ã€ŠForced Evolutionã€‹


 One: Masks

    [Day 1]

    Lance stared at the heavy, distressed wood and took a very long breath.

    Let¡¯s get this fucking over with. The audience awaits, he thought, straightening his black leather jacket and pushing open the double doors of the Rusty Nail gastropub. It¡¯s showtime.

    He waded through the lively chatter, the smell of stale beer and fried food, and the industrial-chic decor with his trademark confident smirk firmly in place. His eyes scanned the room, quickly spotting Mike Thompson waving him over with a grin.

    The one authentic guy in this sea of pretenders and the only man I would consider an ally. The thought morphed Lance¡¯s smirk into a genuine smile.

    ¡°Lance, my man!¡± Mike called out, his t-shirt proclaiming ¡®The cake is a lie¡¯. Ah, the good old days, Lance mused, remembering late night gaming sessions with his best friend. ¡°Ready to celebrate another win for the team?¡±

    ¡°Absolutely!¡± he replied, his smile widening. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t miss a chance to toast to our success with my favorite colleagues.¡±

    Mike nudged his elbow. ¡°That¡¯s the spirit! Let¡¯s grab a drink and meet the others.¡±

    Lance made his way to the bar, dodging drunken coworkers and narrowly avoiding a collision with a tray of nachos.

    ¡°So, what¡¯s your poison tonight, Mike? First round¡¯s on me.¡±

    Mike gave Lance a funny look. ¡°You realize the company¡¯s picking up the tab tonight, right?¡±

    Lance smirked. ¡°Of course.¡±

    ¡°Asshole,¡± Mike chuckled, shaking his head. ¡°A Guinness sounds perfect right about now. Nothing like a creamy pint to kick off the celebrations!¡±

    Lance nodded, signaling the bartender. ¡°Two Guinnesses, please.¡±

    ¡°Well, you¡¯ve got to admit, this is a pretty sweet victory. The optimization algorithms you came up with? Pure genius, dude. And thanks to that we beat Aperion¡¯s release cycle.¡±

    Lance shrugged, trying not to look too pleased with the praise. ¡°It¡¯s just part of the job. Besides, I couldn¡¯t have done it without the rest of the team.¡±

    ¡°Always so modest,¡± Mike said, grabbing his beer from the bar counter. ¡°Why would they schedule a company happy hour on a fucking Monday?¡±

    ¡°Tons of reasons. Happy hour is ultra cheap on Monday, and people have to work the next day so they won¡¯t drink as much. Management saves a lot of money.¡±

    ¡°Figures¡­¡±

    ¡°Speaking of, have you seen Alex around?¡± Lance asked.

    Mike shook his head. ¡°Nah, he¡¯s not coming. Got stuck in a late meeting and went straight home. Shame, really. He¡¯s missing out on free booze and questionable decisions.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s too bad. Well, his loss, I suppose.¡±

    As he took his first sip, the bitter liquid slid down smoothly. Mike was right, not a bad way to unwind after kicking Aperion¡¯s ass this quarter.

    ¡°You ever wonder if we¡¯re stuck in a loop here?¡± Lance asked. ¡°Same job, same people, same problems¡­ same happy hours.¡±

    ¡°Shit¡ªonly one sip and you¡¯re getting philosophical on me?¡± Mike chuckled. ¡°I guess I get it. Sometimes I think about what it would take to completely shake things up, you know? Make life... I don¡¯t know, more.¡±

    ¡°Sorry, just thinking out loud.¡±

    ¡°Grab your beer and let¡¯s join the team.¡± Mike tilted his glass towards a cluster of programmers huddled around high-top tables, their faces alternating between the warm glow of laughter and the blue light of their phones as they shared memes and inside jokes.

    Time to mingle with the troops.

    As he moved towards them, his eyes locked onto Dave O¡¯Connor, the Sales Manager. Dave looked sharp as always in a well-tailored suit, but what caught Lance¡¯s attention was the awkward-looking tie featuring characters from The Legend of Zelda. Link and Ganondorf, engaged in eternal battle. How fitting for the cutthroat world of sales.

    ¡°Dave, brother!¡± Lance said, closing the distance between them. ¡°You know, if we put half as much effort into work as we do into these happy hours, we¡¯d be running the place by now.¡± He gave Dave a playful pat on the back, his trademark smirk never wavering.

    Dave laughed heartily while his whiskey neat sloshed dangerously close to the rim of his glass. ¡°Exactly, Lance! But let¡¯s not forget, work hard, play harder.¡± He took a sip, savoring the smooth burn. ¡°It¡¯s a shame we have to drag our asses to work tomorrow. Speaking of¡­ have you seen the new logo I¡¯m working on?¡±

    Of course, the logo. Dave¡¯s pet project. Lance raised an eyebrow, feigning interest. ¡°Can¡¯t say I have. But knowing you, it¡¯s bound to be a masterpiece.¡±

    Dave¡¯s face lit up, his free hand gesturing animatedly. ¡°Picture this: a sleek, modern design that captures the essence of our cutting-edge technology. It¡¯s going to revolutionize our brand image.¡±

    Another day, another corporate rebranding. How thrilling, Lance didn¡¯t say out loud. Instead, he nodded along, his mind already drifting to the next conversation.

    As Dave continued to wax poetic about his logo, Lance¡¯s gaze wandered the room, seeking out his next target. Might as well make the rounds while I¡¯m here. Every connection counts.

    He excused himself from Dave¡¯s monologue with a polite smile and a promise to catch up later. Let¡¯s see who¡¯s next?

    Just as he thought that, a flash of color in the crowd caught his attention¡ªEmily Chen, the eccentric Marketing Specialist, in her signature polka dot dress and neon sneakers. Bingo! Now there¡¯s a woman who knows how to make an impression.

    Lance approached, admiring her asymmetrical black hair, now adorned with a striking blue streak. Risky, but she pulls it off with style, he thought, his lips curling into an amused smile.

    ¡°Emily, love the new hair!¡± Lance said, his voice cutting through the chatter. ¡°Blue really brings out your creativity.¡±

    Emily turned, her cat-eye glasses with unique frames catching the light. A grin spread across her face the moment she recognized him. ¡°Lance, you charmer! I figured it was time for a change. New quarter, new me, right?¡±

    Lance chuckled, taking a sip of his Guinness. ¡°Absolutely. And what better way to celebrate than with a company-mandated happy hour?¡± He leaned in closer, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ¡°I¡¯m convinced the only reason they have these things is to make us forget how much we work. And it¡¯s working,¡± he added with a wink.

    Emily laughed, the sound bright and infectious. She raised her glass, a color-changing ¡®Unicorn Tears¡¯ martini with edible glitter, in a mock toast. ¡°To corporate-sponsored amnesia!¡±

    ¡°Amen!¡± Lance clinked his pint against her martini, the contrast between their drinks as stark as their personalities. A Guinness and a Unicorn Tears martini. If that doesn¡¯t sum us up, I don¡¯t know what does.

    As they sipped their drinks, Emily practically vibrated with restrained energy. ¡°Before you leave, please let me tell you about the guerrilla marketing campaign I¡¯m planning. It¡¯s going to blow your mind!¡±

    Here we go, Lance thought, bracing himself for another one of his colleague¡¯s outlandish ideas. ¡°Do tell,¡± he encouraged, his curiosity piqued despite himself.

    Emily drew nearer. ¡°I¡¯m thinking of an interactive augmented reality experience scattered throughout the city. People will stumble upon them by chance, and when they do, they¡¯ll be immersed in a world of our creation.¡±

    ¡°Ambitious. But how do you plan to pull it off?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s the best part,¡± Emily grinned, her excitement overflowing. ¡°We¡¯ll partner with local artists and tech startups to create the installations. It¡¯ll be a collaborative effort, showcasing our commitment to innovation and community.¡±

    Clever, Lance mused, nodding along. Leveraging local talent to boost Qualtech¡¯s rep. This woman is always thinking outside the box.

    ¡°I¡¯ve got to hand it to you, Emily. It¡¯s a bold move. But if anyone can make it happen, it¡¯s you.¡±

    Emily beamed, her cheeks flushed with pride and perhaps a bit of the Unicorn Tears martini. ¡°Thanks, Lance. I knew you¡¯d get it.¡±

    ¡°Just calling it like I see it. You¡¯ve got a knack for turning the unconventional into the unforgettable.¡±

    Emily continued listing the details of her vision while Lance continued nodding. She¡¯s got guts, I¡¯ll give her that. As he opened his mouth to respond, Mike appeared at his side with two fresh pints of Guinness in hand.

    ¡°Thought you could use a refill,¡± Mike said, handing Lance a glass. ¡°And I wanted to introduce you to our newest team member.¡±

    Lance turned, his eyes landing on a striking blonde woman he¡¯d never seen before. Hello, what have we here?

    ¡°Lance, meet Valentina Contreras Sabatini,¡± Mike explained, gesturing to the woman. ¡°She¡¯ll be starting tomorrow as a Senior Software Engineer.¡±

    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    Valentina. A name as beautiful as the woman herself, Lance thought, taking in her piercing blue eyes and generous curves.

    ¡°I don¡¯t believe we¡¯ve had the pleasure. Lance Lawthorn, resident genius and office jester, at your service,¡± he introduced himself with a dramatic bow, then extended his hand and his practiced smile.

    The newcomer shook his hand, her eyes meeting his. ¡°Valentina. Nice to meet you, Lance,¡± she replied, her voice calm and assured, with a thick Spanish accent that made Lance forget what he was about to say.

    An accent. Love it. Lance straightened. ¡°Welcome to the team,¡± he said. ¡°I take it you¡¯re not from around here?¡±

    Valentina smiled. ¡°That obvious, huh? Yes, I just moved from Buenos Aires. Got hired for the strategic analysis division.¡±

    ¡°Interesting? And here I thought I had my finger on all the important things happening in our office.¡±

    Valentina¡¯s chin tilted upward a fraction, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of her lips. ¡°Perhaps you don¡¯t know as much as you think you do.¡±

    He let out a wry chuckle. ¡°Ouch. You certainly don¡¯t pull your punches. But I¡¯ll have you know, I¡¯m a quick study. Actually, you know what? Stick with me, and I¡¯ll have you navigating the treacherous waters of Qualtech in no time.¡±

    ¡°I think I can manage just fine on my own. But I¡¯ll keep your offer in mind, just in case, che.¡± Valentina replied.

    Confident and self-assured. I like her already. Lance¡¯s smirk widened. ¡°Suit yourself. But just remember, it takes a certain kind of person to thrive in this madhouse.¡±

    Valentina met his gaze head-on, unflinching. ¡°And what kind of person is that, exactly?¡±

    ¡°Someone with a sharp mind, a quick wit, and a healthy dose of skepticism. Sound familiar?¡±

    ¡°You just described every person I¡¯ve met so far who hasn¡¯t been institutionalized yet. No offense, Mike.¡±

    Mike scratched the back of his neck awkwardly while Emily¡¯s smile became a little too wide and tight.

    Lance, however, laughed. ¡°Fair point. But how many of them can keep up with me in a battle of wits?¡±

    Valentina¡¯s eyes shone with amusement. ¡°Is that a challenge?¡±

    ¡°More like an invitation. Care to put your money where your mouth is?¡±

    ¡°So, the great Lance fancies himself a master wordsmith? We¡¯ll see about that,¡± Valentina said. ¡°From what I¡¯ve seen so far, the corporate lingo around here could drain the life from even the most vibrant conversationalist.¡±

    Lance clutched his chest in mock offense. ¡°Burns like a Phoenix Burn smoothie! But I relish a challenge.¡± He grinned. ¡°How about we make things interesting? Loser has to try one of those dreadful healthy drinks from the cafeteria - Wait until you see them.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re on.¡± Valentina¡¯s eyes danced with mischief. ¡°But I should warn you, I happen to be fluent in corporate jargon. Spent a summer internship swimming in all that impenetrable MBA-speak.¡±

    ¡°Is that so? Well then, en garde, my dear...¡± Lance raised his beer. ¡°Remember, sometimes the most interesting things happen when you step out of your comfort zone.¡±

    ¡°Is that so? Thought you said you were the office jester, not the philosopher.¡±

    ¡°Hey! even jesters have their moments of wisdom. But seriously, in a place like this, you never know when everything might change in an instant.¡±

    ¡°Fair enough,¡± Valentina giggled. ¡°So, Lance, how¡¯s your evening been so far? I hear Qualtech achieved something major. Have the celebrations been enjoyable?¡±

    ¡°Oh, the usual corporate bonding - stale pretzels, and bragging about our alleged achievements. Beer¡¯s good though. But meeting you has certainly livened things up,¡± he replied with a smirk. ¡°How about you? Was the trip from Argentina a brutal one?¡±

    ¡°Ah, it was long but not too bad, thanks. I came with my sister, actually. But she was pretty wiped out from the trip, so she stayed at the hotel to rest¡ª¡±

    ¡°Wait, wait. You flew here all the way from Buenos Aires today? And came to this party?¡±

    ¡°Yeah, I suppose I¡¯m still running on adrenaline from the move,¡± Valentina said with a snort of laughter. ¡°I wasn¡¯t sure about coming, but I thought it would be nice to get to know some of the people I¡¯d be working with. So yes, talk about hitting the ground running!¡±

    ¡°Wow, that¡¯s dedication. I guess that¡¯s why we try to roll out the red carpet for talent such as yourself. It¡¯s not every day we get a hotshot engineer joining our ranks.¡±

    ¡°You flatter me, Lance¡­¡±

    As their banter flowed as easily as the Guinness from the tap, Lance barely noticed when Mike and Emily drifted away, their voices fading into the background, just as he paid no attention to the Rusty Nail¡¯s crowd thinning around them.

    Finally, someone genuine. She¡¯s not just a pretty face. This woman has substance, brilliance; she¡¯s magnetic.

    ¡°Enough about me.¡± As if sensing his thoughts, Valentina leaned in, her voice low and intimate. ¡°So, what drives the great Lance? What makes you tick?¡±

    The question caught him off guard, and he paused, his glass halfway to his lips. What does drive me? He¡¯d never actually stopped to consider it before. His life had always been a series of goals to achieve, ladders to climb, and competitors to outmaneuver.

    He took a sip of his Guinness, buying himself time to formulate a response. ¡°I guess I¡¯ve always been driven by success,¡± Lance said. ¡°I wanted to have a lot of money, so I studied something challenging, strategized good career paths, and now we¡¯re here.¡±

    ¡°You know¡­ you don¡¯t have to wear a mask with me.¡±

    ¡°Mask? I think I know what you mean. Everyone around here wears them, and¡­ you¡¯re right, I¡¯m no exception. It¡¯s who I needed to be to reach this ¡®success.¡¯¡±

    ¡°And have you? Succeeded, I mean.¡±

    Lance opened his mouth to respond, the automatic ¡°Of course¡± poised on the tip of his tongue. But something stopped him. If it was the woman or the alcohol he wasn¡¯t sure¡ªit was a nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach, a whisper of doubt that had been growing louder with each passing day.

    ¡°Well¡­ to be honest,¡± Lance admitted, suddenly feeling exposed under Valentina¡¯s knowing gaze. ¡°I work remotely most of the time, the job itself is pretty low-stress for me. I¡¯ve reached a point where the money¡¯s comfortable enough that I don¡¯t feel any real drive to chase promotions or deal with more corporate bureaucracy.¡± He waved a hand dismissively. ¡°So at some point, I started coasting. Just playing the role, hitting my marks, but not truly challenging myself or striving for anything more. And it¡¯s boring, and tiring, but I can¡¯t seem to stop...um...¡± His fingers formed imaginary quotation marks. ¡°...wearing this ¡®mask¡¯.¡±

    Valentina smiled, but there was no judgment in it. ¡°Thank you for being honest, Lance Lawthorn.¡± His last name came out heavily accented, the consonants tripping on her tongue. ¡°Sometimes, we get so caught up in the game that we forget why we started playing in the first place,¡± she mused, her words hitting uncomfortably close to home.

    He nodded, his mind racing. She¡¯s right. When did I stop seeking excitement?

    He looked around the nearly empty bar, the remnants of the happy hour strewn across tables and floors. The scene felt like a metaphor for his life¡ªa mess of empty glasses and discarded conversations, with nothing of substance to show for it.

    Is this all there is? Is this what I¡¯ve been working towards all these years?

    The thought left a sour taste in his mouth, and he set his glass down with a heavy thud. ¡°You know, I¡¯ve never really stopped to think about it before,¡± he said, his voice rough with emotion. ¡°But maybe it¡¯s time I did.¡±

    Valentina reached out, her hand resting lightly on his arm. ¡°It¡¯s never too late to start. The first step is admitting that you want something more.¡±

    Lance met her gaze, and for a moment, the rest of the world fell away. Or probably it was more the Guinness than anything else. Something more, he repeated in his mind.

    Maybe she¡¯s right. Maybe it¡¯s time to reevaluate what I want out of life.

    He smiled, a genuine one this time, and raised his glass in a toast. ¡°To new beginnings,¡± he said, ringing with determination.

    Valentina clinked her glass against his, her smile matching his own. ¡°To new beginnings,¡± she echoed, and together, they drank to the future, whatever it might hold.

    At that moment, the bar¡¯s lights flickered, signaling the end of the night. ¡°Well, would you look at that. Quitting time already.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t tell me the great wordsmith is throwing in the towel now? I was just getting warmed up.¡±

    ¡°Hardly. But a man needs to know when to fight another day. You were a worthy opponent.¡± Lance drained the rest of his Guinness. ¡°Well, I suppose this is where we part ways,¡± Lance said, disappointed. He couldn¡¯t remember the last time he¡¯d had such a meaningful exchange with someone, especially a colleague.

    Valentina smiled, her blue eyes sparkling in the dim light. ¡°It¡¯s been a pleasure, Lance. Thank you for the company.¡±

    They walked towards the exit together, the cool night air greeting them as they stepped through the wooden doors. Lance turned to Valentina, a sudden concern crossing his features.

    ¡°Will you be alright getting to your hotel? I can call you a cab if you need one.¡±

    Valentina smiled, a slight flush on her cheeks. ¡°Oh, I¡¯ll be fine. I¡¯m a bit tipsy, but it¡¯ll help me relax after the long flight.¡± She pointed down the street. ¡°Besides, my hotel¡¯s just at the end of the block. I think I can manage.¡±

    ¡°Alright, if you¡¯re sure. It¡¯s been quite a night, hasn¡¯t it?¡±

    Valentina¡¯s smile turned into a playful smirk. ¡°Indeed it has. Though I must say, for someone who¡¯s had a few drinks, you¡¯ve held up pretty well. It¡¯s a well-known fact that you gringos can¡¯t keep up with us Latinos when it comes to drinking.¡±

    Lance stared at her for a moment, his alcohol-addled brain struggling to process her words. Then, he burst out laughing, the sound echoing through the empty street. ¡°Is that so?¡± he managed between chuckles. ¡°Well, I¡¯d say we¡¯ve both acquitted ourselves admirably tonight. Though I might need a rematch someday to defend the honor of gringos everywhere.¡±

    ¡°Fair enough.¡± Valentina giggled. ¡°I¡¯ll look forward to it.¡±

    ¡°What about you?¡± she asked. ¡°Will you make it home alright?¡±

    ¡°Pfft, I¡¯ll be fine. A little liquid courage never hurt anyone,¡± Lance said. ¡°Oh, but Valentina, welcome to Qualtech.¡± He took a step back, giving her a theatrical bow.

