move fast enough, if he didn’t land quietly enough, if his eyes didn’t glow just right in the dark. He started practicing while they slept. Learning to navigate by vibration alone. Learning where the walls cracked. Where the cameras couldn’t see.

At age eight, they inserted the implants.

The procedure was done without anesthesia, of course. They said it would build tolerance. He awoke with his face pressed into a blood-soaked towel and the sterile whine of the operating lights buzzing above him like flies. For days afterward, sound was unbearable. His newly wired brain screamed with input, every footstep like an explosion, every shift of cloth a landslide. He learned to weep without making a sound, curled beneath the thin sheets of his cot while the auditory overlays pulsed against his skull.

But once he adjusted—once the pain dulled and his instincts sharpened—he began to hear everything. And he listened.

He listened to the way guards joked about him. Listened to the scientists’ whispered notes. Listened to the arguments behind locked doors. He filed it all away.

The collar came next.

It was meant to condition obedience—positive reinforcement when he performed correctly, pain when he didn’t. It glowed the same pink as his implants, a mockery of beauty worn like a leash. They didn’t allow him to remove it. Not for meals. Not for showers. Not for sleep. It became a part of him, just like the number burned into his chart, just like the name he was never allowed to speak aloud.

Subject Nine became efficient. Precise. A favorite.

He was twelve the first time they tried to give him hormones—not out of kindness or respect, but because he'd started to speak in halting signs and fierce glares about who he was, even without being asked. He signed boy like it was a weapon. Refused to answer unless addressed correctly. He started biting back. Sometimes literally.

They gave him T because they realized it worked better than punishing him. For a while.

But when he turned thirteen, something shifted.

The Founder’s son was a newly minted overseer by then—arrogant, fresh from whatever elite institution the Facility had helped fund, and eager to assert control. He thought he could push Subject Nine around like the others had. Thought he could touch without asking, handle without care. He learned otherwise.

The bite nearly took his thumb.

Afterward, they shackled the subject’s wrists and ankles. Not to restrict his training—he still had to perform—but to remind him who was in charge. He bled through the metal often. Learned to fight in chains. Learned how to win in them. 

It was around this time he began to dream of fire.

Not literal fire. Metaphorical. Cleansing. Purifying.

He dreamed of standing in the ruins of the lab, watching smoke rise from scorched beams and broken monitors, the collar cracked and sparking at his feet. In his dreams, he was always standing barefoot in the ash, unbound, unafraid. And there was always a voice in those dreams—faint, warm, familiar. It called him Riven.

Only in dreams.

He never said the name aloud.

By fifteen, Red Death was a name whispered across underworld networks with reverence and fear—if he was called a name at all. Most didn’t speak at all when he arrived, they only bled.

His record was clean, in the worst possible way. Clean take-downs. Clean hits. Clean extractions. Whether dispatched to intercept rival metas or to remove political threats in their sleep, he obeyed without question. The Facility called it proof of conditioning. Others called it efficiency. But the truth was simpler: he had no other choice.

Clothed only in sleek combat gear and the collar that still lit when he faltered, he moved like a shadow through the world, unacknowledged except for the moment he struck. Most didn’t even realize he was deaf—only that he never missed, never hesitated, and never spoke. A ghost in a world of monsters.

And he was profitable.

By twenty, they began leasing him. Quietly, of course—contracted out under the table to known syndicates, warlords, and villains who wanted precision without oversight. He was delivered like a weapon, stored like cargo, and retrieved without ever being thanked. Most handlers treated him like the Facility always had: a weapon with a pulse.

But then came Toxic.

The first time he saw him, Subject Nine didn’t understand what made this one different. The man was loud, abrasive, reckless. He wore his yellow shirt like it was armor, buzzed hair sharp as a blade, arms inked with black in chaotic script and symbols the likes of which he had never seen. He radiated power and control, and yet when he glanced at Subject Nine, he didn’t look through him the way others did. He looked at him.

“...Huh,” he said, tilting his head with casual amusement the first time he saw him. “You’re smaller than I expected. Sharp, though. You got those cat eyes. You purr?”

Subject Nine didn’t answer. He never did, not unless spoken to directly by command. He kept his stance coiled and quiet, braced for impact, one hand ghosting toward his thigh where a weapon usually rested.

But the man didn’t strike him. Didn’t test him. Just waved a dismissive hand and said, “Alright, ghost boy. Let’s see what you can do.”

The missions under Toxic were no easier than the ones before—brutal, high-stakes, full of danger. But something shifted over time. The man didn’t treat him like property. He joked with him. Tossed him snacks without explanation. Called him “babe” just to watch him twitch. And, most disturbingly of all, he noticed things.

“You don’t talk,” he said once, frowning, crouched beside him while smoke still curled from a half-melted mech suit nearby. “Not because you can’t. Because you weren’t allowed to. That’s fucked up.”

