The TV in the corner of the electronics shop droned on, the news anchor's voice blending into the background noise of customers and buzzing fluorescent lights. Ryan sat hunched over his workbench, stripping wires with a utility knife, his mind drifting as the report on the brutal scene in Hell's Kitchen filled the screen.
"No bodies found, no suspects arrested. Blood was smeared and pooled all over the pavement, and the interior was destroyed by bullets. Police are baffled…"
Ryan tuned it out, replaying the argument with Cal for the hundredth time. He could still hear the frustration in his friend's voice, the way Cal had ordered him to stay out of it. To let him handle it alone. The idea still made Ryan's blood boil. He was done being sidelined, done being weak.
His hands moved mechanically, the knife gliding across the wire in front of him. He daydreamed of that night, replaying it in his mind. If he had the power to take Brutus down, things would have been different. He wouldn't have had to watch Cal take a beating for him, wouldn't have felt so helpless. The thought of facing Brutus again, of making him pay, sent a thrill through him. He didn't just want to defeat him; he wanted to kill him.
Lost in his thoughts, Ryan barely noticed as the knife slipped, cutting across his thumb. He hissed in pain, instinctively grabbing his hand. But when he opened his palm, there was no blood, no wound—only smooth, unbroken skin.
Ryan stared at his hand, his heart racing. A grin spread across his face, disbelief and excitement battling for control. "No way," he muttered, glancing around the shop. No one seemed to have noticed. His boss was in the back, sorting through inventory, and the few customers were busy browsing. He turned back to his workbench, his mind spinning.
He picked up the knife again, his hand shaking slightly. He knew he shouldn't, knew it was crazy, but the urge to know was overwhelming. He pressed the blade against his arm, hesitating for a moment before slashing hard. The knife bounced off his skin, the tip snapping off and clattering onto the workbench.
Ryan let out a breathless laugh, staring at the broken blade in his hand. He felt invincible, a rush of power surging through him like nothing he'd ever felt before. He looked around the shop, a wild grin on his face. He had to get out of here, had to test this for real. He glanced down at his shirt, an idea forming in his mind.
Clutching his side, he let out a groan, limping towards the back of the shop. "Hey, Mark!" he called, putting on a grimace. "I think I messed myself up worse than I thought. I'm gonna have to go home."
Mark, his boss, poked his head out from behind a stack of boxes, his face twisted in irritation. "Again? You just got back from being out!"
Ryan gave a sheepish smile, still holding his side. "Yeah, I know. It's just… I'm still hurting from that accident. I'll be back tomorrow, I promise."
The boss sighed, waving a hand dismissively. "Fine, go. But if you miss another day, don't bother coming back."
Ryan nodded, grabbing his jacket and practically running out the door. As soon as he was outside, he slowed his pace, glancing around. The excitement bubbling inside him was hard to contain. He needed to do something, anything, to test his new limits.
The city seemed to buzz around him as he wandered the streets, the noise and chaos fading into the background. He found himself in a run-down part of town, the buildings crumbling and graffiti-covered. He turned down a narrow alley, his heart pounding. He felt alive, more alive than he had in years.
A sound caught his attention—a muffled cry, followed by a low, menacing voice. Ryan's head snapped up, his eyes narrowing as he spotted a man in the shadows, pinning a woman against the wall, one hand over her mouth.
"Just shut up and it'll be over quick," the man growled, his eyes darting around nervously.
Ryan's blood boiled. He took a deep breath, stepping forward with a cheerful grin. "Hey there, buddy!" he called out, his voice light and casual. "Thanks for committing a crime. You see, it's my first day on the job, and I really needed the practice."
The man turned, his eyes widening in surprise and irritation. "Get lost, freak," he snarled, his grip on the woman tightening.
Ryan sauntered closer, his grin widening. "I'm serious. You really made my day, man." He stopped a few feet away, tilting his head. "So, what's the plan here? You gonna keep doing this, or are you gonna let her go?"
The man's expression twisted in anger. He pulled out a knife, holding it up threateningly. "You're dead, man."
Ryan's grin didn't falter. He spread his arms wide, the thrill of what he was about to do buzzing through him like electricity.
The man lunged, slashing at Ryan with the knife. Ryan barely moved, letting the blade slide across his chest. The man's eyes widened in shock as the knife didn't leave a mark. He slashed again and again, the knife bouncing off harmlessly each time. Panic flickered in his eyes as he stabbed at Ryan's stomach, the blade snapping in two as it made contact.
"Guess we found your limit." Ryan's grin never faltered.
Grabbing by the collar before he could back away, lifting him off the ground and slamming him into the wall. He tightened his grip, lifting him higher before throwing him into the dumpster with a resounding crash. The man crumpled to the ground, unconscious and bleeding.
Ryan crouched down, grabbing the man's wallet and pulling out a few crumpled bills. He looked at the unconscious man, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "Thanks, man. I needed some new clothes since you ruined my old ones."
The woman, still shaking, stuttered out a hurried "thank you" before backing away, her eyes wide with fear and confusion. She pulled out her phone, dialing a number as she rushed past him, not looking back.
Ryan watched her go, a strange mix of emotions swirling inside him. He felt a rush of euphoria, the thrill of stopping a crime, of using his power to protect someone. He stood there for a moment, letting the feeling wash over him. He had saved her, done something good.
A grin spread across his face as he looked up at the sky. He felt unstoppable, invincible. This was just the beginning.
—
The candle was burning low. She sat at the back of the prayer closet, pressed into the corner, knees pulled to her chest. The wood beneath her felt cold. Dust clung to her skin. The coats above swayed gently, brushing against one another like they were whispering.
She didn't make a sound.
The door was wide open. Outside, the room was gone. Just black. No walls, no bed, no toys. Nothing but a flat darkness that went on forever.
And in that dark stood two figures.
Lit only by the flickering candle behind her, their faces were too long. Skin pale and sagging, like something left in water. Their eyes didn't focus. Their mouths hung just slightly open—but never moved. They weren't looking at her. Just… through her.
"She doesn't laugh when other kids do."
"She just watches. Like she's waiting for something."
She didn't move. Didn't blink.
"I can't even imagine her growing up. I really can't."
"It's like she's stuck this way. Like something didn't finish."
They stepped forward. Not walking—just closer now. Faces clearer in the candlelight. One of their eyes was drifting, half-swallowed into its temple. The other's teeth didn't match. Too many. Too small.
"I tried to feel sorry for her."
"But she makes it so hard."
The coats behind her creaked on their hangers. She pressed her forehead to her knees. Tried to disappear inside herself.
"You know she listens at the door, right?"
"Even when we're whispering."
"She's always listening."
The taller one bent at the waist, spine cracking. Its head hovered just inside the doorframe, too still, too low.
"I look at her and feel nothing. Not anger. Not love."
"Just tired."
Her throat tightened. Tears filled her eyes but didn't fall. She couldn't let them fall.
"She's a weight on this family."
"She's going to be a problem."
The flame in the candle bent sideways, trying to die.
"There are days I wish she'd just stop waking up."
The breath caught in her chest.
—
She woke up in the dark. The room was still. Blankets bunched around her fists. Her body locked tight, curled in the same position.
No candle. No monsters. Just the hum of the air vent and her own heartbeat in her ears.
And then—
"She won't even say what's wrong. She'll just stare."
"Like she expects you to apologize first."
"I'm not doing this forever."
"I wish someone would take her."
She shut her eyes. Buried her face into the pillow. And cried as quietly as she could. So the voices wouldn't know she was awake.