    With a wink and a nod, she turned and started down the street, her hips rocking from side to side with an effortless, natural sway as she walked with confident strides.

    Was I just buzzed, or did we absolutely have a moment back there? He shrugged. Guess I¡¯ll find out tomorrow.

    The walk home was a blur, thoughts jumbled from the long day and the even longer night, and the lingering effects of the Guinness, and replaying the evening¡¯s conversation on a loop. Had he really opened up to a near stranger? The cold breeze sure didn¡¯t help clear his head, either. But one thing she said stuck.

    ¡®Sometimes, we get so caught up in the game that we forget why we started playing in the first place.¡¯

    It was a good mantra. He replayed it in his mind as he stumbled into his apartment, kicking off his shoes and shrugging out of his leather jacket, tossing it carelessly onto the couch.

    In the kitchen, he gulped down a glass of water, then set about preparing a cup of coffee with cream and sugar¡ªThe perfect nightcap.

    With his steaming mug in hand, Lance made his way to the couch, sinking into the cushions with a sigh. He turned on the TV, illuminating the room in flickering blue light, but he barely registered the images on the screen. Instead, he stared into his coffee, lost in contemplation.

    Valentina¡¯s insight had struck a chord, forcing him to finally do something about what he¡¯s known all along¡ªthat his life may be lacking the depth and meaning he craved.

    What could I do instead? I don¡¯t want to lose my comfortable life. But I can¡¯t keep going on like this.

    He sighed, downing the coffee in one gulp. The warmth spread through his chest, but it did little to ease the unease in his mind.

    But what kind of change, exactly? And how would he even begin to go about it? The idea of upending his carefully constructed life was both thrilling and terrifying.

    He laid down on the couch. His eyelids grew heavy. Sleep began to take hold.

    A new beginning, he thought. Whatever that might mea¡­

    ***

    Lance jolted awake as a sudden, sharp sensation hit his body. It felt both hot and cold at the same time. It was as if a million honey bees had landed on him, their tiny feet making contact with every inch of his skin, but instead of stinging, they vanished instantly.

    For less than a split second, a faint, high-pitched hum seemed to move from one ear to the other, while remaining on the edge of hearing. At the same time, he could have sworn the room was bathed in an orange glow.

    His heart raced and adrenaline pumped through his veins. He sat up fast, looking around in a panic, but just as quickly as it had come, the sensation dissipated. The hum faded, and the room returned to its normal, shadowy state. Lance blinked, disoriented. What the hell was that? he thought.

    His breathing slowed and his eyelids grew heavy once more.

    He looked at his phone.

    [11:59 PM]

    I didn¡¯t drink that much, did I? - Probably just a weird dream.

    He laid his head back down on the couch cushion. Within seconds, he drifted off to sleep.

 Two: Hangover

    [Day 2]

    ¡°Please Valentina, not there...¡± Lance mumbled.

    His eyes fluttered open. His shaggy-haired, medium-sized dog was licking his face, tongue slobbering over Lance¡¯s mouth. He pushed the dog away and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

    ¡°Jiro! Come on, what the hell¡­¡±

    The morning sunlight streamed through the curtains and stabbed into his skull like a hot poker. He groaned, rolling over and burying his face back in the pillow, his head pounding with a fierce intensity that made his stomach churn.

    What the hell happened last night?

    He fumbled through his nightstand, where his phone lay face down. He reached for it, his fingers clumsy and uncoordinated, and nearly knocked it to the floor before managing to grab hold.

    He blinked the screen into focus.

    [10:39 AM]

    Shit. His eyes flew wide as the realization hit him like a freight train. He was supposed to be at the office hours ago for the staff meeting. He¡¯d slept through his alarm, something that never happened. Not even after the wildest of nights out, or the longest of gaming sessions.

    Groaning, Lance tried to push himself upright and sharp pain sailed through his skull. He braced his pounding head in his hands, taking slow, deep breaths until the worst of it passed.

    Coffee! I need coffee, he thought, then immediately regretted it.

    The room spun violently. A fresh wave of nausea rushed through him. His palm covered his mouth. He clenched his jaw. He fought back the urge to vomit.

    What the hell? I didn¡¯t even drink that much.

    Lance forced himself to sit up even though his body felt like it had been run over by a truck. Every muscle ached, and his head throbbed with a vengeance. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his feet hitting the cool hardwood floor.

    Okay, let¡¯s think this through, he ran a hand over his face, I thought I had this figured out. Eat a big meal, drink water, have some coffee. It¡¯s never failed me before.

    I haven¡¯t had a hangover this bad since high school using that trick. How the hell did it fail me now?

    Lance pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly as yet another wave of dizziness assaulted him. He stumbled to the bathroom, grabbed the sink for support, and stared at his reflection in the mirror. A haggard face stared back at him¡ªbloodshot eyes, ashen skin, hair sticking up at odd angles.

    At least now, my look matches my new existential crisis, he joked. Oh, right¡­ I was supposed to reevaluate my life or something like that today¡­ He looked at himself in the mirror again. But not today. Too tired.

    Lance splashed cold water on his face, but it did little to revive him.

    And screw work, too, he realized. Jiro whined and pawed at Lance¡¯s leg. But first, let¡¯s get you some breakfast.

    Lance stumbled to the kitchen, his head pounding. He filled Jiro¡¯s bowl with kibble. The dog dove in, crunching loudly behind him as he made his way back to the bedroom and grabbed his phone.

    His fingers struggled over the keys as he typed out a message to his boss.

    Lance: Hey Alex, I¡¯m not feeling well today. I think I caught that bug that¡¯s been going around. I need to take a sick day. Sorry for the short notice.

    Lance hit send and collapsed back onto the bed, his phone clutched to his chest. A moment later, it buzzed with a reply.

    Alex (Boss): No problem. I hope you feel better soon. Get some rest and thanks for letting me know. ??

    He let out a sigh of relief¡ªone less thing to worry about. He tossed his phone aside and pulled the covers back over his head, blocking out the harsh sunlight.

    Maybe a few more hours of sleep will help, he thought, closing his eyes and willing the pounding in his head to subside.

    But it didn¡¯t.

    I¡¯m getting too old for this. Exactly why I had my pre/post drinking checklist.

    Lance tossed and turned in bed, the covers tangled around his legs as he tried to find a comfortable position. But no matter how he shifted, the pounding in his head persisted, and a sickly sheen of sweat coated his skin.

    Damn. Just... damn, it¡¯s like I¡¯m in a sauna. This can¡¯t be normal. I¡¯m burning up.

    He kicked the covers off, his shirt clinging to his chest, damp and uncomfortable. He ran a hand through his hair, grimacing at the slick feel of sweat.

    He dragged himself out of bed, his joints protesting with every little action. His knees, elbows, shoulders, hips, all ached like he¡¯d just finished a three-hour full-body workout and immediately set out to run five miles. He limped himself to the bathroom again. Then, rummaged through the medicine cabinet until he found the thermometer.

    It was a sleek white plastic digital thermometer with a small LCD screen that displayed the temperature in bold black numbers which you simply point at your forehead to get a reading.

    Lance pressed the button and aimed.

    [99.8¡ãF.] It announced after a beep. Damn, that¡¯s a fever, right?

    He leaned against the sink and stared at his reflection, noting he hadn¡¯t gotten any better¡ªif anything, he looked worse.

    I look like someone from a TV show right before they turn into a zombie, he chuckled weakly.

    Lance popped a couple of Excedrin, washing them down with a handful of water from the sink. He waited for the relief to kick in, but the pain continued to throb behind his eyes, relentless and unyielding.

    With no respite in sight, he shuffled back to the bedroom. He lowered himself onto the bed, wincing as now, even his back screamed with each movement.

    What the hell is wrong with me? This can¡¯t just be a hangover.

    Jiro jumped onto the bed, tail wagging. He curled up next to Lance, resting his head on Lance¡¯s arm. He absently scratched behind the dog¡¯s ears.

    His mind raced with possibilities¡ªtainted alcohol, flu, mono, some weird virus he¡¯d picked up from god knows where. He couldn¡¯t remember the last time he¡¯d felt this miserable.

    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

    He thought back to the last time he¡¯d had a hangover this bad¡ªhis senior year in high school, after a night of cheap tequila and bad decisions. He¡¯d spent the entire next day hugging the toilet, swearing he¡¯d never touch alcohol again.

    And yet, here I am, I¡¯m screwed.

    Lance squeezed his eyes shut, willing away the pain and the sickening feeling in his stomach, and hoping that whatever this was, it would pass soon. He couldn¡¯t take much more of this misery. Please, just let me feel better. I swear, I¡¯ll never do this to myself again.

    Lance steeled himself for yet another trip to the bathroom, mind set on a hot shower to ease his discomfort.

    He turned the water on full blast and began to peel off his damp shirt, grimacing at the effort it took. As the water heated up, steam filled the room, fogging the mirrors.

    Once his shower was scalding hot, he stepped under the spray, hoping the heat would soothe his aching body.

    The water pounded against his skin, but it brought no relief; instead, it intensified the pulsing in his head.

    He finished his shower quickly, not having the energy to linger. Then grabbed a towel and dried off haphazardly, not even bothering to wrap it around his waist as he staggered back into the bedroom, where he pulled on a clean t-shirt and sweatpants.

    His breath came in ragged gasps, each inhale feeling like shards of glass scraping down his throat. He coughed, a harsh, hacking sound that made his chest ache.

    There¡¯s no way this is only a hangover from a few Guinnesses¡ª

    A thought crept into his mind¡ªwhat if he had the flu, too? He vaguely remembered reading about them going through a very contagious flu season.

    With my luck, I probably caught it. A hangover and the flu, just what I need, he thought, collapsing onto his bed and curling into a fetal position. He winced with each creak of his mattress, and even the soft sheets felt like sandpaper at this point. But that makes more sense.

    With his phone in hand and shaking fingers, he typed out another message to his boss.

    Lance: Hey Alex, I¡¯m still not feeling great. I think I need to take tomorrow off too. Sorry for the short notice, again.

    He hit send and let the phone drop onto the bed beside him, closing his eyes as another wave of pain washed over him. Jiro started whimpering.

    Remembering Jiro, Lance forced himself up. He shuffled to the back door, each step an effort. Lance opened the door. Jiro trotted outside to the yard. Lance waited, leaning against the doorframe, as Jiro sniffed around and did his business. The dog came back inside, and Lance shut the door.

    The phone buzzed almost immediately. He fished it out of his sweatpants pocket and glanced at the screen.

    Alex: Lance, everyone is sick. Turn on the news.

    Everyone is sick? What the hell does that mean?

    Lance frowned, confusion mixing with the throbbing pain in his head. He moved to the couch in his living room and reached for the remote on his coffee table, his arm feeling like lead as he pointed it at the TV and pressed the power button.

    The screen blared the opening theme of his favorite anime, making him flinch and bringing tears of pain to his eyes. Damn it, not HDMI 1. When Lance figured out his technology, he was greeted by the somber face of a news anchor. Her usually perfectly coiffed hair was slightly disheveled, and her eyes were ringed with dark circles.

    ¡°...the WHO has declared a global health emergency as the mysterious illness continues to spread at an alarming rate,¡± she said, her voice grave. ¡°Hospitals around the world are overwhelmed with patients displaying flu-like symptoms, but doctors are struggling to identify the cause.¡±

    Lance sat up straighter, ignoring his muscles¡¯ protest. A global health emergency? What the fuck?

    The camera cut to footage of empty streets and abandoned storefronts before switching to images of overcrowded hospitals, with patients on gurneys lining the hallways and exhausted-looking healthcare workers rushing about in full protective gear.

    ¡°Symptoms of the illness include low-grade fever, severe body aches, and extreme fatigue,¡± the anchor continued. ¡°Health officials are urging anyone experiencing these symptoms to stay home and self-isolate to prevent further spread.¡±

    Lance¡¯s heart raced as he listened, each symptom making him swallow hard. Fever, body aches, fatigue...that¡¯s exactly what I¡¯ve been feeling.

    ¡°At this time, the cause of the illness remains unknown,¡± the anchor said. ¡°Scientists around the globe are working tirelessly to identify the source and develop a cure, but so far, they have been unsuccessful.¡±

    A worldwide pandemic...and I¡¯ve got the same symptoms as everyone else. How is this even possible?

    He thought back to the happy hour, trying to remember if anyone there had seemed sick. But nothing noteworthy came to mind.

    So, I could have caught it from anyone.

    He turned his attention back to the TV, where the anchor was now listing off the countries that had been affected. ¡°The United States, Canada, the United Kingdom, France, Germany, Italy, Spain, China, Japan, Australia...¡± she rattled off, the list seeming to go on and on.

    It¡¯s everywhere...nowhere is safe.

    Lance¡¯s chest tightened with fear, and he felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead, but as he clenched and unclenched his fists, his racing heart began to steady.

    Okay, okay¡­ if it¡¯s hit this many countries already, we could be looking at the end of the world as we know it. But if everyone¡¯s going down with this thing, what¡¯s the point in panicking? It¡¯s not like freaking out will change anything.

    He slumped back on his couch. The news continued to play in the background, but he barely heard it over the roaring in his ears.

    So, what am I supposed to do now, then? Just sit here and wait to get better? Or worse?

    Lance massaged his temples, maybe this is just a bad dream.

    On the television, the camera had cut to a live press conference, where a group of grim-faced scientists and health officials stood behind a podium, all donning the same somber and drawn expressions.

    One woman, her graying hair unkempt and her eyes rimmed with fatigue, gripped the edges of the podium to steady the slight tremors in her hands as she stepped forward to address the throng of reporters.

    ¡°Our teams are working around the clock, We have the brightest minds from every corner of the globe collaborating to find a cure. While we can¡¯t confirm the exact cause of this pandemic yet, we have several promising leads and are working tirelessly to gather more data.¡±

    A reporter¡¯s voice rang out, demanding to know how they could possibly continue their vital work while suffering from the same debilitating symptoms plaguing the rest of the world.

    The scientist paused, dabbing at the perspiration on her forehead with a handkerchief. ¡°It¡¯s true, we are not immune,¡± she said. ¡°We, too, are battling this terrible illness.¡±

    ¡°We are using a combination of antivirals, anti-inflammatories, and other medications under strict medical supervision to manage our symptoms,¡± the woman continued. ¡°This is a temporary measure to help us continue our work and should not be attempted without professional guidance. However, even with this set of medications, we struggle to function, and we are certain that it will worsen our symptoms in the long run. I must emphasize that this is not a treatment plan for the general public. Please, do not attempt to replicate this at home. These medications can be dangerous without proper medical oversight and may even exacerbate the illness. Our team is taking this risk because we believe it¡¯s our duty to find a solution for everyone.¡±

    Lance bent forward, his elbows resting on his knees, and watched as the scientist¡¯s face grew even more somber, her brow furrowing as she fielded another question from the press.

    ¡°Can you tell us anything about the cause of this pandemic?¡± a reporter asked.

    The scientist hesitated, her eyes darting to her colleagues before she spoke. ¡°There is a strong theory circulating within the scientific community,¡± she said carefully, ¡°but we can¡¯t reveal anything just yet. We need further confirmation, and we don¡¯t want to cause any unnecessary panic.¡±

    Lance scoffed, rolling his eyes. The whole damn world is falling apart, and they¡¯re worried about causing a stir? Nice.

    Lance¡¯s frustration mounted as the scientist droned on about the importance of social distancing and hygiene measures. Like that¡¯s gonna do anything against a global pandemic.

    ¡°Our priority right now is finding a cure and containing the spread of the illness,¡± the scientist continued, her voice firm. ¡°We urge everyone to stay indoors, keep their eyes on the news, and follow instructions closely once a solution has been found.¡±

    Sooo, what I¡¯ve been doing the whole day?

    ¡°Remember to look out for each other during these¡­these¡­challen¡­ging¡ª

    The scientist¡¯s eyelids drooped. She swayed on her feet. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed, her body crumpling to the ground like a marionette with its strings cut. The room erupted into chaos as doctors and scientists in white lab coats and suits rushed to her side, their faces etched with panic.

    What. The. Fuck.

    A male scientist with an askew tie leaped to the podium, his voice trembling as he addressed the stunned audience.

    ¡°Stay indoors, rest, and keep your eyes on the news. A cure will be available soon.¡±

    The broadcast abruptly cut to a ¡°technical difficulties¡± screen, then went dark.

 Three: Shots

    [Day 3]

    Lance stumbled, his hand slapping against the rough brick wall to steady himself. Sweat beaded on his forehead, trickling down his temples. The world tilted and swayed around him, a nauseating rainbow of colors and shapes.

    Not again.

    He blinked hard, trying to focus on the street sign ahead. Pharmacy. Just another block. His legs felt like sacks of rice soaked through by a monsoon rain and left to ferment in the sweltering heat of a forgotten warehouse.

    A woman hurried past, giving him a wide berth. Her eyes darted nervously in his direction, a makeshift mask of fabric covering half her face.

    Yeah, lady. I¡¯d avoid me too.

    Lance pushed on, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The sidewalk seemed to stretch endlessly before him, a concrete ribbon mocking his feeble attempts at progress.

    Should¡¯ve stayed home.

    But the news of the cure discovery pushed him onward. The urgent broadcast still burrowed through his fevered thoughts: a cure developed just in time, with instructions to get treated at the nearest pharmacy immediately. His survival instinct overrode his exhaustion. If he could just make it one more block, he might have a chance.

    The pharmacy¡¯s sign appeared in the distance, a beacon of hope in this nightmare. Lance¡¯s pace quickened, ignoring the discomfort.

    Almost there.

    He made it.

    The automatic doors hissed open, releasing a wave of stale air. He hesitated at the threshold. Inside, he could see a sea of panicked faces, bodies pressed together in a chaotic jumble.

    Lance¡¯s stomach churned. The thought of wading into that crowd made him want to hurl. Guess this is what we get when the entire fucking world is sick.

    He stepped in and the cacophony of voices washed over him like a tidal wave.

    The pharmacist, a harried-looking man with thinning hair, shouted over the din. ¡°Please, everyone! We don¡¯t have the treatment yet. We¡¯re out of most medications. I can¡¯t¡ª¡±

    His words were drowned out by a fresh wave of angry voices.

    Lance elbowed his way through the crowd, muttering apologies as he went. The pharmacy shelves were picked clean, empty spaces where cold and flu remedies once stood.

    No surprise there.

    He reached the counter, gripping the edge to keep from swaying. ¡°Hey,¡± he croaked, his voice barely audible over the noise. ¡°What¡¯s the deal with the cure? They said on the news to come here.¡±

    The pharmacist¡¯s eyes met his with a flicker of sympathy. ¡°Sorry, man. We¡¯re cleaned out. We got one batch. Five for staff, the rest gone in minutes. Got thousands of people on the waitlist now.¡± He glanced at the door. ¡°Supposed to get more any time, but...¡± He shook his head. ¡°Your best shot will be to try the hospital.¡±

    Lance¡¯s shoulders slumped. ¡°Right. Thanks.¡±

    He turned, fighting against the current of bodies still pouring in. The air felt thick. Oppressive. Elbows jabbed his ribs and shoulders slammed into him as he inched towards the exit.