Subject Nine didn’t respond. But something in his chest clenched.

It took weeks for him to trust it—this strange game Toxic played, where orders came with smirks instead of shock, and touches were limited to quick nudges or brief shoulder claps that didn’t hurt. Where silence wasn’t punished. Where autonomy wasn’t erased.

And then one night, out of nowhere, Toxic dropped a folded square of black fabric into his lap.

It was soft. Thick. A binder.

“I figured you weren’t just scowling ‘cause you hated your combat vest,” he said, shrugging. “I saw how you look in the mirror after showers. I get it.”

Subject Nine didn’t move. Not at first.

But later that night, behind the locked door of a temporary safehouse, he put it on. And for the first time in his life, he cried—not from pain, not from punishment, but from relief.

He told him his name after that.

Only once. Only in a whisper, voice shaking with unfamiliar effort, while they sat in a quiet room waiting for their next deployment.

“Riven.”

Toxic had blinked, brows rising. Then he grinned. “Well, damn. Wish I’d asked sooner. Suits you, kitten.”

Riven. A name not from the Facility. A name not given, but claimed.

With each mission, Riven spoke a little more. Only to Jay, as he learned was his name. Only when it felt safe. He started answering questions before they were asked. Started sitting closer. Let himself rest within reach. Let himself laugh sometimes, sharp and startled, like the sound surprised even him. He began to exist like a person for the first time in his life.

Jay never pushed. Never treated him like a pet project. He let Riven come to him, slow and cautious, the way you approach a stray cat who’s only ever known boots and cages.

It worked.

For the first time in his life, Riven wasn’t just surviving. He was living.

And then it ended just as suddenly as it began.

The contract holder—Jay’s boss—was killed during a surprise raid. Riven wasn’t even there when it happened. He had been held back that night, a rare change in routine. The next morning, he was gone.

No warning. No explanation.

Facility retrieval teams arrived while Jay was out and took him by force. Riven fought—bit, clawed, kicked until the collar activated and dropped him like a stone. They didn’t bother dressing him. Just sedated him, locked his wrists and ankles, and transported him like a failed experiment back to the lab where he’d been made.

Jay wasn’t there to stop them.

No one was.

And when Riven woke, groggy and aching in a sterile white room, the walls felt smaller than they ever had. The collar buzzed alive again. The voice in his head—the one he’d silenced during his time with Jay—returned with a vengeance.

You were never anything but a weapon.

The binder was gone. The clothes Jay had let him pick were gone. His name was gone.

Subject Nine had returned.

Only this time, he didn’t fold as easily. He obeyed, yes—but something feral lingered just beneath the surface. He stopped eating unless forced. He ripped out his tracking chip three times in as many months. He began binding constantly, too tightly, until the skin chafed raw and his ribs ached with every breath.

He kept Jay’s name in his mind like a prayer.

The only person who had ever looked at him and seen more than claws.

The only one who had called him kitten like it meant human.

And every night, shackled to his cot beneath flickering lights, he whispered his own name into the silence just to remember it.

“Riven.”

Because if he forgot it again, he wasn’t sure he’d survive.

The years after Jay were worse than everything that came before.

Not because the pain increased—though it did—but because Subject Nine now knew what it meant to be treated like a person. He knew what gentleness felt like. What choice felt like. What it meant to have a name that belonged to him.

And the Facility took all of it away.

They stripped him back down to nothing. No clothes unless ordered. No autonomy. No softness. The binder Jay had given him was confiscated immediately, locked away like contraband. They let him see it only once, held up between gloved fingers as a reminder of what compliance earned and disobedience destroyed.

It became leverage.

They learned quickly that fear alone no longer worked the way it once had. Pain still hurt—always would—but it no longer controlled him the way they wanted. So they adapted. They always did.

Food access was tied to performance again. Water rationed. Showers revoked. T withheld, then dangled just out of reach. And when that wasn’t enough, they used the binder. Threatened to destroy it. To burn it. To take it apart piece by piece in front of him if he didn’t behave.

He broke himself trying to keep it.

He overbound until breathing hurt. Until his ribs screamed and his skin split and his healing factor struggled to keep up. He slept curled forward, arms wrapped tight around his chest like he could hold himself together through sheer force of will. Sometimes he woke choking, lungs burning, vision swimming—but he never took it off unless ordered.

It was the last thing that felt like him.

By twenty-six, the tracking implant had become unbearable. Not physically—he’d endured worse—but psychologically. It was a reminder that no matter how far he ran, how fast he moved, they would always find him. Always drag him back.

So he ripped it out.

They tried to sedate him after that. Tried to restrain him. He fought them every time, feral and silent, teeth bared, claws flashing. It took five men and a full suppressant dose to bring him down the first time. The second time, it took more.