    Outside, the relative quiet was a blessing. Lance leaned against the building, gulping in fresh air and taking out his phone.

    [2:50 PM]

    The hospital was half a mile away. In his current state, it might as well have been on the moon. At least there was another pharmacy in between.

    As he shuffled in the hospital¡¯s direction, a siren wailed in the distance, growing louder. An ambulance screamed past, its lights contrasting with the afternoon sun and painting the street in flashes of red and white.

    Wonder if they¡¯ve got room for one more.

    Lance pushed off from the wall, his legs wobbling beneath him. He had to keep moving. Standing still felt too much like giving up.

    The next pharmacy was only a few blocks away. Maybe he¡¯d have better luck there.

    He moved forward, each step a small victory. The streets were eerily empty now, save for the occasional car speeding by, its occupants¡¯ faces masks of fear and determination.

    A fit of coughing doubled him over, his lungs spasming painfully. He braced himself against a lamppost, waiting for the attack to pass.

    Keep it together, man.

    When he straightened, his vision swam. The world tilted dangerously.

    No. Not now.

    But his body had other ideas. Lance¡¯s knees buckled, and he felt himself falling. The sidewalk rushed up to meet him.

    Darkness¡­

    ***

    A voice. Distant. Muffled.

    ¡°Hey, buddy. You okay?¡±

    A face swam into focus above him. A man, mid-forties maybe, concern etched into the lines around his eyes.

    ¡°Can you hear me?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m fine¡­I¡¯m fine,¡± Lance mumbled. ¡°It¡¯s just that NARS-sickness.¡±

    He grasped the man¡¯s outstretched hand, pulling himself unsteadily to his feet.

    ¡°We all have NARS,¡± said the man. ¡°Well, best of luck to you.¡±

    He mumbled a thanks to the stranger who¡¯d helped him up, watching the man¡¯s retreating back as he hurried away.

    He limped forward, each step sending a fresh jolt of pain through his leg. The hospital loomed in the distance, a concrete monolith against the hazy sky. Between him and salvation stood another pharmacy, its neon sign flickering weakly in the afternoon light.

    Worth a shot, he thought, ambling to the entrance.

    The automatic door swished open, and Lance¡¯s face was blasted by a wave of humid air and the scent of sweat and armpit and musk and stale breath. D¨¦j¨¤ vu, he thought grimly.

    Inside, the scene was eerily familiar. Bodies pressed together, a sea of desperation, fear, anger¡­ hopelessness.

    Screw this. I¡¯ll try the hospital.

    Which was close now. Maybe a quarter mile.

    One foot in front of the other, Lan. You can do this. He kept going like that until he finally crossed the emergency room threshold.

    He made his way towards the admissions desk, where a harried nurse was shouting instructions to the crowd.

    ¡°If you¡¯re here for the new treatment, please form a line to the left! We¡¯re administering as quickly as we can, but supplies are limited. Please be patient!¡±

    Lance¡¯s heart leapt. Finally.

    He turned towards the growing line. The queue snaked through the waiting room, disappearing around a corner.

    Damn. Just... damn.

    He took his place at the end. His knee throbbed, and he glanced down, surprised to see blood seeping through his sweatpants. He hadn¡¯t even realized he¡¯d hurt himself when he fainted earlier. Still, the pain was nothing compared to what this sickness was doing to him. The Novel Acute Radiation Syndrome¡ªNARS, (N)ARS, or whatever the hell they were officially calling it¡ªwas tearing him apart from the inside. He pressed his palms against his ears, trying to block out the discord of voices and beeping machines.

    Time stretched and warped. Lance lost track of how long he¡¯d been standing there. Minutes? Hours? The line inched forward at an agonizing pace.

    Finally, he rounded the corner. A makeshift treatment station had been set up, nurses working feverishly to administer shots.

    He was so close now.

    Suddenly, a commotion erupted at the front of the line. Raised voices. A scuffle.

    ¡°What do you mean you¡¯re out?¡± someone shouted. ¡°I¡¯ve been waiting for hours!¡±

    A knot formed in Lance¡¯s throat. Wait what? No. Not now.

    A nurse¡¯s voice cut through the din. ¡°Please, everyone! We¡¯ve exhausted our current supply. We¡¯re expecting more soon, but for now, we need to¡ª¡±

    Her words were drowned out by a chorus of angry voices.

    Sure, develop a cure in record time. Pat yourselves on the back. But good fucking luck producing enough doses for eight billion people. The thought made his already boiling blood boil more.

    Lance stepped out of the line. He headed for the exit. Once outside, his legs finally gave out. He slid to the floor, the cool concrete clashing with his feverish form. Despite the chill autumn air and the bare branches of nearby trees, sweat continued to bead on his forehead and soak through his shirt. A sharp pain shot through his knee as the fabric of his sweatpants, now dried and fused to his wound, tore away from his skin. He hissed through his teeth. His phone moved to his hand. He hit Alex¡¯s contact and waited¡­

    ¡°Lance? Holy shit, you¡¯re alive!¡±

    Lance frowned. ¡°Uh, last time I checked. Alex, what¡¯s with the dramatics?¡±

    There was a pause on the other end. When Alex spoke again, his voice was softer. ¡°Lance... everyone from Qualtech is gone. Dead.¡±

    ¡°What? Who¡¯s dead?¡±

    ¡°Everyone,¡± Alex repeated. ¡°Mike, Emily, Dave...even the new hire. It¡¯s just you and me left from the company.¡±

    ¡°Wait, what?¡± he muttered. ¡°Jesus Christ. I knew it was bad, but... fuck. The New hire? You mean Valentina?¡± Lance asked, feeling an unexpeggggcted pang of regret for the vibrant woman he¡¯d only just met.

    ¡°Yeah,¡±

    Swallowing hard, Lance steered the conversation to more pressing matters. ¡°Listen, I need to get this NARS treatment. You got yours yet?¡±

    ¡°Got it at noon. I¡¯m feeling a million times better already.¡±

    ¡°Lucky bastard,¡± Lance grumbled. ¡°I¡¯ve struck out at every pharmacy within crawling distance. Where did you get yours?¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s a pharmacy below my apartment building. I dropped everything and got in line the second they made the announcement. And believe it or not, I was only lucky to snag the very last dose.¡±

    ¡°Damn... You have any idea where I can get mine? Didn¡¯t we have some contract with a local pharma company? Maybe you could call them or shoot me their number?¡±

    ¡°Yes, you¡¯re right, let me make a few calls¡­How bad is it for you?¡±

    Lance leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. ¡°Let¡¯s just say I¡¯m not loving my odds of making it to tomorrow.¡±

    ¡°Shit. Okay, okay, hang tight, I¡¯ll see what I can do.¡±

    ¡°Appreciate it,¡± Lance said, his trademark sarcasm failing to mask the genuine gratitude in his voice.

    ¡°Before I go¡­ How¡¯s your mom doing?¡±

    ¡°She texted me earlier. Got her shot at the VA, so she¡¯s fine.¡±

    ¡°Good, that¡¯s good. I¡¯ll call you back as soon as I know something.¡±

    ¡°Thanks, boss,¡± Lance murmured, ending the call.

    He let the phone drop to his lap, grateful that he was sitting on the sidewalk as he felt his consciousness fade once again.

    ***

    A vibration in his lap jolted him awake. His neck screamed from pain and stiffness as he lifted his head from the concrete wall. How long had he been out? Minutes? Hours? he asked himself. The sun¡¯s position hadn¡¯t changed much, at least.

    Alex¡¯s name flashed on the screen. Hope surged through him as he fumbled to answer.

    ¡°Yeah?¡±

    ¡°Lance, I¡¯ve got something. Called BioNova. They¡¯re running a clinical trial.¡±

    Lance straightened, wincing. ¡°Gimme the details.¡±

    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

    ¡°It¡¯s high-risk. Not on the FDA¡¯s Emergency Use Authorization list.¡±

    A dry chuckle escaped Lance¡¯s lips. ¡°At this point, I¡¯d inject myself with drain cleaner if it means I don¡¯t die. What¡¯s the catch?¡±

    Alex¡¯s sigh crackled through the speaker. ¡°It¡¯s... not cheap. They¡¯re asking for a ¡®substantial donation¡¯ to participate.¡±

    ¡°How substantial we talking?¡±

    ¡°Twenty grand.¡±

    Lance¡¯s eyebrows launched like missiles. ¡°Jesus. They¡¯re not messing around.¡± He paused, considering. ¡°Screw it. I¡¯m in. Where is this place?¡±

    ¡°You sure about this? The risks¡ª¡±

    ¡°Alex,¡± Lance cut him off, ¡°I¡¯m sitting on a sidewalk outside an ER, my left pant leg is drenched in blood, pretty sure I pissed myself at some point, and I can¡¯t feel my left foot. I¡¯m sure.¡±

    Another sigh. ¡°Alright. It¡¯s at 1420 Morris Street. That¡¯s¡ª¡±

    ¡°Holy shit,¡± Lance interrupted. ¡°That¡¯s like three blocks from here.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll call them back, get you on the list,¡± Alex said. ¡°Lance... let me know how it goes.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, yeah. I¡¯ll call you back later. And Alex? Thanks.¡±

    Lance ended the call, a grim smile on his face. Twenty grand for a shot in the dark. But at least it was a shot.

    Lance stared at the e-scooters parked in the corner and thought, salvation on two wheels, dragging himself to his feet.

    Pain.

    He limped towards the cluster of scooters. As he approached, he scanned the lineup, searching for one with a full battery.

    There.

    A lime-green scooter, its display showing a full charge, stood out from the rest. With phone in hand, he pulled up the app to unlock it.

    Come on, come on.

    The scooter beeped to life, its small screen illuminating with a cheerful welcome message.

    [Hello, rider! Ready for an adventure?]

    Lance almost laughed at the absurdity of it all. Here he was, half-dead and desperate, and this little machine was acting like he was about to embark on a fun joyride.

    He swung his right leg over the scooter, then gingerly attempted to lift his left. As soon as he placed weight on it, a crunch followed by a jolt of pain shot through his kneecap.

    Not that one, he thought, gritting his teeth. Carefully, he shifted his weight onto his right leg, keeping his injured left one suspended millimeters from the footboard. The handlebars felt cool against his sweaty palms as he gripped them tightly.

    Lance pushed off, the electric motor humming to life. To 1420 Morris Street. Three blocks. You can do this.

    The wind whipped past his face, providing momentary relief from the heat radiating from his skin. He weaved through abandoned cars and debris littering the street, the world around him a blur of decay and desperation.

    The scooter¡¯s display showed his speed: [15 mph]. Under normal circumstances, it would have felt exhilaratingly fast. Now, it felt agonizingly slow.

    Faster, he urged silently, as if his thoughts could somehow coax more speed from the machine.

    As he zipped past storefronts with boarded-up windows and makeshift ¡°Closed¡± signs, he almost failed to notice a figure stumbling out from an alley directly into his path. He swerved, narrowly avoiding a collision. Narrowly losing control. Narrowly crashing straight into a rusty dumpster overflowing with soggy cardboard boxes and torn trash bags that were spilling rotting food onto the cracked pavement where a mangy cat darted away hissing, its fur bristling, its eyes wide with fear mirroring his own panic as the scooter wobbled beneath him. But undoubtedly sending pain shooting through his body.

    ¡°Watch it, asshole!¡± the figure shouted, their words slurred and angry.

    Lance didn¡¯t bother to respond. Not worth it.

    The street numbers blurred past. 1200... 1300...

    Please let this work. Please let them have what I need.

    Lance¡¯s heart raced. He was so close now he could taste it. Or maybe that was just the coppery tang of blood in his mouth. Who knew?

    And then¡ªthere it was. 1420 Morris Street. A sleek, modern office building with gleaming glass windows. A discreet but elegant sign identified it as BioNova¡¯s headquarters. No line of desperate people seeking salvation.

    Nothing.

    Lance hesitated, confused. He brought the scooter to a stop, nearly toppling over as he dismounted. His legs felt like jelly, threatening to give way as he limped his way towards the building¡¯s entrance.

    He entered the building. His footsteps echoed on the polished marble floor. And he made his way to the reception desk.

    A woman sat behind it, her natural curly hair styled in an impressive afro. Her medium brown skin glowed under the soft lighting, and her almond-shaped eyes met Lance¡¯s with a calm, almost detached professionalism.

    ¡°Can I help you?¡±

    Lance swallowed hard. ¡°I¡¯m here for the... clinical trial.¡±

    She nodded, as if he¡¯d just asked for directions to the nearest coffee shop. ¡°Name?¡±

    ¡°Lance¡­Lawthorn.¡±

    Her fingers danced across the keyboard, eyes flicking to the screen. A moment passed.

    ¡°Ah, yes. Mr. Lawthorn. Thank you for coming.¡± She reached beneath the desk and produced a clipboard with several sheets of paper. ¡°I¡¯ll need you to fill out these forms. Medical history, consent, and payment information.¡±

    Lance¡¯s hand trembled as he took the clipboard. ¡°Thanks.¡±

    He turned, scanning the lobby for a place to sit. A plush leather armchair beckoned from the corner. He limped towards it.

    The chair enveloped him as he sank into its soft embrace. Lance stared at the forms, the words swimming before his eyes. He blinked hard, trying to focus.

    Medical history. Easy enough. No major illnesses, no surgeries. Until now, he¡¯d been the picture of health. He scribbled down the information, his usually neat handwriting a shaky scrawl.

    Consent form. Pages of legalese that essentially boiled down to ¡°we¡¯re not responsible if this kills you.¡± Lance¡¯s pen hovered over the signature line. Was he seriously going to do this? Twenty grand for an experimental treatment?

    Either die to this or to NARS? Fifty-fifty coin flip, he joked, almost crying.

    He signed.

    Payment information. Lance pulled out his phone, fingers fumbling as he accessed his banking app. The balance of his savings account stared back at him. More than enough to cover the ¡°donation,¡± but it would leave him with almost nothing left.

    Better broke than dead.

    He filled in his account details, authorizing the transfer. The receptionist¡¯s calm demeanor suddenly made sense. When you¡¯re charging desperate people twenty grand a pop, you can afford to be unflappable. A pop that might¡­

    ¡­ What¡¯s the worst that could happen? Lance thought bitterly. Die? Been knocking on that door already. But what if it causes brain damage? Leave me a drooling vegetable? Or maybe it does jack shit and I croak from NARS anyway¡­

    He shook the thoughts away and shuffled back to the desk, handing over the clipboard.

    The receptionist took it with a smile that didn¡¯t quite reach her eyes. ¡°Thank you, Mr. Lawthorn. Let me just verify everything.¡±

    She scanned the forms, her expression unchanging. Lance¡¯s heart pounded while his breath came slow and warm and sometimes didn¡¯t even come out at all. And his gaze darted around and his fingers lightly tapped the receptionist¡¯s counter.

    ¡°Everything seems to be in order and the payment has been processed,¡± she said finally. ¡°Please have a seat. Someone will be with you shortly.¡±

    Relief washed over him. ¡°How long¡ª¡±

    ¡°Shortly,¡± she repeated, her tone brooking no argument.

    Lance nodded, turning back to the waiting area. The leather chair called to him again, but he hesitated. Sitting meant the possibility of passing out again. Instead, he paced, limping, ignoring the protests of his body.

    Minutes ticked by, each one feeling like an eternity. Lance¡¯s gaze darted between the elevator doors and the receptionist, willing something to happen.

    Come on, come on.

    His vision blurred, the edges of his sight growing dark. He stumbled, catching himself on the edge of a decorative table. A vase teetered precariously before settling back into place¡ª

    ¡®Ding!¡¯ went the elevator.

    Lance¡¯s head snapped up. The doors slid open, revealing a man in a white lab coat. He stepped out, clipboard in hand, eyes scanning the lobby.

    ¡°Mr. Lawthorn?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s me,¡± Lance said.

    The man nodded, gesturing towards the elevator. ¡°If you¡¯ll follow me, please.¡±

    As he stepped into the elevator, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the polished metal doors.

    I¡¯ll be lucky if I make it till bedtime.

    The doors closed with a soft thud, and Lance felt the slight lurch as the elevator began to ascend.

    ¡°I¡¯m Dr. Reeves,¡± the man said, his voice clipped and professional. ¡°I¡¯ll be overseeing your treatment today.¡±

    Lance nodded, not trusting himself to speak. The elevator continued its journey upward, each floor bringing him closer to... what? Salvation? Or something else entirely?

    The elevator slowed, then stopped. The doors opened with a cheerful ding that seemed wildly out of place given the circumstances.

    ¡°This way,¡± Dr. Reeves said, stepping out into a sterile white hallway.

    Lance followed, his footsteps echoing in the empty corridor¡ªbut not before leaving a fresh heap of vomit inside the elevator. It wasn¡¯t that bad; he hadn¡¯t been able to eat anything since the day before.

    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it, just follow me,¡± Dr. Reeves said.

    This is what twenty grand gets me? I get to vomit in elevators and they clean it.

    They passed door after door, each one identical and unmarked.

    Finally, Dr. Reeves stopped in front of one, swiping a keycard. The lock disengaged with a soft click.

    ¡°After you, Mr. Lawthorn.¡±

    Lance hesitated for a moment, then stepped through the doorway. Inside was a large, clinical room.

    A row of reclining chairs lined one wall, some already occupied by other desperate souls seeking salvation. The antiseptic smell burned his nostrils, yet strangely, it felt nice compared to the stench of his own sweat and blood.

    Dr. Reeves gestured to an empty chair. ¡°Take a seat, Mr. Lawthorn. A nurse will be with you shortly to administer your shot.¡±

    Nod.

    Lance lowered himself into the chair and glanced at the man in the adjacent chair, noting the pallor of his skin and the slight tremor in his hands.

    The man caught his eye and offered a weak smile. ¡°Desperation?¡±

    Lance snorted. ¡°That obvious, huh?¡±

    ¡°You wouldn¡¯t be here, if you weren¡¯t,¡± the man almost whispered. ¡°Name¡¯s Carl.¡±

    ¡°Lance,¡± he replied, then immediately wondered why he bothered with introductions. It wasn¡¯t like they were going to become best friends after this.

    Carl nodded, then winced, pressing a hand to his temple. ¡°Damn headaches. They say you start feeling better immediately.¡±

    ¡°Who said that?¡± Lance asked.

    ¡°The woman who just left¡­¡± Carl trailed off, squinting and tilting his head back. ¡°She was sitting right where you¡¯re sitting.¡±

    ¡°So, it works, right?¡±

    Carl shrugged, the movement almost imperceptible. ¡°Everyone who works here seems fresh, that¡¯s a good sign, isn¡¯t?¡±

    ¡°Uh, I guess.¡±

    Silence fell between them, and Lance¡¯s gaze wandered around the room, taking in the other patients. Some sat with eyes closed, perhaps praying or simply trying to block out reality. Others fidgeted nervously, eyes darting between the door and the other occupants.

    A nurse entered, her scrubs pristine, her face obscured by a mask. She moved to the far end of the row, starting the procedure for a trembling woman. Lance watched, his heart rate quickening as he realized his turn was approaching.