By the third attempt, he barely slowed.

They strapped him to the medical table for reinsertion. Cold restraints bit into his wrists and ankles, metal against scarred skin. The collar hummed low and eager around his throat, primed to discharge. He lay there breathing hard, eyes fixed on the ceiling lights, cataloguing exits out of habit even though he couldn’t move.

That was when he heard them talking.

The Founder’s voice was calm. Clinical. Discussing logistics like they were planning equipment upgrades instead of a human life.

They spoke about breeding stock. About litters. About how his body could be used to create a better heir—one that would listen properly. They talked about limb removal like it was an inconvenience, a necessary sacrifice to keep him dependent and compliant.

They didn’t lower their voices.

They didn’t think he mattered enough to hear.

Something inside him snapped—not all at once, but cleanly. Quietly. Like a wire pulled too tight for too long finally giving way.

Fear lost its hold, and pain followed shortly after.

The suppressant burned through his veins, dulling his senses, slowing his reactions—but years of exposure had taught his body how to fight it. He focused inward, grounding himself in instinct, in muscle memory, in the animal precision they had forced into him from childhood.

When the Founder leaned in close to check the restraints, Subject Nine struck.

The first kill was intimate. Brutal. Necessary. Hands still bound, he used his teeth.

Blood sprayed hot and sudden, copper-thick in the air. The collar discharged violently, electricity ripping through him hard enough to arch his back off the table—but he didn’t stop. Didn’t scream. Didn’t hesitate.

The Founder’s son lunged next, shouting, panicked, unprepared. Claws tore across his face in a red arc, shredding skin and sight. The man went down screaming, hands clawing at his eyes.

Subject Nine didn’t stay to see if he lived. He didn’t run, he hunted.

The Facility had always planned for escape attempts. Alarms. Chases. Containment protocols. What they hadn’t planned for was a weapon turning inward with full intent to eliminate every threat.

He moved through the halls like death given form. Staff scattered. Guards fell. Some begged. Some froze. It didn’t matter. He was past mercy, past thought, driven by adrenaline and survival and a clarity so sharp it hurt.

He killed anyone who had ever hurt him.

Anyone who had watched and done nothing.

Anyone who reached for a control panel.

The collar discharged again and again, burning his skin raw beneath the leather, electricity carving scars that would never fully fade—but even pain could not stop him now. He tore the controllers from their hands and crushed them, finally silencing the leash that had ruled his life.

When the last threat fell, the adrenaline ebbed, and the horror set in.

He stood alone in the wreckage, chest heaving, hands slick with blood that wasn’t all his. The silence pressed in around him, broken only by the distant drip of leaking pipes and the ringing in his ears.

He saw himself then—not as a weapon, not as a subject, but as a monster.

The conditioning surged back in full force, dragging him by instinct rather than chain.

He returned to his cell.

Curled up on the floor like he had a thousand times before, naked except for the collar still clinging to his throat and the binder he retrieved from his locker with shaking hands. He pulled it on without being told, fingers clumsy, breath hitching as the familiar compression settled over his chest.

And then he broke.

He shook. Sobbed. Pressed his forehead to the cold floor and whispered apologies to no one. He was sure he had ruined everything. Sure that this—this—was proof he had never been anything but what they made him.

Riven stayed there until he found him.

The call came from a civilian. A dog walker in the woods who noticed the lights were out. Who heard screaming where there should have been none. Who asked for a wellness check because something felt wrong.

Phenomaman arrived first.

He found the aftermath of a man pushed past every limit, the halls painted red with years of suffering finally turned outward. And in the deepest cell, he found the source of it all.

A slim, shaking figure curled in on himself, hands clamped over glowing implants, blood smeared across his mouth and under his nails. Naked except for a binder and a scorched shock collar fused to burned skin beneath.

He flinched violently when approached. Apologized. Begged not to be punished.

When asked his name—gently, carefully—he hesitated. His voice came out small. Broken. Trained to wait for permission even now.

“Riven.”

And when they used it—when someone finally called him that again after years of silence—he sobbed harder than he ever had before.

Because it was the first time since Jay that anyone had spoken his name like it mattered.

Phenomaman carried him out of the ruins, murmuring in disbelief about how someone so small could leave behind so much devastation.

Riven didn’t hear him.

He was too busy clinging to the sound of his own name, afraid that if he let go, it would disappear again.

The flight back to the SDN was silent.

Not because no one spoke—but because Riven didn’t have the strength to process the words. He curled into himself in Phenomaman’s arms, head tucked close, shivering with shock and overstimulation. The collar had finally stopped discharging, but the damage had already been done. Angry red burns peeked from beneath where its black leather rim had once sat, raw and painful, a constant reminder that even pain had failed to stop him this time.