    The nurse sanitized her hands and donned a fresh pair of gloves. She then swabbed the woman¡¯s upper arm with an alcohol wipe¡ªhe could smell it three chairs over. From a nearby tray, she picked up a pre-filled syringe, carefully removing the cap. Lance¡¯s eyes followed her movements as she pinched the flesh of the woman¡¯s arm, creating a bulge of muscle. In one swift motion, she inserted the needle at a 90-degree angle, pushed the plunger smoothly, and withdrew it. The entire process took mere seconds. She pressed a small cotton ball to the injection site, secured it with a bandage, and moved on to the next patient. Lance¡¯s arm twinged in anticipation, a mix of dread and hope coursing through him in equal measure.

    ¡°You married?¡± Carl¡¯s question broke through Lance¡¯s spiraling thoughts.

    ¡°No,¡± Lance replied, grateful for the distraction. ¡°Never found the right person, I guess.¡±

    ¡°Kids?¡± Carl asked.

    ¡°Nope.¡±

    ¡°Lucky,¡± Carl said, his voice thick with emotion. ¡°I¡¯ve got two. A boy and a girl. They¡¯re with my sister now. They were able to get the shot at the hospital, but I wasn¡¯t so lucky. I told them... I told them I¡¯d be back soon.¡±

    Lance gulped, unsure how to respond. He¡¯s scared he might not return to them.

    ¡°I¡¯m sure you will be,¡± Lance offered weakly, donning the mask once more.

    Carl¡¯s laugh was a harsh, brittle sound. ¡°Yeah, sure. One way or another, right?¡±

    ¡°And your wife?¡±

    ¡°She¡¯s not here anymo¡ª¡± Carl didn¡¯t finish the sentence. He looked away, his head ducking sharply as he turned to face the other side. Lance heard a muffled sound that might have been a cough, or something else entirely.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± he murmured, unsure of what else to say.

    Lance closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, a nurse was standing in front of him, her eyes meeting his over her mask. ¡°Mr. Lawthorn? Are you ready?¡±

    ¡°Yes,¡± he said, startled.

    ¡°My name is Linda, and I¡¯ll be taking care of you. We need to do one last screening before we start the gene therapy. Do you have any questions before we begin?¡±

    ¡°Um,¡± Lance said, his voice hoarse, ¡°how exactly does this work?¡±

    Dr. Reeves turned, a syringe in his gloved hand. ¡°It¡¯s quite simple, really. We administer the experimental treatment, and then monitor you for the next 24 hours to observe its effects.¡±

    Lance eyed the syringe warily. ¡°And the success rate? Is it safe?¡±

    The nurse chuckled lightly. ¡°Actually, it¡¯s safer than the flu vaccine. This isn¡¯t a virus as originally thought. It¡¯s more similar to radiation sickness.¡±

    Lance¡¯s brows furrowed, then shot skyward. ¡°Radiation?¡±

    ¡°Yes. Technically, if we¡¯re being precise, this is a form of gene therapy. The procedure itself is quite simple, which is why it was developed so quickly.¡± She paused, ensuring Lance was following. ¡°It contains a synthetic nucleotide sequence that, when introduced to human DNA, creates a protective barrier against the foreign energy. Essentially, it¡¯s the same sequence that GlobeMed, Synergy, and other pharmaceutical companies are distributing to the general public, but BioNova is working to improve it, make it safer.¡±

    ¡°Foreign energy?¡± Lance frowned. ¡°What does that mean?¡±

    The nurse shrugged slightly. ¡°That... we don¡¯t know yet.¡±

    ¡°Great,¡± Lance muttered.

    ¡°Fantastic,¡± she smiled under her mask¡ªor at least Lance thought so. ¡°I¡¯ll go through some questions and then we¡¯ll administer the dose. Have you been outside the country in the last 30 days?¡±

    ¡°No.¡±

    ¡°Any alcohol in the last 48 hours?¡±

    Lance blinked, caught off guard. ¡°Uh, yeah. I had some. Why?¡±

    The nurse¡¯s expression turned apologetic. ¡°I¡¯m afraid we can¡¯t administer the treatment until it¡¯s been at least 48 hours since your last drink.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ve got to be kidding me,¡± Lance groaned. ¡°Why the hell not?¡±

    ¡°Alcohol interferes with your body¡¯s ability to incorporate and express the new genetic material,¡± she explained. ¡°More importantly, it can prevent the genetically engineered protein from properly bonding with your DNA. Without this bond, you¡¯re not protected, and the symptoms will worsen.¡±

    Lance tugged at the ends of his hair, frustration evident. ¡°So, what? I just sit around and hope I don¡¯t keel over in the meantime?¡±

    The nurse¡¯s tone softened. ¡°I understand your frustration, Mr. Lawthorn. Would it be 48 hours by tomorrow?¡±

    Lance did some quick mental math. ¡°Yeah, I guess so.¡±

    ¡°Then I strongly recommend you come back first thing tomorrow morning. We¡¯ll have a spot ready for you.¡±

    Fan-fucking-tastic, Lance thought.

    ¡°I¡¯ll be dead by then,¡± he muttered, then caught himself. ¡°Wait, no. I¡¯m sorry, I made a mistake. I didn¡¯t drink anything two days ago. Obviously, I wouldn¡¯t drink on a Monday.¡± He forced a laugh that sounded hollow even to his own ears.

    The nurse¡¯s eyebrow arched with practiced professionalism. ¡°Mr. Lawthorn, I appreciate you trying to expedite the process, but we take these precautions very seriously. Either way, we¡¯ll need to do a blood test to confirm your alcohol levels before we can proceed.¡±

    Lance¡¯s forced smile faltered. ¡°A blood test? Is that really necessary?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s standard procedure,¡± the nurse said firmly. ¡°We can¡¯t take any chances with this procedure. If you¡¯ve truly been alcohol-free for 48 hours, you have nothing to worry about.¡±

    At that moment, another nurse walked past Linda, carrying a gleaming metal tray with a syringe and other hardware on it, and set it on a small table next to Carl¡¯s station.

    He looked at it, the shiny tray practically calling his name. Screw this.

    Lance¡¯s eyes locked on the needle. His muscles tensed. Adrenaline surged. His chair scraped back. He lunged forward.

    His shoulder slammed into Linda. She stumbled. Gasped. Lance¡¯s hand shot out.

    Fingers closed around the syringe. He yanked it off the tray. The second nurse yelped. But Lance didn¡¯t hesitate. He jabbed the needle into his thigh. Pushed the plunger. The liquid burned. And he dropped back into his chair with a long sigh and a smile of relief.

    ¡°What the fuck, dude!¡± Carl yelled.

    Shouts erupted. Hands grabbed at him. But it was water off a duck¡¯s back; he was feeling better already. He could feel the anxiety washing away from his body¡ªalthough, he was pretty sure it was just the placebo effect. It didn¡¯t matter. What¡¯s done is done. Not that he believed in destiny, but...quite frankly, it was up to destiny now.

    ¡°My shot¡¯s prepaid for. You can give it to Carl.¡±

 Four: Doom-Scrolling

    [Day 4]

    Lance¡¯s fingers grazed the headboard while his toes peeked out from under the covers. A groan escaped, mingling with the creak of the mattress. He blinked, surprised by the lack of pain behind his eyelids. No headache. No nausea. No fever.

    It worked. It really worked. Had it all been a dream? He asked himself, scratching his stomach over his once white shirt.

    He leaned forward, then recoiled as the stench of dried sweat, blood, and stale fear erased any doubt that yesterday had been real.

    He sat up and stretched again. His muscles protested, but it wasn¡¯t the bone-deep ache of NARS. This was different. Familiar. The kind of soreness that came from¡ª

    Oh, right. Security.

    Soreness from being manhandled by burly security guards, not from a deadly pandemic.

    The memory of being forcibly removed from BioNova¡¯s premises flashed through his mind. Strong hands gripping his arms, dragging him towards the exit. His feet skimming the ground as they hurled him onto the sidewalk.

    Totally worth it.

    A wet nose nudged his hand. Lance looked down to see Jiro, his shaggy-haired mutt, wagging his tail expectantly.

    ¡°Hey, buddy,¡± Lance said. ¡°Hungry?¡±

    Jiro¡¯s tail wagged faster in response. Then the dog leaned in, sniffing Lance excitedly, only to quickly regret his decision and step back with a soft whine, his nose wrinkling.

    ¡°Aww, I knowww,¡± Lance cooed. ¡°Does daddy need to ditchy-witch his stinky-winky shirt first? Does he? Huh, buddy?¡±

    He grabbed his phone, taking a quick peek¡­

    [6:57 AM]

    ¡­and peeled off his grimy shirt, tossing it onto a nearby chair, and padded to the kitchen, Jiro at his heels. He sat his phone down, filled the dog¡¯s bowl with kibble, then turned his attention to his own breakfast. The thought of food no longer made his stomach churn.

    Progress.

    He reached for the container of oats with automatic movements. As he prepared his usual breakfast of oatmeal with soy milk¡ªoh, and coffee¡ªLance marveled at the simplicity of it all. Just yesterday, the idea of eating anything seemed impossible. Amazing what a little experimental gene therapy can do.

    His phone buzzed on the counter. Lance glanced at the screen, seeing Alex¡¯s name flash across it.

    Alex (Boss): Lance, are you there? Please respond. I hope you were able to get the treatment.

    Lance: Much better. That clinical trial worked! Thank you so much, I think you saved my life.

    He hit send, then added:

    I know it¡¯s a stupid question, but is there anything I can do?

    He drummed his thumbs on the phone¡¯s edges. Was that too emotional? But Alex did just save his life.

    Lance set the phone back down and sprinkled some sugar into his pot.

    When the five minutes were up, he spooned a mouthful of oatmeal, savoring the sweet normalcy of it.

    His phone buzzed again.

    Alex (Boss): It¡¯s... tough. I don¡¯t know what else to say. Are you safe?

    Lance: Yes. And you?

    Alex (Boss): Me too. It¡¯s probably obvious, but Qualtech is done. The whole world is in lockdown. If you want, let¡¯s talk on Monday

    Lance¡¯s eyes narrowed at the screen, his head tilting slightly as he reread the message. That was new. Alex¡¯s words didn¡¯t sound like a boss talking to an employee. It was the most human conversation he¡¯d ever had with him.

    Lance scrunched his face, unsure how to navigate this unfamiliar territory of Alex showing concern.

    Lance: Okay. Take care, Alex.

    Alex (Boss): You too, Lance. And... thanks for asking if you could help.

    Lance¡¯s thumb hovered over the keyboard. For a moment, he considered mentioning what happened at BioNova. No.

    Lance:??

    Maybe I¡¯ll keep the little incident at BioNova to myself.

    Lance finished his breakfast and coffee, then took a quick shower. With his morning routine complete, he felt reinvigorated. He felt new. Light. Awesome!

    As he toweled off, fragmented memories of the night flashed through his mind. It had been worse than the sickness, different somehow. He vaguely recalled the sensation of a thousand bees landing on his body again, but this time they were angry, stinging relentlessly. His bones had felt like they were melting and reforming simultaneously, a paradoxical agony that defied description.

    Come to think of it, Lance muttered to himself, that was probably the worst pain of my entire life. And yet... I can barely remember it now. He shrugged, dismissing the thought. Oh well.

    Since he didn¡¯t have to go to work, normally, he¡¯d head to the gym at this time, and his body felt ready for it. But he decided not to push his luck¡ªafter all, he was on the brink of death yesterday, and¡­

    My coworkers did die. Mike, Dave, Emily¡­

    Lance paused, allowing himself a brief moment of acknowledgment. An unfamiliar tightness gripped his chest. Then, with a slight shake of his head, he pushed the somber thoughts aside.

    No time for that now. I¡¯ve got a second chance, and I¡¯m not wasting it.

    He glanced at Jiro, who was lounging contentedly on the kitchen floor.

    ¡°What do you think, boy? Should we go for a walk?¡±

    Jiro¡¯s ears perked up at the word ¡°walk.¡± He jumped to his feet, tail wagging furiously.

    ¡°I¡¯ll take that as a yes,¡± Lance chuckled.

    He grabbed Jiro¡¯s leash from its hook by the door, clipping it to the dog¡¯s collar. As he reached for the doorknob, a flicker of apprehension passed through him. The last time he¡¯d ventured outside, the world looked like it had come out of a post-apocalyptic movie.

    Lance inhaled, held it for a moment, exhaled, turned the knob, and stepped out. His suspicions were instantly confirmed. The world outside was... different. Eerily quiet. The usually bustling street lay deserted, save for a few stray leaves skittering across the pavement. A Ghost town.

    He tugged gently on Jiro¡¯s leash, guiding the dog down the empty sidewalk. Their footsteps echoed in the silence. He felt uneasy at the quiet, and Jiro¡¯s ears twitched at every small sound, both unused to a city devoid of its normal bustle.

    Emerging from the alleyway, Lance¡¯s eyes fell on something familiar, and his breath caught in his chest. The Rusty Nail, the bar where just days ago he¡¯d shared drinks with his coworkers. Now, its windows were dark, a hastily scrawled ¡°CLOSED¡± sign taped to the door.

    Mike. Dave. Emily. What about the ones he hadn¡¯t talked to that night? Olivia, Peter¡­ Alex said everyone was dead.

    And Valentina, he thought, remembering their witty exchange. A wave of sadness washed over him - not for a lost love, but for a potential friendship cut short before it could truly begin.

    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

    The names flashed through his mind, each one a jagged shard of memory piercing his conscience. Lance swallowed hard, trying to push away the memories of their last night together. The laughter, the jokes, the plans for future projects that would never come to fruition.

    ¡°C¡¯mon, Jiro,¡± he murmured, tugging the leash. ¡°Let¡¯s keep moving.¡±

    They continued down the street, passing shuttered storefronts and abandoned cars. Lance¡¯s gaze swept over the scene, taking in the surreal landscape. Newspapers littered the ground, their headlines screaming about the pandemic in bold letters.

    A gust of wind picked up, sending a discarded surgical mask tumbling across their path. Jiro sniffed at it curiously before Lance pulled him away.

    ¡°Not a good idea, buddy,¡± he said softly.

    Jiro whined softly and pressed against Lance¡¯s leg, a gesture of silent comfort in response to his owner¡¯s distress.

    Lance reached down, scratching behind Jiro¡¯s ears. ¡°Thanks, boy,¡± he whispered. Then tugged Jiro¡¯s leash, steering them towards the park.

    As they approached the park entrance, Lance¡¯s eyes darted around, searching for any sign of life. The playground equipment stood abandoned, swings creaking softly in the breeze. Yellow caution tape fluttered from the jungle gym, reminding him of the new reality.

    ¡°Alright, boy,¡± Lance murmured, unclipping Jiro¡¯s leash. ¡°Go wild.¡±

    Jiro hesitated, glancing up at Lance as if seeking permission. With a nod from his owner, the brown, shaggy-haired creature bounded off, his paws kicking up small clouds of dust as he raced across the empty field.

    Lance settled onto a nearby leaf-strewn bench as the cool wood pressed against his light jacket. He pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over the screen for a moment before tapping the social media icon.

    His feed exploded with updates, each post more frantic¡ªinteresting than the last. Lance scrolled, his brow furrowing, his thumb going up and down, his eyes absorbing the digital outpouring of panicked speculation and wild rumors.

    Lance¡¯s thumb paused over a familiar name. Mike¡¯s last post, dated three days ago:

    @ZackGamerPro: Too much vodka last night. Feeling like crap. This better not be that new virus everyone¡¯s talking about. Gonna raid my medicine cabinet and binge some RPGs. #SickDay

    No streams this week? What a lightweight. Last post on Monday, but he¡¯s always so active¡ªunless¡­

    He¡¯d known, of course, but seeing Zack¡¯s words, frozen in time, made it all too real. He scrolled past quickly, unable to bear the weight of those final, carefree words.

    @Dr_EmilyChang: We¡¯re working around the clock to understand this virus. Stay home, stay safe. #FightNARS

    @Sarah_M92: ¡°Been in line for 6 hours trying to get my shot. People are passing out. This is insane. #CureShortage¡±

    @MayorJohnson: Citywide curfew in effect from 8 PM to 6 AM. Essential workers exempt. We¡¯re all in this together.

    The next feed made Lance¡¯s blood chill to ice.

    @LocalNews24: ¡°BREAKING: Death toll surpasses 37 million globally. Governments struggling to contain panic. #PandemicCrisis¡±

    Forty million¡­ it¡¯s only been like a day. Maybe two.

    A video caught his eye. He tapped play, and the screen filled with the image of a haggard-looking scientist.

    ¡°We¡¯re dealing with something unprecedented,¡± the woman said, her voice strained. ¡°NARS is not a virus. It¡¯s... it¡¯s almost like radiation poisoning.¡±

    Lance¡¯s grip on his phone tightened. He glanced up, watching Jiro¡¯s ears perk up at the sound of a flock of Canada Geese honk overhead, their V-formation cutting through the crisp autumn sky. The dog¡¯s simple joy felt out of place with everything that was going on.

    He returned his attention to the video.

    ¡°We¡¯re racing against time,¡± the scientist continued. ¡°But I want to assure everyone that we¡¯re making progress. The clinical trials¡ª¡±

    A notification popped up at the top of his screen.

    Alex (Boss): BTW, got a weird call from my contact at BioNova. Something about ¡°unorthodox treatment administration¡±? Care to explain?

    Shit. So much for keeping it to myself.

    Lance: Was very sick, got desperate and panicked.

    Alex (Boss): They said you were lucky they didn¡¯t call the police to arrest you.

    Lance: Actually they tried, but the world has other problems right now lol. Can we talk about it on Monday?

    I shouldn¡¯t have sent ¡®lol,¡¯ Lance thought, then actually laughed out loud.

    Alex (Boss): Okay, no worries. Glad you¡¯re feeling better. We¡¯ll talk Monday. Take care.

    Lance sighed and flipped his phone back to video mode, grunting at that annoying auto-refresh thing that makes you lose the video you were watching when you switch apps for a second.

    Luckily, another interesting video popped into his feed.

    The title read: ¡°NARS Explained: What You Need to Know!¡± Intrigued, he tapped play.

    Lance tapped on the video, and a woman with bright blue hair and thick-rimmed glasses filled the screen.

    The energetic woman standing in front of a whiteboard covered in scientific diagrams grinned at the camera, her excitement radiating through the small screen.

    ¡°What¡¯s up, science seekers! Dr. Zoe Blackwell here, dropping some knowledge about NARS - that¡¯s Novel Acute Radiation Syndrome for you newbies.¡±

    Lance leaned back on the bench as his thumb hovered over the volume button to turn it up. He found himself nodding along, as scattered details clicked in his head.

    ¡°Alright, let¡¯s break it down,¡± she continued. ¡°It has been confirmed that three months ago, scientists picked up this bizarre energy signature in our solar system. Now? We¡¯re knee-deep in a global health crisis. For those interested in the technical details, I¡¯ve linked the original white paper in the description below.¡±

    As she spoke, a picture of the solar system, along with graphics, appeared on the screen, illustrating the timeline of events. Lance¡¯s mouth twisted into a skeptical pout. Three months ago? How had he not heard about this earlier?

    Dr. Blackwell¡¯s voice grew more serious. ¡°NARS is no joke - we¡¯re talking fatigue, muscle aches, fever, and some scary neurological stuff in severe cases.¡±

    A chill ran down his spine, remembering his own recent brush with the syndrome. He glanced up, checking on Jiro, who was now contentedly sniffing a patch of grass.