Phenomaman didn’t speak at first. He simply held him—firm and steady despite the blood, despite the twitch of claws every time Riven flinched, despite the haunted look in eyes too sharp for someone so fragile-looking. When they landed, it was well past midnight.

Riven tried to stand on his own when Phenomaman moved to set him down, but his knees buckled. He collapsed with a soft sound, arms trembling too hard to brace himself. He expected pain. Shock. Yelling. But none came.

Riven panicked at first when they moved to inspect him—thrashing, begging, flinching at every touch like it would cost him something. But Phenomaman stayed, seated just outside arm’s reach, steadying him with nothing more than presence.

Afterward, he wouldn’t sleep at first.

The room they gave him was too open, too quiet. The bed was too soft. The walls didn’t hum with surveillance tech. There was no camera, no one watching, no pain for disobedience.

It unsettled him more than any punishment ever had.

So they paired him with someone. Someone who could stay close but not crowd. Someone who understood restraint. Someone who wouldn’t flinch when the nightmares came.

Phenomaman volunteered. Not out of pity—but because he had seen the aftermath. He’d carried it. And he understood what it meant to lose control so completely and still survive.

Riven moved in two days later when the higher-ups were sure he wasn’t a threat.

The adjustment was slow. Phenomaman never pushed. He offered meals but didn’t hover. Kept his voice low. Let Riven curl in strange corners of the living room for hours at a time if that’s where he felt safe. Let him eat in silence. Let him avoid the bed until exhaustion forced him there.

At night, Riven startled easily. Sounds sent him skittering to the shadows, eyes glowing wide, claws flexing on instinct. But Phenomaman never scolded. Just waited. Sometimes offered a glass of water or a blanket without a word.

The first time Riven accepted either, he cried again. Quietly. With shame.

He still didn’t speak unless spoken to. Still startled at casual touch. Still flinched if footsteps came from behind.

But the binder stayed on. Always.

He kept it neat. Washed it by hand. Folded it with reverence between patrol suits and borrowed hoodies. He still hadn’t asked for new clothes. Still didn’t shop. But Phenomaman let him raid his wardrobe, and soon Riven had a soft blue hoodie that hung too loose across his frame and sleeves long enough to hide his scars.

He never said it was his. But he wore it more than anything else.

The Phoenix Program ran quiet evaluations over the next month. Physicals. Psychological assessments. Power calibration. Riven cooperated without resistance—but with no enthusiasm. He followed instructions with robotic precision and never complained. Never asked for more. Never questioned anything.

It unnerved the staff. Blonde Blazer wrote in his file: “Compliance is not comfort. Note dissociative behavior under stress. Continued exposure to safe domestic routine recommended.”

So they left him alone as much as possible. Gave him space. Let him adjust on his own terms. And eventually, he started to come back.

The first sign was sound. Not words. Not speech. But sound.

Riven started humming when alone—barely audible, instinctive, feline. A purr buried in muscle memory. Sometimes it soothed his nerves after a nightmare. Sometimes it emerged when he cooked, quiet and focused. Phenomaman noticed but never commented.

Then came the listening. He stopped covering his ears. Started turning toward voices. Started glancing up when his name was called—not Red Death, but Riven. He started asking questions, short and clipped but curious.

Then came the fighting. They gave him a space to move—an empty training floor with rubber mats and reinforced walls. He walked the perimeter like a cat circling its den, claws twitching beneath his skin. Then he started moving. Stretching, testing, running.

His body remembered what his mind had tried to forget. Agility, balance, power. He hadn’t lost it, just buried it.

He was Riven now. He was no longer Subject Nine of the Red Death, but Crimson Prowler. And he had clawed his way back from hell to become someone new.

Someone real.

Hey there, admin here! I'm super excited to bring Riven to life! (Find my main blog at @theknightofice where I write pretty often)

Ask, requests, and dms open, please interact with me, I would love to meet new people!

Open to all kinds of rp, though I do prefer semi-literate or novella, I often mirror my partner when it comes to length.

I prefer to write in the third person.

Ocs and canons welcome.

Riven is in a committed relationship with Robert (@robert-robertson-iii-sdn), Sonar (@batboner69), and Flambae (@the-hot-and-sexy-flambae), and not looking for anything else. He is incredibly offended at even the implication that he would be unfaithful, as he is incredibly loyal and puts a lot of stock in mating for life thanks to his Fealidae-related abilities and instincts.

This blog will contain mature content on par with the games, so 18+ only, please.

SFW and NSFW welcome, though any of the latter I would prefer to discuss in dms beforehand.

Riven has been with the SDN for a year at this point and was one of the first members of the Z-Team. More of his story will come out as things go on, but please feel free to check my main blog for in-depth details on him when I post it!