    ¡°But don¡¯t panic!¡± Dr. Blackwell¡¯s voice drew his attention back to the screen. ¡°We¡¯ve got a secret weapon: a groundbreaking gene therapy.¡±

    He unconsciously rubbed his thigh where he¡¯d injected himself with the ¡®appropriated¡¯ dose.

    ¡°This bad boy injects a synthetic nucleotide sequence into your DNA, basically giving your cells a shield against this freaky energy. One intramuscular shot in the upper arm, and you¡¯re good to go.¡±

    Lance¡¯s breath caught. The trials. His mind flashed back to BioNova, to the syringe in his hand, to the moment of desperation that might have saved his life.

    Or damned me to something worse.

    He shook his head, banishing the thought. He was alive. He was healthy. That was what mattered.

    ¡°Well, better than you were, at least,¡± Dr. Blackwell said with a wry smile. ¡°Now, I know what you¡¯re thinking - ¡®Zoe, how¡¯d they whip this up so fast?¡¯ Two words: preparation and innovation. Scientists have been on this energy puzzle for months, plus all our recent breakthroughs in genetic engineering? Total lifesaver.¡±

    She launched into an explanation of how the gene therapy worked, using a book analogy that even Lance could follow.

    ¡°Here¡¯s the real tea:¡±

    As she continued her explanation, Lance¡¯s eyes widened as soon as Dr. Blackwell said

    ¡°alcohol is a big no-no right now. This energy and ethanol? They¡¯re like that toxic couple that brings out the worst in each other. It can amp up NARS symptoms to potentially fatal levels. So, mocktails only, folks!¡±

    Lance¡¯s heart raced. He¡¯d had Guinnesses on Monday. Was that why the nurse had been so insistent about the 48-hour rule? He swallowed hard, suddenly feeling less confident about his rash actions at BioNova.

    But the even more chilling realization was that this could be the very reason his coworkers... He couldn¡¯t bring himself to finish the thought.

    ¡°Look, we¡¯re all learning as we go here. This is uncharted territory, so keep your eyes on official health channels for the latest updates.¡±

    ¡°Got questions? Drop ¡®em in the comments. And hey, if this video helped you out, smash that like button! Don¡¯t forget to subscribe and hit that notification bell - you won¡¯t want to miss our updates on this wild ride.¡±

    ¡°Stay curious, stay informed, and most importantly, stay safe out there, science seekers!¡±

    The video concluded, but Lance stopped paying attention during the last few scenes. As the screen faded to black, he let out a long breath he hadn¡¯t realized he¡¯d been holding.

    Minutes passed.

    But he found himself still staring at the black screen. At his reflection. At his¡­guilt? He should feel worse, shouldn¡¯t he? His coworkers, his friends, were gone. A lot of people were gone. He paid twenty grand to be alive. The truth hit him like a blizzard of ice-cold reality: he would do it again. In a heartbeat. He¡¯d pay it all over just to be here, in that moment, sitting in the sun, watching his dog play.

    Survivor¡¯s guilt, a small voice in his head whispered. He pushed it away.

    He decided to send another message.

    Lance: Hey, just checking in. How are you holding up?

    He hit send, then immediately regretted it. How are you holding up? As if Alex was just having a bad day at the office, not dealing with the loss of his entire team.

    His boss took longer than he¡¯d ever taken to respond. This was unusual, as Alex¡¯s one redeeming quality was that he seemed to have his phone glued to his hand.

    Alex (Boss): Not great.

    [...]

    Hanging in there. It¡¯s... tough. But we¡¯ll get through this. Stay safe, Lance.

    He looked up at the empty park, swings swaying, a forgotten kite tangled in a tree branch, basketball wedged under a bench. The world had changed, and he was only just beginning to understand how much.

    A sharp bark snapped Lance back to reality. Jiro had cornered a squirrel against a tree and was wagging his tail furiously, clearly pleased with himself.

    ¡°Jiro! Leave it!¡± Lance called out.

    The dog¡¯s ears drooped, but he obediently trotted back to Lance, tongue lolling out of his mouth.

    Lance scratched behind Jiro¡¯s ears, grateful for the distraction. ¡°Good boy,¡± he murmured.

    He glanced back at his phone. A notification popped up at the top of his screen.

    @ConspiracyWatch: ¡°This is population control! Wake up sheeple! Government created this virus! #TruthSeeker¡±

    With a sigh, he locked it and slipped it into his pocket. Enough doom-scrolling for one day.

    ¡°Come on, boy. Let¡¯s go home.¡±

 Five: Status Page

    [Day 5]

    Carpe diem, he thought, chuckling at the clich¨¦.

    Scoop of cookies and cream whey powder.

    Handful of frozen berries.

    Splash of almond milk.

    Lance slammed the blender lid shut. Whirred the protein shake into existence. Gulped it down in three swift motions. No time to waste.

    The sun barely peeked over the horizon, but he was already moving. Energy coursed through his veins, electric and insistent. New day. New Lance.

    He grabbed his gym bag, pre-packed the night before. Efficiency was key!

    Would Titan¡¯s Den even be open with everything that¡¯s going on? He hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. Only one way to find out.

    He grabbed his keys, headed for the door, and once outside, started running. The gym was only a few blocks away - perfect for a quick warm-up. By the time he¡¯d arrive, his blood would be pumping, muscles primed for lifting.

    The streets were just as quiet as the day before, if not even more so, yet Lance¡¯s mind raced, unbothered by the stillness. Ideas, plans, possibilities ¨C they tumbled over each other in a whirlwind, each new thought igniting fresh excitement. He had been given a second chance, and he¡¯d be damned if he didn¡¯t make the most of it.

    The gym loomed ahead, a temple of self-improvement. Lance¡¯s lips curled into a determined smile. Time to push limits. Time to become more¡ª

    Wait, a second¡­ I don¡¯t feel tired. His breath came easy, no hint of exertion. Must be the cold October air.

    As he approached Titan¡¯s Den, he let out a frustrated sigh. The windows were dark, the parking lot empty. Of course. What had he been expecting?

    But then¡ªa flicker of movement inside. Lance quickened his pace, hope rising in his chest. He reached for the door handle, half-expecting it to be locked.

    It wasn¡¯t.

    The familiar scent of sweat, determination, rubber mats and disinfectant greeted him as he stepped inside.

    The gym seemed empty, save for the obvious activity coming from deep within.

    As Lance entered the free weights room, his ears were immediately overwhelmed by an avalanche of cheers and shouts and the loud bang of a fully stacked barbell crashing onto the padded floor near the deadlift station.

    Lance spotted Brad¡¯s red cap worn backwards and next to him stood Ethan¡ªhis neon green resistance band looped around his wrist was impossible to miss.

    When he approached, his eyes widened. The Beast¡ªDiego¡ªwas there, gripping a bar loaded with an insane amount of plates. Brad and Ethan flanked him, their faces red with excitement as they hollered encouragement.

    ¡°Come on, Beast! You got this!¡± Brad¡¯s voice boomed through the nearly empty gym.

    Diego¡¯s muscles strained, veins popping on his forehead as he lifted. The bar inched upwards, plates clanking against each other.

    Silence.

    Then, with a primal roar, Diego straightened, the bar now at hip level. Brad and Ethan erupted into a frenzy, jumping and screaming like they¡¯d just won the lottery.

    Lance found himself clapping, genuinely impressed by the feat of strength he¡¯d just witnessed.

    Thud.

    The weights hit the ground, and Diego stumbled back, chest heaving.

    Brad¡¯s head whipped around at the sound of Lance¡¯s applause, a grin spreading across his face. ¡°Lance! My man! You just missed it¡ªThe Beast here just broke the world record!¡±

    Lance¡¯s eyebrows rocketed toward his hairline. ¡°Seriously?¡±

    ¡°We¡¯ve been here since very early. He started adding plates and just... kept going. It¡¯s insane!¡± Ethan nodded vigorously.

    Diego, still catching his breath, managed a tired smile and a nod in Lance¡¯s direction.

    ¡°That¡¯s... incredible,¡± Lance said, meaning it. He looked at the three men, noting their flushed faces and bright eyes, and the fact that all three of them were wearing Titan¡¯s Den tank tops¡ªthe kind with exaggerated cutoffs that exposed most of their torsos, proudly displaying the gym¡¯s logo of a snarling lion¡¯s head inside a Greek column. They seemed... fine. Healthy. A stark contrast to the world outside.

    Lance appreciated these guys. They didn¡¯t wear masks here. They came because they wanted to, and they were unapologetically themselves. Even if Lance didn¡¯t fully embrace the ¡°gym bro¡± mentality, he respected their genuineness.

    ¡°World record? How much weight is that?¡± Lance asked.

    ¡°1,155 pounds, man. That¡¯s thirteen 45s on each side, plus the 45-pound bar. Just shattered the mountain¡¯s world record by over 50 pounds! Absolute beast mode!¡±

    ¡°Wow, that¡¯s impressive.¡±

    Brad clapped him on the shoulder. ¡°Good to see you looking so chipper, bro! With all this NARS shit going around, we weren¡¯t sure...¡±

    ¡°Yeah,¡± Ethan chimed in. ¡°You¡¯re looking great, man. Got your shot?¡±

    Lance nodded, a pang of guilt flashing through him as he remembered how he¡¯d obtained it. ¡°Yeah, I... managed to get one.¡±

    ¡°Lucky,¡± Brad said. ¡°We all got ours yesterday. Except for Tank¡ªspeaking of, has anyone heard from him?¡±

    The mood shifted, concern creeping into their expressions.

    ¡°Not since Tuesday,¡± Ethan said quietly.

    Lance frowned. ¡°Is that why you¡¯re here so early? How¡¯d you even get in?¡±

    Brad held up a key. ¡°Tank gave me a spare for emergencies. Figured with everything going on, it qualified.¡± He shrugged. ¡°Plus, we needed a distraction. The news is... rough.¡±

    Lance nodded, understanding all too well. ¡°Yeah, it is.¡±

    A moment of somber silence fell over the group before Diego broke it, his voice gruff. ¡°You know, despite all this shit, I feel stronger than ever. It¡¯s like... I don¡¯t know, man. Something¡¯s different.¡±

    Ethan nodded enthusiastically. ¡°Yeah, I hear you. Whatever doesn¡¯t kill you makes you stronger, right? And we definitely didn¡¯t die.¡± He chuckled, but there was an edge to it.

    Lance stroked his chin, considering their words. ¡°You know... I can¡¯t help but agree. I do feel stronger, which is strange since I didn¡¯t eat anything for two days.¡±

    ¡°Ah, you also spent the sickness glued to the toilet? Worst two days of my life,¡± Brad chuckled.

    Lance, Diego, and Ethan exchanged knowing looks, shared discomfort passing between them.

    Ahem. ¡°Not all the time,¡± Lance admitted awkwardly. He flexed his arm experimentally, surprised by the definition he saw. ¡°Aaanyway, guess it really is true.¡±

    Brad¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°Wait, you feel the gains, too? I thought it was just us. You think it¡¯s the gene therapy?¡±

    Lance shrugged. ¡°I don¡¯t know, maybe? Could be. Or maybe it¡¯s a side effect of surviving NARS. Either way, it¡¯s... interesting.¡±

    Diego flexed his bicep, admiring the pump. ¡°It was that shot, bro. Must¡¯ve had some next-level anabolic compound. I swear my muscles are denser, and my recovery time is insane. It¡¯s like I¡¯m running the most effective cycle ever, but all natural.¡±

    The group exchanged glances of excitement and uncertainty and barely contained energy. Whatever was happening, it was clear their bodies were responding in ways far beyond normal human limits. Lance found himself squinted at the distance, considering Diego¡¯s comment. Could the gene therapy or NARS trigger such dramatic changes? It seemed too good to be true. Maybe it was just adrenaline, or some kind of placebo effect from surviving a global health crisis. Or perhaps there was something else at play, something they hadn¡¯t considered yet.

    Diego, still admiring his bicep, suddenly dropped his arm and grinned.

    ¡°Enough talk. More lift.¡±

    Brad¡¯s enthusiasm returned instantly. ¡°Hell yeah! Let¡¯s see if you can beat your own record, Beast!¡±

    As Brad and Ethan returned their attention to Diego, Lance moved towards the free weights, ready to start his own workout. Challenges beckoned. Lance cracked his knuckles. Let¡¯s do this.

    A familiar back routine would be the perfect therapy to clear his head in a world turned upside down.

    He grabbed a pair of dumbbells, the rough knurling on the handles biting into his palms and grounding him in the present. As he began his first set of curls, his mind kept wandering off to the point where he lost count of his reps, the motion becoming automatic.

    If one hundred million died yesterday, what¡¯s the death toll today¡­

    Focus.

    He pushed the thoughts away, concentrating on the burn in his muscles. One rep at a time. That¡¯s all he could do for now. One rep at a time.

    Intense physical activity detected. Genetic optimization in progress.

    Woah, he stepped back as a strange message flashed across his vision. He blinked, startled, but the message vanished as quickly as it had appeared. What the hell was that? He glanced around, half-expecting to see an out-of-place screen or projector. Nothing. For a moment, fear gripped him¡ªwas he hallucinating? But the message had seemed so real, so crisp. He shook his head, trying to clear it. Probably just my imagination. Or maybe I¡¯m more tired than I thought. Still, the incident left him unsettled, a nagging sense of wrongness he couldn¡¯t quite shake. Was this the ¡®scary neurological stuff¡¯ Dr. Blackwell mentioned?

    Eager to move on, Lance decided to switch exercises. He approached the pull-up bar, his muscles still warm from the earlier exercises. He reached up, gripping the metal, and let out a short, controlled exhale. With a slight jump, he pulled himself up, chin clearing the bar with ease.

    One.

    He lowered himself smoothly, then pulled up again. The familiar burn in his lats and biceps felt different somehow. Sharper. More defined.

    Two. Three.

    His mind wandered as his body worked. Here he was, doing pull-ups like it was just another day at the gym. But it wasn¡¯t, was it? He¡¯d been given a second chance.

    Four. Five.

    Lance¡¯s usual wall of nine pull-ups loomed ahead, but his arms showed no signs of fatigue.

    Six. Seven.

    As he pulled himself up for the eighth time, he realized he needed to make some changes. Big ones.

    Breakthrough.

    He kept going, surprising himself. His job at Qualtech suddenly seemed trivial, meaningless in the face of what had happened. What was the point of designing yet another app when the world was falling apart?

    Nine.

    Maybe it was time to pivot. Use his skills for something more... impactful. He always dreamed of starting his own business¡ªan engineering LLC. And had ideas brewing in the back of his mind, concepts that could make a real difference. Now might be the perfect time to bring them to life.

    Ten. Eleven.

    Lance¡¯s arms burned, but it was a good burn. A burn that said he was pushing past his limits, growing stronger with each rep. Just like he needed to do with his life.

    Twelve. Thirteen.

    He thought about the NARS treatment, about BioNova. There was so much that needed to be done in the medical field. Could he contribute somehow? Use his programming skills to help streamline research or gene therapy distribution?

    Fourteen. Fifteen.

    Or maybe something completely different. A career change. A fresh start. The pandemic had shown how fragile the world¡¯s systems were. There had to be a way to make them more resilient, more adaptable.

    Sixteen.

    Lance¡¯s arms trembled slightly, but he pushed through. Each pull-up represented a step towards a new future, a new purpose¡ªor at least that¡¯s the sort of ¡®cringe¡¯ thing he told himself. He just had to figure out what that purpose was.

    Seven...

    ...

    ...teen.

    He dropped from the bar, landing softly on his feet. Lance stared at his hands in disbelief. Seventeen pull-ups. He¡¯d almost doubled his previous record.

    Impossible.

    Yet here he was, breathing heavily but not exhausted. Not even close. He flexed his fingers, feeling the usual burn and tightness, but noticeably less than expected. Whatever was happening to his body, it was... different. Unexpected. He couldn¡¯t make sense of it. Maybe his muscles were just fresh after nearly a week of rest, he reasoned. But even that didn¡¯t fully explain what he was experiencing.

    Strength increased by 35%. Endurance increased by 52%. Genetic optimization continuing...

    The message had popped up in his sight, clear as day. No hallucination this time. He blinked hard, rubbed his eyes, but the afterimage lingered in his mind.

    What. The. Fuck. Was that?

    His heart pounded, a mix of excitement and fear and utter bewilderment coursing through his veins. Lance took a deep breath, forcing himself to think rationally. He was an engineer, dammit. He could figure this out.

    Okay, let¡¯s break this down. The message mentioned genetic optimization. That had to be related to the gene therapy, right? But how? And why was he seeing it like some sort of augmented reality display?

    Lance¡¯s mind flashed back to Dr. Blackwell¡¯s video. She¡¯d mentioned a synthetic nucleotide sequence injected into DNA. Could that be causing these... upgrades?

    Upgrades. The word sent jolts of anxiety throughout his body. It sounded too much like science fiction, yet here he was, experiencing it firsthand.

    He flexed his arms experimentally. They felt... different. Stronger, yes, but also more responsive, as if his nervous system had been fine-tuned.

    Shit, this beats the hell out of my morning coffee. Lance raked his fingers across his scalp¡ªpondering¡ªcalculating¡ªstruggling to make sense of it all, but liking it. Was this happening to everyone who got the gene therapy? Or waPs he some kind of anomaly?

    Fear gripped him for a moment. What if this was a side effect? What if it was dangerous? But then again, he felt better than he ever had. Stronger. Sharper. Crazy fast. Lightning fast! More alert. Energized. Like he could run a marathon and solve complex algorithms simultaneously. His senses seemed heightened, colors more vivid, sounds clearer. It was as if a fog had lifted from his entire being¡ª

    Focus!

    Lance took another deep breath, forcing his racing thoughts to slow. He needed more information. Let¡¯s see¡­okay, okay!

    Determined.

    He strode across Titan¡¯s Den, his eyes locked on Diego, Brad, and Mark. They were packing up, clearly preparing to leave. Lance¡¯s pace quickened.

    ¡°Hey, Diego,¡± he called out, his voice carefully neutral. ¡°Got a sec?¡±

    Diego looked up, nodding. ¡°Sure, hermano. What¡¯s up?¡±

    Lance hesitated, suddenly aware of how crazy he might sound. But he had to know. ¡°When you were breaking that deadlift record or whatever... did you, uh, see any weird messages? Like, across your vision?¡± Lance asked, realizing this sounded like something straight out of those fantasy novels Mike had forced him to read, where characters saw stats floating in the air. Had the gene therapy introduced quantum dots or some kind of nanoscale neural interface?

    Too sci-fi, Lance.

    Then again, he was literally seeing data streams in his vision. The text probably wasn''t actually in his field of vision¡ªmore likely the gene therapy was intercepting signals along his optic nerve, feeding information directly into his visual cortex. It would explain why he could "see" the text even with his eyes closed¡ªit was both unsettling and fascinating. Makes sense, right? He reasoned.

    Beside the weight rack, Diego''s brow furrowed. Does that mean he saw them, or does he think I am crazy? Lance felt a shaking chill crawl under his skin as a thought crossed his mind. Crazy neurological stuff¡ª

    ¡°Weird messages?¡± Diego interrupted, halting Lance¡¯s freak-out. Then he looked behind him at Brad and Mark, who seemed equally perplexed. If not more.

    ¡°I don¡¯t think so,¡± Diego continued. ¡°What do you mean?¡±

    Lance finally exhaled. So it was just him. He forced a casual shrug. ¡°Okay, thanks. Never mind, it¡¯s probably nothing.¡±

    Diego nodded slowly, still looking confused. ¡°Alright, man. If you say so. See ya tomorrow.¡±

    Brad chimed in, ¡°Hey Lance, can you lock up when you leave? I don¡¯t think anyone else will be showing up today¡ªwith the pandemic going on and all.¡±

    ¡°Sure, no problem,¡± Lance said.

    As his gym mates filed out and their voices faded into the distance, he glanced around the space, looking for something to distract himself. Anythi¡ªperfect!

    His gaze landed on the treadmill in the corner.

    Lance strode over. He hopped on, setting his phone down on the console.

    [8:12 AM]

    His fingers punched in the desired workout.

    [Speed Training]

    The machine hummed to life seamlessly beneath his feet.

    [8 MPH] His usual speed.

    [00:00]

    The belt began to move, and Lance fell into step. ¡®Thud-thud, thud-thud.¡¯ Breathe in, breathe out. The rhythmic pounding of his feet against the treadmill belt matched the pounding of his heart.

    If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    [03:00]

    His breath remained steady, his legs moving with an effortless grace that felt alien. Where was the burn? The gradual build-up of lactic acid that usually accompanied his runs?

    [05:00]

    Lance glanced down at the heart rate monitor. His eyes shot up.

    [58 bpm]

    What¡¯s wrong with me? Or actually, what¡¯s disgustingly right with me? He was running at eight miles per hour, and his heart rate was only slightly above resting. A bead of sweat formed on his brow, but it wasn¡¯t from exertion.

    What am I becoming? Screw starting a business, I¡¯m going to the olympics.

    His finger hovered over the speed button. A part of him wanted to stop, to get off this ride and pretend everything was normal. But a larger part, the part that had always pushed him to excel, to break boundaries, urged him on.

    ¡®Click.¡¯

    [9 MPH]

    His legs adjusted seamlessly to the increased pace. Still, his breathing remained even, his heart rate stubbornly low.

    ¡®Click. Click.¡¯

    [11 MPH]

    The world around him blurred, the gym becoming a smear of colors and shapes. Yet Lance felt more focused than ever. Each stride was perfect, each breath controlled.

    [10:00]

    He was sprinting now, or at least he should have been. But it felt like a leisurely jog. His heart rate had barely budged, hovering just above 60 bpm.

    Fear gripped him. This wasn¡¯t normal. This wasn¡¯t human. What had that treatment done to him? He was liking it, but he knew nothing this good came without a catch.

    ¡®Click. Click. Click. Click.¡¯

    [15 MPH]

    The treadmill groaned in protest, not built for such speeds. Lance¡¯s feet were a blur, his body a well-oiled machine operating far beyond its intended specifications.

    [72 bpm]

    Finally, a change. But still nowhere near what it should be for someone running at Olympic sprinter speeds.

    Lance¡¯s mind raced faster than his feet. The implications of what was happening to him were staggering. He was stronger, faster, more resilient than any human had a right to be. And it terrified him. And it was¡­

    Exhilarating!

    ¡®Click.¡¯

    [16 MPH]

    The treadmill shuddered violently, the smell of burning rubber filling the air. Lance¡¯s legs moved with inhuman speed, his breath still coming in even, measured gasps.

    [15:49]

    [85 bpm]

    Power increased

    Speed increased

    Energy increased

    Lance¡¯s world exploded into a barrage of information. Messages blinked everywhere he looked, each one more impossible than the next.

    New skill unlocked: Enhanced Stamina

    New skill unlocked: Enhanced Speed

    Genetic optimization: 34%

    Panic surges.

    His heart, which had remained stubbornly calm throughout his inhuman run, now thundered in his chest. The treadmill¡¯s belt, still spinning at a maddening speed, became a blur beneath his feet. Lance¡¯s legs, once moving with preternatural grace, suddenly felt like lead weights.

    Slip. Stumble. Balance lost.

    The world tilted. Lance¡¯s body launched backward, catapulted by the relentless motion of the treadmill.

    Time slows. Gravity pulls. Floor rushes up. Eyes squeeze shut. Muscles tense. Seconds stretch. Eternity in freefall. He waits for the sickening crunch of bone meeting floor.

    It never came.

    Instead, he found himself sliding across the gym, momentum carrying him far beyond what should have been possible. His back skidded across the rubber flooring, coming to rest against the far wall with a gentle thud¡­

    Lance¡¯s eyes snapped open. He patted himself down, searching for injuries that should have been there. Broken bones. Torn skin. Anything. Nothing.

    He stood, legs shaky but unscathed. His black shirt was ripped, evidence of his wild ride across the gym floor, but his skin beneath was unmarked. Everything was¡­pristine.

    Wrong. This was all wrong. Lance¡¯s mind went into overdrive, unable to process the impossible events unfolding around him. Unable to understand his body. Unable to understand...

    The messages still lingered in his peripheral vision, then slowly faded away.

    He flexed his biceps and stared at the carved edges in the gym mirror¡ªlike someone had 3D-printed the perfect muscle structure. He grinned at the surge of strength. Then stopped. Right. Maybe he should check if this was going to kill him first.

    A sudden urge to run, to escape this new reality, overwhelmed him. Lance bolted for the door, his movements a blur even to his own heightened awareness. He burst out of Titan¡¯s Den, the cool morning air hitting his face like a slap. He started running.

    Almost immediately, something in the very back of his mind stopped him.

    A thought pierced through the fog of panic. He hadn¡¯t locked up. He couldn¡¯t betray Marcus¡¯s trust, not after the gym owner had been so kind to him. The thought, as mundane as it was, as ordinary as it seemed, as trivial as it appeared next to his new conveniently enhanced body, grounded him. At least a little.

    Lance turned back. He reached for the lock, the simple act of securing a door suddenly giving him peace of mind. The click of the lock sliding into place sounded like a gunshot in the quiet street, but it brought a small measure of calm.

    ***

    Lance¡¯s feet pounded the pavement, his mind racing even faster than his body. The world blurred around him, buildings and cars melting into streaks of color as he tore through the streets. He had no idea how fast he was going, but he knew it was at least as quick as he¡¯d been on the treadmill, if not more.

    Faster.

    His lungs should have been burning, his muscles screaming for mercy. But there was nothing. No pain, no fatigue. Just an endless well of energy propelling him forward.

    More ominous messages filled his vision, but he didn¡¯t even bother to read them. If he were being honest with himself, he was starting to get used to them¡ªa frightening thought, all told. He didn¡¯t know if any provided useful information, but there was one thing that was as clear as his grandmother¡¯s voice calling him in for dinner on a summer evening: the messages were like a damn video game. Ridiculous. He¡¯d agreed to a clinical trial, not to be a pawn in some sick experiment.

    BioNova¡¯s building rose before him, its gleaming glass facade holding his answers in the morning light. Lance¡¯s stomach churned as he remembered his last visit. The desperation, the reckless act that had saved his life¡ªand possibly changed it forever.

    They probably won¡¯t want to help me, he thought, slowing his pace as he approached the building. Not after what I did.

    But he needed answers. And he would get them.

    Lance came to a stop in front of the building, breaths steady, strides smooth and unhurried, absolutely no sign of exertion. He glanced at his reflection in the polished glass doors. Windswept hair framed his wild eyes. His eyes were marbles of fear and determination. He looked... different. Sharper. More defined. As if his very essence had been distilled into a purer form.

    Hesitation.

    For a moment, he considered turning back. What if they called the police? What if they¡ª

    Wait, a second... Lance frowned, piecing it together. The messages across his vision, the changes he was experiencing¡ªthis was still part of their clinical trial, wasn¡¯t it? They¡¯d want to know about all of this. They¡¯d want this information.

    Lance pushed through the doors, the cool air of the lobby washing over him. The receptionist looked up, her eyes widening in recognition.

    ¡°Sir, you¡¯re not welcomed here. I¡¯m going to have to ask you to leave¡ª¡±

    ¡°Please,¡± Lance interrupted, his voice steadier than he felt. ¡°I need to speak with someone about the gene therapy. It¡¯s important.¡±

    The receptionist¡¯s hand hovered over the phone, likely ready to call security.

    ¡°Sir, if you don¡¯t leave, I¡¯ll call the police¡ª¡±

    ¡°What police? Go ahead, call them, I¡¯ll wait. In the meantime, bring that doctor... What¡¯s his name... Ravu... Reeves. Yeah, Reeves. Look,¡± Lance said, leaning in close, his voice dropping to a whisper. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, really, but something¡¯s happening to me. I¡¯m... changing. I need to know if this is normal, if others are going through the same thing.¡±

    The receptionist¡¯s expression softened slightly, a flicker of concern crossing her face. She glanced around, then leaned in. ¡°One moment,¡± she said softly, before reaching for her phone.

    Lance paced the lobby, every nerve on edge. He could hear the receptionist¡¯s hushed voice, catch fragments of her conversation despite the distance. Beyond that, conversations from floors above and the hum of machinery in distant labs reached his ears. His enhanced senses were both a marvel and a torment.

    It didn¡¯t feel superhuman, not in the slightest. More like everything had been dialed up a notch or two. Hearing the receptionist¡¯s call was like overhearing a stranger¡¯s conversation while walking past¡ªexcept he was halfway across the lobby. He couldn¡¯t make out every word, but the gist was there. If he focused, or moved closer, he knew he could pick up more.

    And with it came messages¡ªsystem messages?¡ªabout his perception evolving or something like that.

    Minutes crawled by like hours.

    Finally, the receptionist set down the phone and turned back to Lance.

    ¡°Dr. Reeves will be down shortly,¡± she called out, her voice carrying across the lobby as Lance approached the desk¡ª

    ¡®Ding¡¯

    The doctor emerged from the elevator in his pristine white lab coat, his salt-and-pepper hair neatly combed back, and his sharp green eyes bright behind wire-rimmed glasses, his earlier sternness replaced by an eager expression that both unsettled and slightly reassured Lance, momentarily easing his restlessness. The doctor¡¯s demeanor might have been more comforting if it weren¡¯t for the two security guards flanking him.

    ¡°Mr. Lawthorn,¡± he said, his voice clipped. ¡°I understand you have some... concerns about your experience with our treatment.¡±

    Thank god, Lance thought while nodding and struggling to contain his mix of emotions. ¡°Yeah, I... I don¡¯t even know where to start¡ª¡±

    But then Dr. Reeves¡¯s expression hardened. ¡°Before we proceed, I need to know: are you going to behave yourself? We¡¯re interested in understanding what¡¯s happening, and would like to help you, but we won¡¯t tolerate any aggressive behavior.¡±

    Lance swallowed hard and tilted his head, slightly caught off-guard. ¡°Ye¡­s? I mean, yes, of course¡­ And I¡¯m sorry for the way I acted before. As you well know, I felt like I was going to die. I was desperate.

    ¡°I understand, but you must know our position. We can¡¯t administer the genetic vaccine to someone with high blood alcohol levels. It could have been fatal. The same is true outside our trial - gene therapy supplies are limited, and we can¡¯t risk wasting doses on individuals unlikely to survive the treatment.¡±

    ¡°I know. I do. I just... I need help understanding what¡¯s happening to me now.¡±

    ¡°Very well. Please follow me to my office. We¡¯ll discuss this in private.¡±

    As he moved to follow, Dr. Reeves¡¯s eyes raked over him, assessing. He stopped. Turned to the receptionist.

    ¡°Zara, please tell Dr. Patel to meet us there. And coordinate with security to stand by, just in case.¡±

    Ouch. Though I don¡¯t blame him, Lance thought, suddenly noticing Zara¡¯s eyes on him.

    ¡°Mr. Lawthorn, follow me,¡± Dr. Reeves said, moving away from the lobby. ¡°Given the unorthodox circumstances of your anti-NARS treatment, we need to understand exactly what¡¯s happening. But I want to be clear: our willingness to help doesn¡¯t excuse your previous actions.¡±

    Lance nodded while following Dr. Reeves into the elevator. The doors closed with a soft hiss, sealing them in.

    ¡°I suppose you have questions,¡± Dr. Reeves said, breaking the silence.

    Lance almost laughed. Questions? He had a goddamn encyclopedia of questions swirling in his head. But he settled for a simple, ¡°Yes.¡±

    ¡°Good,¡± Dr. Reeves replied, his tone unreadable. ¡°So do we.¡±

    The elevator continued its ascent, each floor passing feeling like an eternity. Lance¡¯s enhanced hearing picked up the subtle whir of the machinery, the soft ping of each floor they passed. He cupped his right fist with his left hand, trying to center himself.

    When he opened them again, text overlaid his vision:

    Stress levels elevated. Cortisol suppression improving.

    Just like that, calm suffused him. It was as if he had taken a very, very low dose of Valium¡ªit wasn¡¯t much, but enough to allow him to better assess the situation.

    Dr. Reeves must have noticed¡­something because he raised an eyebrow and studied Lance with interest.

    The elevator doors opened to a sleek, modern office space. Dr. Reeves stepped out, motioning for Lance to follow. They walked past rows of empty desks until they reached a glass-walled office at the end of the hall. Dr. Reeves opened the door, gesturing for Lance to enter.

    ¡°Have a seat,¡± he said, moving behind the large desk that dominated the room.

    Lance sank into what felt like the most comfortable chair he had ever sat on his entire life¡ªand that was saying a lot now that even his sense of touch was hyper-aware. The faint scent of coffee lingering in the space, the soft hum of the air conditioning, the subtle flicker of the fluorescent lights overhead. He could easily drift off right there.

    Dr. Reeves leaned forward, his hands clasped on the desk. ¡°Now, Mr. Lawthorn, why don¡¯t you tell me exactly what¡¯s been happening to you?¡±

    Lance drew in a long breath, steeling himself. Where to even begin? The impossible strength? The messages flashing in his field of view? The fact that he¡¯d just run across town at superhuman speeds without breaking a sweat?

    ¡°I¡¯m... changing,¡± he finally said, watching as Dr. Reeves pulled out a black notebook and turned on his laptop. ¡°My body, my senses, everything. It¡¯s like I¡¯m becoming something else... like my body is becoming better, or changing.¡±

    ¡°And when did these changes begin?¡±

    ¡°After the gene therapy,¡± Lance replied with a hint of accusation in his intonation. ¡°What did you do to me?¡±

    Dr. Reeves opened his mouth to respond when the office door opened. A petite woman with long black hair pulled into a messy bun stepped in, her pink-rimmed glasses slightly askew. Dr. Patel, Lance presumed.

    ¡°Ah, Dr. Patel,¡± Dr. Reeves said, signaling for her to join them. ¡°Thank you for coming. This is Mr. Lawthorn, the... unexpected participant we discussed. Lance, this is Dr. Ananya Patel, our lead biomedical engineer of the gene therapy project.¡±

    Dr. Patel¡¯s eyes lit up and now Lance really felt like he was being treated like a test subject.

    ¡°Oh! The one who¡ª¡± She caught herself, composing her features. ¡°I mean, it¡¯s nice to meet you, Mr. Lawthorn. Dr. Reeves mentioned you¡¯ve been experiencing some... unusual effects from the genetic vaccine?¡±

    Lance shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his gaze darting between Dr. Reeves and Dr. Patel. ¡°¡¯Unusual effects¡¯ is putting it mildly,¡± he said.

    ¡°Dr. Patel, please have a seat,¡± Dr. Reeves said, gesturing to the empty chair in front of his desk. As she sat, he continued, ¡°Mr. Lawthorn was just about to detail the effects he¡¯s experienced. Sir, please proceed, be as detailed as possible.¡±

    Lance exhaled slowly, trying to organize his thoughts. This was it. The moment of truth. He opened his mouth, ready to unleash the torrent of impossible experiences he¡¯d been through.

    ¡°It¡¯s... a lot,¡± Lance started, his voice steadier than he felt. ¡°I¡¯m stronger. Faster. My senses are... heightened. I can hear conversations from far away, smell things I shouldn¡¯t be able to.¡±

    Dr. Reeves nodded, his pen scratching across the notebook. ¡°Go on.¡±

    ¡°I ran on a treadmill at sixteen miles per hour for fifteen minutes,¡± Lance continued, the absurdity of the statement hitting him as he said it. ¡°My heart rate didn¡¯t increase. And when I fell off... I should have been hurt. Badly. But I wasn¡¯t. Not a scratch.¡±

    The doctor¡¯s eyebrows rose slightly, but he remained silent, scribbling furiously.

    Lance hesitated, then decided to dive in completely. ¡°And... I¡¯m seeing things. Messages. Like... status updates. They flash across my vision, telling me about... improvements. Genetic optimization. New skills unlocked. It¡¯s like I¡¯m in some kind of... I don¡¯t know, a video game system or something.¡±

    At this, Dr. Reeves stopped writing. He looked up, his expression unreadable. ¡°Interesting. Can you give me an example of these messages?¡±

    Lance pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to recall. ¡°There was one about strength increasing by 35%. Another about endurance going up 52%. And something about genetic optimization being at 34%.¡±

    When he opened his eyes, he found Dr. Reeves staring at him intently, his expression like that of a geologist who¡¯d just stumbled upon a rock that shouldn¡¯t exist.

    ¡°Mr. Lawthorn,¡± the doctor said slowly, ¡°how long have you been experiencing these... enhancements?¡±

    Lance frowned, thinking back. ¡°It started... this morning, I think. At the gym. That¡¯s when I first noticed the strength increase and the messages.¡±

    Dr. Reeves typed something into his laptop, his fingers a blur. Lance shook his head in disbelief¡ªif he really focused, he could probably decipher what the doctor had been typing just by watching his finger movements.

    The doctor looked up again. ¡°Have you experienced any negative side effects? Headaches, nausea, disorientation? Or anything similar to NARS?¡±

    ¡°No, nothing like that. I feel... good. Better than good, actually. But it¡¯s just... weird.¡±

    Dr. Reeves nodded, making another note. ¡°I see. And these messages you¡¯re seeing, do they appear at specific times or randomly?¡±

    ¡°They seem to show up when I¡¯m doing something physical,¡± Lance replied. ¡°Running, lifting weights. Or when I¡¯m... stressed, I guess? There was one about cortisol suppression in the elevator.¡±

    Dr. Reeves leaned back in his chair with a ghost of amusement haunting the edges of his mouth.

    ¡°Mr. Lawthorn, what you¡¯re experiencing is entirely normal. In fact, it¡¯s well within the parameters we¡¯ve observed in our clinical trials so far.¡±

    Lance¡¯s fingers tapped the armrest, then abruptly stilled. ¡°Normal? In what world can this be normal?¡±

    ¡°Oh, absolutely! It¡¯s fascinating, really. We¡¯ve been seeing similar results across the board,¡± said Dr. Patel.

    ¡°I¡¯m not sure how much you know about NARS, Mr. Lawthorn,¡± Dr. Reeves continued. ¡°Its origin, its effects on human beings-¡±

    ¡°I know it¡¯s not a virus or traditional radiation,¡± Lance interrupted. ¡°Some kind of new energy we¡¯ve been exposed to, right?¡±

    ¡°Precisely,¡± Dr. Reeves nodded. ¡°Our gene therapy, like the others out there, helps the body withstand and regulate this energy. However, our approach at BioNova is... more ambitious.¡±

    ¡°You could say we¡¯re not just playing defense,¡± Dr. Patel added with a grin. ¡°We¡¯re going on the offensive.¡±

    Lance jerked back. ¡°Defense? Offense? What are we talking about, exactly?¡±

    ¡°Our gene therapy contains a synthetic genetic sequence that not only protects against the pathogen but potentially allows the body to utilize some of its properties for beneficial purposes. Or at least that¡¯s our hypothesis,¡± Dr. Reeves said. ¡°Dr. Patel, would you care to elaborate on the specifics?¡±

    ¡°Yes, Sir, with pleasure. Mr. Lawthorn, the ¡®system¡¯¡ªas you called it earlier¡ªit¡¯s actually a neural interface,¡± Dr. Patel explained, her excitement bubbling over. ¡°It¡¯s designed to help your body and mind process the changes occurring at a cellular level.¡±

    ¡°So these messages I¡¯m seeing...¡±

    ¡°Real-time feedback from your body¡¯s adaptation to the energy,¡± Dr. Reeves confirmed. ¡°Translated into terms your brain can easily understand and process.¡±

    ¡°And the physical changes? The strength, the speed? It feels¡­ too easy.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s all interconnected,¡± Dr. Patel nodded. ¡°Your body is learning to use the energy, leading to cellular optimization.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll be honest, Mr. Lawthorn,¡± Dr. Reeves said. ¡°There are still many unknowns. We¡¯re not sure how far these enhancements might go or what the long-term effects could be.¡± He glanced at Dr. Patel. ¡°Ananya, what¡¯s the latest from the beta trials? Any new developments?¡±

    Yes, sir. Our current data suggests potential improvements across multiple aspects of human physiology, possibly approaching peak performance in some areas,¡± Dr. Patel added quickly. ¡°However, we¡¯re still analyzing the full extent and consistency of these enhancements.¡±

    ¡°Wait a second,¡± Lance said. ¡°What about my friends? They got the shot too, and they¡¯re performing better, but when I asked them, they said they hadn¡¯t experienced any ¡®system messages.¡¯¡±

    Dr. Reeves and Dr. Patel exchanged a glance.

    ¡°Different gene therapies, different approaches to energy regulation,¡± Dr. Reeves explained. ¡°Ours is... unique.¡±

    ¡°We¡¯re aiming to provide more control,¡± Dr. Patel said. ¡°The neural interface is part of that.¡±

    Oh shit, it¡¯s true¡­

    Lance sat in silence for a moment, digesting this information. ¡°So, let me get this straight. I¡¯ve basically been turned into a superhuman guinea pig for your experimental therapy?¡±

    Dr. Reeves winced slightly. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t put it quite like that-¡±

    ¡°No, you wouldn¡¯t,¡± Lance cut him off. ¡°But that¡¯s what it boils down to, isn¡¯t it?¡±

    ¡°Mr. Lawthorn,¡± Dr. Patel leaned forward, her voice earnest. ¡°We understand this is a lot to take in. But please remember, you came to us. You chose to participate in our trial.¡±

    ¡°By stealing a dose and injecting myself,¡± Lance retorted. ¡°Not exactly following proper protocols, was I? And I paid you twenty thousand dollars for it.¡±

    ¡°No,¡± Dr. Reeves admitted. ¡°But the gene therapy still worked as intended. You¡¯re alive, Mr. Lawthorn. And not just alive - you¡¯re thriving.¡±

    Lance couldn¡¯t argue with that. He did feel incredible. But still...

    ¡°And what happens now? Do I just go on living my life as some sort of enhanced human? What if something goes wrong?¡±

    ¡°We¡¯ll be monitoring you closely,¡± Dr. Reeves said. ¡°Regular check-ups, tests, the works. You¡¯ll have our full support.¡±

    ¡°Think of it as an adventure,¡± Dr. Patel said, grinning. ¡°You¡¯re at the forefront of human evolution. Isn¡¯t that exciting?¡±

    Lance couldn¡¯t help but laugh. ¡°You know what? It kind of is. Terrifying, but exciting.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s the spirit,¡± Dr. Reeves nodded approvingly. ¡°Now, shall we discuss the details of your ongoing participation in our study?¡±

    ¡®Ding,¡¯ went Dr. Reeves¡¯s computer, and he glanced at his watch.

    ¡°I apologize, but I have a meeting I must attend. Dr. Patel, would you mind guiding Mr. Lawthorn through navigating the neural interface?¡±

    ¡°Of course! It¡¯ll be my pleasure. I¡¯ll walk him through our standard onboarding process.¡±

    Dr. Reeves nodded and stood. ¡°Mr. Lawthorn, we¡¯ll be in touch soon to discuss further details. In the meantime, Dr. Patel will answer any questions you might have.¡±

    As the door closed behind Dr. Reeves, Dr. Patel turned to Lance with a friendly smile.

    ¡°Alright, Lance - can I call you Lance? - let¡¯s dive into the fun stuff. First, let¡¯s access your status page. Close your eyes and think ¡®status¡¯.¡±

    Lance raised an eyebrow but complied. To his surprise, a translucent screen appeared in his mind¡¯s eye:

    Name: Lance Lawthorn

    Genetic Optimization: 35%

    Power: 3 (+0.7)

    Energy: 3 (+0.9)

    Speed: 3 (+1.1)

    Defense: 4 (+0.5)

    Mind: 4 (+0.6)

    Control: 3 (+0.4)

    ¡°This is it,¡± Lance crackled with excitement. ¡°These are the messages I¡¯m seeing.¡± He started to open his eyes, turning towards Dr. Patel. ¡°Are you seeing th-¡±

    ¡°Keep your eyes closed!¡± Dr. Patel scolded quickly.

    Lance snapped his eyes shut again.

    ¡°I can¡¯t see your personal interface, silly,¡± Dr. Patel explained as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

    ¡°What the hell? Power? Energy? Are you serious with these names?¡± Lance asked.

    ¡°I know, I know. We wanted terms anyone could understand. Not everyone would get ¡®adenosine triphosphate synthesis efficiency¡¯, you know?¡±

    ¡°Still, it sounds like something out of a terrible RPG. Couldn¡¯t you have come up with something a little less... childish?¡±

    ¡°Hey, don¡¯t knock RPGs! But yeah, we were kinda pressed for time¡ªglobal health emergency and all. So we needed something universally understandable, fast.¡±

    ¡°Sure.¡± Lance read out the numbers to Dr. Patel, who jotted them down on a tablet, nodding as she went.

    ¡°Impressive,¡± she said, looking up from her notes. ¡°You¡¯ve got some solid numbers here, especially that 4 in Defense and Mind. From what we¡¯ve seen so far, threes are about average for most people.¡±

    ¡°Is that good?¡± Lance asked, unsure how to feel about being quantified in this way.

    ¡°It¡¯s very good,¡± Dr. Patel assured him. ¡°In fact, that 4 in Defense is probably why you survived the gene therapy despite the, um, less than ideal circumstances of your injection.¡± She paused, a hint of amusement in her voice. ¡°You must be quite healthy.¡±

    Lance felt his cheeks warm slightly. ¡°Oh, yes,¡± he said, avoiding her gaze. ¡°I always eat three balanced meals a day.¡±

    Dr. Patel chuckled. ¡°Well, whatever you¡¯re doing, keep that momentum.¡±

    Lance released a heavy sigh. ¡°How do you deal with all this? Seeing these stats, messages popping up...¡±

    ¡°Oh, I don¡¯t have this interface. I got the Synergy shot.¡±

    ¡°Lucky you.¡±

    ¡°Well, we were essential personnel. Had to stay healthy to develop the gene treatment. But trust me, the more I work on it, the more I wish I had your cool HUD!¡±

    Lance relaxed his neck and crossed his arms. ¡°Right. And all your other patients are okay with this?¡±

    ¡°Haven¡¯t had any complaints yet. Most people are just happy they can lift heavier things.¡±

    ¡°Of course they are,¡± Lance muttered. ¡°So what¡¯s next? Do I get to allocate skill points?¡±

    Dr. Patel laughed. ¡°Not quite, next we¡¯ll go through the breakdown of your stats. It¡¯s pretty fascinating stuff. Think ¡®expand stats¡¯.¡±

    Another heavy sigh, and Lance complied. The screen in his mind shifted:

    Power: 3 (+0.7)

    <ul>

    <li>Muscle Density: 3.5</li>

    </ul>

    <ul>

    <li>Force Generation: 3.8</li>

    </ul>

    <ul>

    <li>Energy Output: 3.7</li>

    </ul>

    Energy: 3 (+0.9)

    <ul>

    <li>Metabolic Efficiency: 3.7</li>

    </ul>

    <ul>

    <li>Stamina: 4.1</li>

    </ul>

    <ul>

    <li>Cellular Regeneration: 3.9</li>

    </ul>

    Speed: 3 (+1.1)

    <ul>

    <li>Reaction Time: 4.0</li>

    </ul>

    <ul>

    <li>Movement Velocity: 4.2</li>

    </ul>

    <ul>

    <li>Neural Transmission Rate: 4.1</li>

    </ul>

    Defense: 4 (+0.5)

    <ul>

    <li>Physical Durability: 4.3</li>

    </ul>

    <ul>

    <li>Immune System Strength: 4.6</li>

    </ul>

    <ul>

    <li>Energy Resistance: 4.5</li>

    </ul>

    Mind: 4 (+0.6)

    <ul>

    <li>Cognitive Processing Speed: 4.4</li>

    </ul>

    <ul>

    <li>Memory Capacity: 4.5</li>

    </ul>

    <ul>

    <li>Analytical Ability: 4.7</li>

    </ul>

    Control: 3 (+0.4)

    <ul>

    <li>Power Precision: 3.2</li>

    </ul>

    <ul>

    <li>Mind-Body Synchronization: 3.5</li>

    </ul>

    <ul>

    <li>Genetic Stability: 3.4</li>

    </ul>

    Lance stared at the list, his mouth hanging open slightly. He blinked, shook his head, and blinked again. The numbers remained unchanged.

    ¡°You¡¯ve gotta be shitting me.¡±

 Six: Statistics, Like, and Subscribe

    [Day 6]

    Lance leaned back in his chair, his mind still reeling from the information overload. He rubbed his eyes, trying to process everything Dr. Patel had told him. The interface, the stats, the enhancements¡ªit all seemed too fantastical to be real. Yet here he was, living proof of humanity''s new link.

    Curiosity gnawed at him. What was happening in the world outside BioNova''s sleek offices? How many others were experiencing these changes? Lance''s fingers hovered over his phone, then paused. No, he needed a bigger screen for this.

    He booted up his laptop, it seemed almost primitive now, compared to the advanced interface in his mind. As the browser loaded, he inhaled deeply, preparing himself for whatever he might find.

    The news sites were a barrage of information, with headlines progressively escalating in shock value. Lance scanned through articles at an unprecedented speed, absorbing information faster than he ever thought possible.

    Worldwide gene therapy rollout: over 500 million doses administered.

    Lance''s breath caught in his throat. That was about 6% of the global population. How many of them were like him now? Enhanced, changed, navigating this new reality?

    His eyes darted to the next headline.

    Death toll: over 70 million worldwide.

    Staggering.

    The number hit him like a physical blow. His brain struggled, trying to comprehend the scale of the loss. Entire cities wiped out. Families torn apart. The world forever altered.

    Lance''s stomach lurched. He remembered his desperate act at BioNova, injecting himself with the genetic vaccine despite having alcohol in his system. The warnings, the potential fatality¡ªit all came rushing back.

    I was this close to¡­

    His mother would have been devastated.

    Survivor''s guilt washed over him. Why had he survived when so many others hadn''t? Was it just dumb luck? Was it simply because his ''Defense'' was a ''4''? Why was his defense a four? Was it because he ate balanced meals, exercised regularly, wasn''t an alcoholic, didn''t smoke, and was blessed with not having any preexisting conditions?

    But it was the next statistic that made his blood run cold. In the United States alone, over 10 million deaths were attributed to the interaction between NARS and alcohol.

    10 million deaths, sounded out inside his skull.

    Lance blinked rapidly, surprised to feel moisture gathering at the corners of his eyes. He couldn''t pinpoint a specific loss¡ªno faces came to mind, no names echoed in his memory. Yet the weight of countless mundane moments pressed on him: idle chatter by the break room¡¯s coffee machine, halfhearted waves across cubicles, practiced smiles exchanged in Qualtech¡¯s parking lot. All those small, forgettable interactions, now laden with an unexpected poignancy. He swallowed hard, unsettled by the hollowness in his chest where grief should be.

    He scrolled through more articles, each one painting a grimmer picture of the world outside. Economic collapse, social unrest, governments struggling to maintain order amidst the chaos of the pandemic.

    Lance''s processed the information at lightning speed, drawing connections and seeing patterns he might have missed before. The gene treatment was undoubtedly saving lives, but something nagged at him. He scanned through article after article, searching for mentions of enhanced individuals like himself.

    A handful of vague reports caught his eye¡ªwhispers of unexplained abilities, unverified claims of sudden cognitive leaps. But these stories were few and far between, buried beneath the overwhelming tide of pandemic statistics and recovery efforts.

    Lance frowned, puzzling over the discrepancy. If his experience was any indication, shouldn''t there be more concrete evidence of these enhancements? The scarcity of information and the ambiguity of existing reports left him with more questions than answers.

    His eyes moved to the corner of his screen.

    [10:43 AM]

    Lance closed the browser, unable to bear any more grim news. He sat in silence, the weight of his newfound knowledge pressing down on him. The world was changing, evolving, and he was at the forefront of that change.

    He needed a distraction, something to ground him in the present moment. His gaze drifted to Jiro, lounging in his dog bed across the room.

    "Hey buddy, wanna play?"

    The word ¡°play¡± was all Jiro needed to hear. The shaggy-haired mutt bounded over, tail wagging furiously.

    Lance grabbed Jiro''s favorite chew toy, a worn-out rubber bone, and tossed it across the living room. As Jiro scampered after it, Lance marveled at how his enhanced vision tracked every minute movement of the dog''s muscles.

    Fascinating.

    He could see the individual hairs on Jiro''s coat rippling as the dog moved. It was like watching the world in ultra-high definition.

    Jiro returned, dropping the slobber-covered toy at Lance''s feet. Lance picked it up, grimacing slightly at the wetness. He could feel every ridge and groove of the rubber against his fingertips, his heightened sense of touch making the sensation almost overwhelming.

    As he threw the toy again, Lance''s mind wandered back to the anti-NARS treatment and its effects. He''d been so caught up in the fear and confusion of his transformation that he hadn''t taken the time to appreciate the benefits.

    I''m stronger, faster, smarter. My senses are off the charts. And I''m apparently more resistant to disease and injury.

    Jiro barked, snapping Lance out of his reverie. The dog was waiting patiently for another throw, head tilted in that adorable way that always melted Lance''s heart.

    Lance smiled, reaching down to scratch behind Jiro''s ears. The sensation of soft fur beneath his fingers was more vivid than ever before. He could feel each individual strand, the warmth of Jiro''s skin beneath.

    This isn''t so bad, is it? Lance thought as he tossed the toy once more. Sure, it''s weird and a little scary, but... it''s also kind of amazing.

    He watched Jiro chase after the toy, the dog''s movements now seeming almost comically slow compared to Lance''s new perception of time. He could probably outrun Jiro now if he wanted to.

    I could outrun anyone.

    The thought sent a thrill through him. What else could he do now? What were the limits of his new abilities?

    Lance''s stomach growled, interrupting his musings. Right, lunch. He headed to the kitchen, Jiro trotting along behind him.

    As he opened the fridge, Lance was hit with a barrage of scents - no. He welcomed the aromas. He could smell everything - the crisp tartness of apples, the pungent aroma of cheese, the earthy scent of leftover vegetables. It was overwhelming at first, but as he focused, he found he could isolate individual smells.

    Incredible.

    Lance pulled out ingredients for a sandwich, every movement more precise and efficient than ever before. He sliced tomatoes with surgical accuracy, spread mustard in a perfectly even layer.

    As he worked, his mind continued to race. He thought about his job at Qualtech, about the projects he''d been working on. With his enhanced cognitive abilities, he could probably solve problems in minutes that used to take hours.

    I could revolutionize the industry.

    But then another thought struck him. What if people found out about his enhancements? Would they see him as a freak? A cheat? A threat?

    Lance paused, sandwich half-assembled on the plate before him. He looked down at his hands, turning them over slowly. They looked the same as always, but he knew the power they now held.

    This is who I am now, he realized. There''s no going back.

    And did he want to go back? The old Lance couldn''t run for miles without breaking a sweat. The old Lance couldn''t process information at lightning speed. The old Lance was... ordinary.

    A suit playing the system.

    Lance finished making his sandwich, his movements now filled with a new sense of purpose. He''d been given a gift, hadn''t he? A chance to be more than he ever thought possible.

    As he took his first bite, savoring flavors more complex and nuanced than he''d ever experienced before, Lance made a decision. He would embrace this new reality. He would push the limits of his abilities, see just how far he could go.

    After all, he thought, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, it beats the alternative.

    Lance moved to the kitchen, a newfound spring in his step. He grabbed Jiro''s cool, metal bowl and filled it with dog food. Crunchy, pungent, oily, grainy, meaty, earthy¡ª

    Focus.

    He set the bowl down, watching as Jiro eagerly dove in. The rhythmic crunching filling the room, each bite distinct and clear to Lance''s enhanced hearing. He shook his head, marveling at the intensity of his senses.

    Leaving Jiro to his meal, Lance returned to his laptop. The screen flickered to life, its glow seeming almost harsh to his newly sensitive eyes. He adjusted the brightness, fingers flying up and down the keyboard with unprecedented precision. Y O U T U¡­

    The familiar red and white logo appeared, and Lance found himself drawn to the search bar. What exactly was he looking for? Evidence of others like him? Proof that he wasn''t alone in this strange new world?

    He typed "NARS treatment side effects" and hit enter. The results flooded in, a mix of official news reports, amateur vlogs, and conspiracy theories. Lance''s improved cognition processed the information at lightning speed, sorting through the noise.

    Most of the videos were what he expected - people complaining about sore arms, fatigue, mild flu-like symptoms. Nothing like what he was experiencing. He clicked on a few, watching with growing frustration as people described perfectly normal gene therapy reactions.

    There has to be something.

    Lance refined his search, adding "enhanced abilities" to the query. This time, the results were... interesting. A handful of videos caught his eye, their titles hinting at experiences similar to his own.

    "NARS Cure Gave Me Superpowers?!"

    "You Won''t Believe What Happened After My Shot!"

    "Gene Therapy Changed My Life - Not Clickbait!"

    Lance clicked on the first video, skepticism warring with hope. The screen filled with the face of a young woman, her eyes wide with excitement.

    "Guys, you''re not going to believe this," she began, her voice trembling slightly. "Ever since I got the NARS gene therapy, I''ve been... different. Stronger. Faster. I can see things I couldn''t before, hear things from across the room. It''s like... like I''m not even human anymore."

    Lance leaned closer, heart pounding. This was it. This was what he''d been looking for. He watched, transfixed, as the woman described experiences eerily similar to his own. The sudden burst of strength, the heightened senses, the feeling of being... more.

    But as the video dragged on, Lance''s excitement began to wane. The woman''s rambling intro stretched on for minutes, peppered with pleas to "like and subscribe." When she finally got around to demonstrating her supposed abilities, Lance couldn''t believe his eyes¡ªand not in a good way.

    Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

    The "super-speed" looked like badly sped-up footage. Her "enhanced strength" consisted of lifting a clearly hollow prop dumbbell. As for her "heightened senses," the less said about the laughably obvious cuts and edits, the better.

    Fuck you, you clickbait-chugging attention leech, was the most restrained insult he wished upon ''SuperSally108''.

    I should have checked the comments first,

    Lance exhaled slowly, his frustration ebbing away. Let¡¯s find someone trustworthy, he thought, navigating to Dr. Zoe Blackwell''s channel. Her familiar blue hair and infectious enthusiasm filled the screen as he tapped on her latest video: "NARS Update: Light at the End of the Tunnel?"

    "What''s up, science seekers!" Dr. Blackwell''s grin was wider than ever. "Dr. Zoe here with some seriously good news. Buckle up, because this rollercoaster is finally climbing!"

    Lance sat back and reached for a bowl of roasted almonds he had brought from the kitchen.

    "First off, mortality rates are finally - FINALLY - on the decline." A graph appeared, showing a steep downward trend. "And gene treatment rates? Skyrocketing faster than my coffee intake during finals week!"

    She launched into a rapid-fire explanation, her hands gesticulating wildly. "Pharmaceutical companies are stepping up big time. Genetic vaccine distribution has hit warp speed as of today. Shout out to our last pandemic for prepping us for this beast!"

    Lance nodded, a glimmer of hope kindling in his chest.

    "Now, let''s address the elephant in the room - or should I say, the potential superhumans in the room?" Dr. Blackwell''s eyebrows waggled playfully. "Yes, we''re seeing some individuals with enhanced abilities post-gene therapy. It''s remarkable, but let''s keep it real - we''re talking ''win a few more medals at the Olympics'' level, not ''leap tall buildings in a single bound.''"

    She paused dramatically. "So no, I don''t expect to see anyone flying around in tights and a cape anytime soon." She winked at the camera. "...Yet."

    Lance snorted, his mind was already creating ridiculous images of himself.

    "Word of warning: the internet''s flooded with fake ''super-power'' videos. Don''t believe everything you see, folks! If you got the Synergy shot - you know, the one being mass-produced faster than memes - don''t hold your breath for superpowers. So far, only GlobeMed and Nexus gene therapy recipients are showing these enhancements."

    Lance''s eyes widened. What about BioNova?

    "Remember, science seekers: stay skeptical, stay informed, and for the love of all that''s holy, stay away from alcohol! This is Dr. Zoe, signing off. Don''t forget to like, subscribe, and hit that notification bell - trust me, you won''t want to miss our next update!"

    Lance sprang from his chair, energy coursing through his veins. Possibilities. Purpose. The decision to leave Qualtech behind now seeming more like an opportunity than a risk.

    He paced the room, his senses picking up every detail. But these sensations were background noise to the whirlwind of ideas forming in his mind.

    A business. My business. The thought thrilled him. But what kind of venture could harness his new abilities and the changing landscape of the post-NARS world?

    A Survivor Network flashed into his mind. A platform for enhanced individuals to connect, share experiences, collaborate. He could see it clearly - a digital haven for those grappling with their new realities, a place to find support and understanding.

    But is that enough?

    His fingers twitched, itching to start coding. But another idea muscled its way to the forefront. An NARS Information Hub. An AI-driven platform aggregating and verifying NARS-related information from reliable sources. Cut through the noise, provide clarity in chaos.

    He could feel the potential¡ªfuck you SuperSally¡ªthe impact such a platform could have. But something still nagged at him.

    What about the enhancements themselves?

    Fitness tracker! An Optimization App materialized on the tip of his forehead. A tool to help enhanced individuals safely explore and maximize their new abilities. Track progress, set goals, share achievements. The possibilities were dizzying.

    Lance stopped pacing. He needed to approach this systematically. Test his skills, research the market, outline a basic business plan. His brain could handle it all, but he needed to channel this energy productively.

    He grabbed a notebook and pen. The pen felt strange in his hand, almost too light, too fragile. But as he began to write, his handwriting flowed across the page with unprecedented clarity and speed.

    Skills:

    Enhanced strength

    Increased speed

    Heightened senses

    Accelerated cognitive processing

    Improved memory retention

    Lance paused, tapping the pen against his chin. These were the obvious ones, but what else? He covered his eyes, focusing inward. There was something else, something he couldn''t quite grasp yet. A potential waiting to be unlocked.

    Unclassified.

    The word from his status screen flashed in his mind. What was that about? Would there be more abilities to develop?

    He shook his head, refocusing on the task at hand.

    He stood, stretching muscles that no longer seemed to tire.

    Time to test.

    Lance moved to the center of the room, Jiro watching curiously from his bed. He stood perfectly still, focusing on his body, on the energy thrumming beneath his skin.

    He took a deep breath, then exploded into action.

    Pushups.

    His body moved with fluid precision, muscles contracting and expanding in perfect harmony.

    One, two¡­ ten¡­ fifty... he lost count as his arms pumped effortlessly. The burn he expected never came.

    I see. It''s stopped bulking me up, but I''m still not getting tired. It''s mimicking the results of a real workout, just... supercharged.

    He switched to one-handed pushups, his balance impeccable. His enhanced proprioception allowed him to maintain perfect form, each repetition a mirror image of the last.

    Next, squats. Lance''s legs coiled and uncoiled like powerful springs. He added jumps, soaring higher with each repetition. On his final jump, he nearly grazed the ceiling.

    Oops.

    Jiro barked, startled by the sudden display of athleticism.

    Lance grinned, adrenaline surging. He moved to the pull-up bar in his doorway, leaping up with ease. His fingers wrapped around the cold metal, and he began to pull. He already knew the limits of his normal pull-ups, so he experimented by switching to one-handed pull-ups, then adding a clap between each rep.

    Okay, this is getting ridiculous. I love it.

    He dropped from the bar with his gaze darting around the room. What else could he do? His eyes fell on the heavy oak coffee table.

    No way.

    He approached it and knocked twice on the solid wood. He gripped the edges. Lifted.

    The table rose smoothly, as if it weighed no more than a cardboard box. Lance''s enhanced muscles compensated for the awkward shape, maintaining perfect balance. He held it overhead, marveling at the lack of strain. While he had it up, he went ahead and did a few reps until he got bored.

    Unbelievable.

    Still wondering where his body¡¯s ceiling was, he set the table down. His heart raced, not from exertion, but from the sheer thrill of discovery. What were the limits of his strength?

    And before he knew it, while he continued asking himself that question, the entire bag of roasted almonds he''d just bought on Sunday at the big-box warehouse club was empty.

    Okay, I''m doing this¡­

    Lance moved out of his living room, passed the kitchen, and walked outside.

    Am I really going to try this? he asked himself as the garage door ascended and revealed his midnight blue sports car

    He circled the vehicle. He rarely drove it these days, preferring to walk or jog to nearby destinations. But now...

    Lance placed his hands on the front bumper. He stretched his quads. Then he assumed proper deadlift form.

    Here goes nothing.

    He bent his knees slightly and began to lift. At first, nothing happened. The car remained stubbornly grounded, its weight seemingly immovable. Lance gritted his teeth. Pushed harder. Harder. Harder¡ª

    Suddenly, he felt a shift. The front tires left the ground by the barest of margins, hovering an inch above the concrete floor. His eyes widened.

    Holy shit.

    He held the position for a moment, marveling at the sensation of holding a thousand pounds¡ªapproximately¡ªaloft. Then, slowly, he lowered the car back down.

    Panting.

    Lance stepped back, stunned. He had actually done it. He had lifted a car. Not completely, but still...

    Determined to push further, he repositioned himself and tried again. This time, the front end lifted slightly higher, the tires clearing the ground by a good three inches.

    One.

    He lowered the car, then immediately lifted again. The strain was beginning to show, his muscles trembling with effort.

    Two.

    Lance''s breath came in short, sharp gasps. His shirt clung to his back, damp with perspiration. One more. He could do one more.

    With a herculean effort, he lifted for a third time. The car fought back, rising only an inch or two off the ground.

    Three.

    Lance released his grip, stumbling backward. His legs seemed to melt beneath him, his arms heavy and unresponsive. He had found his limit, and it was both exhilarating and humbling.

    As the adrenaline faded, a new sensation took its place. Hunger. Not the mild peckishness of a missed snack, but a gnawing, all-consuming need for sustenance. Lance''s stomach growled loudly, the sound a monster in the quiet garage.

    Food. Stat!

    The thought consumed him, pushing all other considerations aside. Lance turned, his brand new body already moving towards the kitchen, driven by a primal need to refuel.

    Lance burst into the kitchen, driven by an overwhelming hunger. He grabbed the first ingredients he saw - protein powder, milk, a banana - and threw them into the blender. He only let it run for a few pulses before yanking off the lid and drinking straight from the container, gulping down the half-blended mixture.

    It disappeared in seconds, the flavor missed entirely.

    One day had yielded these results - what would a week bring? A month? The possibilities seemed endless.

    Focus.

    He needed to document this, to track his progress systematically. Lance grabbed his laptop, typing with lightning speed as he created a spreadsheet. He input his baseline stats from before the gene therapy, then added columns for his new abilities.

    As he worked, text appeared in his field of view:

    [Cognitive Processing Speed: 4.5 (+0.1)]

    Another one he pushed away. Over the past few hours, his mind¡¯s eye had been buzzing almost constantly, but he''d grown accustomed to the interruptions now. As his stats climbed higher, he noticed the frequency of these updates had steadily decreased. Diminishing returns, he thought, unconsciously tapping his index finger against his temple.

    He leaned back. Thinking.

    The fewer system messages he received, the more questions bubbled up in his mind. Was this normal? Had others reached the same plateau? He made a mental note to see if Diego was still breaking deadlift records.

    His jaw stretched wide in an involuntary yawn. He blinked, suddenly aware of the heaviness in his limbs and the fog creeping into his mind. The adrenaline was no longer present, and had left behind a bone-deep weariness.

    [6:46 PM] glowed accusingly on his phone.

    Eight hours!?! He''d been pushing himself non-stop for over eight hours, riding the high of his abilities. Now, his body was demanding payment for that exertion.

    His senses were now a burden. Every sound seemed amplified, grating against his nerves. The fading sunlight streaming through the windows was too harsh, too bright. Even the air against his skin felt abrasive.

    Need... rest.

    His mind, which a minute ago was a fountain of ideas and calculations, now struggled to form coherent thoughts. The constant stream of system messages had slowed to a trickle, but each one sent a spike of pain through his temples.

    Lance stumbled towards the couch and let go.

    He sank into it, feeling the fabric yield beneath his weight. As his muscles finally relaxed, a contented sigh escaped his lips. The tension melted away, replaced by bliss.

    "Finally," he murmured with his eyes closed. ¡°Some well-deserved shuteye..."

    It only took a few seconds for the edges of his world to blur. He balanced on the precipice between two realms. Every feeling, every thought, every sensation dissipated like mist in the morning sun. He was in that miniscule, singular moment where consciousness is about to touch the other side when

    ¡®Bzzt.¡¯ ¡®Bzzt.¡¯

    He blinked. Jerked upright. Disorientation.

    A notification glared at him from the bright screen.

    [Stock Market Reopens After Extended Closure]

    Shit.

    Sleep evaporated from his mind. Lance fumbled for his phone, nearly dropping it in his haste. His enhanced vision made the text crystal clear, even as his brain struggled to catch up.

    "Sleep''ll hafta wait," Lance said out loud, surprised by how his words melted together like ice cream on a hot day.

    But his fingers were already tapping furiously on the screen.

    [Uninvested Funds: $23,592]

    The number glowed, calling him. Twenty-three thousand dollars, just sitting there. Doing nothing. Wasting.

    The market had been in a bull run before the pandemic hit. So he¡¯d been letting his recurring investment and dividend payouts accumulate for the past few months. Now? He could almost smell the fear, the uncertainty hanging over every ticker symbol.

    Opportunity.

    His eyes darted across the screen, taking in the sea of red. Entire sectors had been decimated, their values slashed to ribbons by the NARS crisis.

    [Travel Industry: -68%]

    [Hospitality: -72%]

    [Entertainment: -65%]

    Lance''s breath caught in his throat. The carnage was worse than he''d imagined. Airlines grounded, hotels emptied, theaters dark. But in that destruction, he saw potential.

    They can''t stay down forever. An evil laugh materialized in his mind.

    His enhanced mind whirred, calculating probabilities, projecting recovery timelines. The world would bounce back. It always did. And when it did...

    Fortune favors the bold.

    Lance''s fingers found the ''Buy'' button with unerring precision. Without a moment''s pause, he began to allocate his funds decisively.

    [Congratulations! Order Filled: $8,300 - Diversified Airline ETF]

    [Congratulations! Order Filled: $8,300 - Hotel Chain Index Fund]

    [Congratulations! Order Filled: $6,400 - Entertainment Conglomerate Stock]

    He paused, his fingers absently tapping out a victorious rhythm on his chest. Forty-three thousand dollars. It wasn''t a fortune, but it was a start. A seed that could grow into something much, much, much bigger.

    Lance lay on the couch, eyes closed, a wide, satisfied, and proud smile playing on his lips. Sleep enveloped him like a warm blanket, sweeter now with the thrill of potential...

    On all fronts.

 Seven: Krav Maga

    [Day 7]

    Lance''s feet pounded the wet pavement, each step sending a small splash of water into the air. The rain had been falling steadily since he''d woken up, but that hadn''t deterred him from his morning run to Titan''s Den. If anything, the cool droplets on his skin felt invigorating, a refreshing counterpoint to the heat building in his muscles.

    He reveled in the sensation of his body working at peak efficiency. Every movement was precise, every breath measured.

    This is what it means to be alive, Lance thought, his face splitting into a grin wider than the Grand Canyon. The world around him seemed sharper, more vibrant, even through the gray veil of rain. He could hear the individual impacts of raindrops on leaves, smell the rich scent of wet earth beneath the concrete. And beneath it all, the city''s heartbeat¡ªsteady, relentless, alive.

    The rain-slicked streets that would have been treacherous before now felt like an exciting challenge. His reflexes, honed to a panther-like sharpness, guided him through the slippery maze. His heightened spatial awareness mapped every puddle and patch, while his hearing caught the subtle changes in the splashing of his footfalls, alerting him to shifts in traction. This fluid negotiation of danger flowed through him as naturally as the rain itself.

    As he rounded a corner, his senses picked up a commotion ahead. A man was storming out of an electronics store, his arms laden with what looked like five sealed laptop boxes. Lance''s eyes narrowed, his mind instantly calculating trajectories and probabilities.

    Shoplifter, he concluded, yet he felt calm, strangely calm, didn''t-break-his-stride calm. Before NARS, his hands would have been shaking, and he would have turned his ass around and called the police from the safety of home.

    The man''s head swiveled wildly, panic evident in his jerky movements. He took a step forward, then another, his gait unsteady under the weight of his ill-gotten goods.

    Time seemed to slow for Lance. He saw the man''s foot catch on an uneven patch of sidewalk, saw his balance begin to falter. In that split second, Lance''s mind ran through a dozen possible scenarios.

    Intercept? Dodge? Brace for impact?

    Before he could decide, reality reasserted itself with brutal efficiency. The man toppled forward, his momentum carrying him directly into Lance''s path. There was no time to evade.

    ¡®Crash.¡¯

    The impact was jarring, even with Lance''s ¡®awesome¡¯ physique. He felt the air rush from his lungs as the man''s full weight slammed into him and the sharp corners of the laptop boxes dug into his ribs. They went down in a tangle of limbs and electronics, hitting the wet pavement with a resounding thud.

    For a moment, everything was chaos. Rain pelted Lance''s face as he lay stunned on the ground, his senses overwhelmed by the sudden turn of events. The shoplifter scrambled to his feet, cursing and grabbing at the scattered laptop boxes.

    Lance''s mind snapped back into focus. He pushed himself up, ignoring the ache in his side where the boxes had struck him. His novel strength made it easy to shake off the impact, but a flicker of annoyance sparked in his chest.

    "Hey!" he called out, his voice sharp and clear over the patter of rain. "What''s the rush, buddy?"

    The man froze, one hand clutching a laptop box, the other reaching for another. His eyes met Lance''s, wide with fear and wider with desperation.

    "I... I..." stammered the man in a black hoodie and ripped jeans, brown hair peeking out from beneath his hood, a sad tattoo of a weeping willow tree on the back of his hand speaking of past sorrows.

    Lance uncoiled from his crouch like a predator ready to strike. He could see the man''s pulse racing in his neck and smell the acrid tang of fear-sweat mixing with the rain.

    The blood oozing out of the fresh cut above the man''s left eyebrow, likely from meeting the sidewalk moments ago, was disgusting now that he could see every swelling capillary, every forming scab, and the microscopic debris caught in the red.

    Part of Lance marveled at these new sensations, even as another part focused on the situation at hand.

    "Those don''t look like they belong to you," Lance said before sighing heavily. He took a step forward, noting how the man flinched at the movement.

    Lance took another step towards him. Arms raised to appear non-threatening. The thief''s hand plunged into his pocket, and Lance''s world slowed to a crawl.

    Knife.

    The blade glinted in the rain, a six-inch switchblade that looked more desperate than deadly. He could see the man''s grip on the handle, white-knuckled and trembling.

    "Whoa there, buddy," Lance said, his voice calm despite the adrenaline surging faster than data through fiber optic cables. "Let''s not do anything stupid."

    The man''s eyes darted between Lance and the scattered laptop boxes. His breathing was ragged, panic evident in every line of his body. "Stay back!" he shouted, voice cracking. "I... I need these!"

    What Lance felt next was surreal, to say the least. He was still getting used to his abnormal strength and extraordinary senses, but this lack of fear in the face of cold steel was definitely bizarre. It wasn''t that he was suddenly fearless; rather, the man before him seemed about as threatening as a toddler wielding a foam sword. He¡¯s not enhanced. There was nothing enhanced about this man - when he had crashed into Lance with his pile of laptops, he had felt as ordinary and fragile as any other person on the street.

    "Look," Lance said, hands still up, "I get it. Times are tough. But we can¡¯t be doing this, man. The owner of this place is going through the same shit we are. And you¡¯re making it worse for him."

    The man''s grip on the knife tightened. "You don''t understand," he spat. "My kid... she needs..."

    Lance scanned him up and down. The man''s ragged clothes, the desperation in his eyes, the way he clutched at the laptop boxes like a lifeline. It all painted a picture of someone pushed to the edge.

    What to do¡­

    He could easily disarm the man. Take him down before he even realized what was happening. But would that solve anything?

    Lance drummed his fingers on his thigh, feeling the cool rain on his skin. He made a decision.

    "How much?" he asked.

    The man blinked, confusion replacing fear for a moment. "What?"

    "How much do you need?" Lance clarified. "For your kid. What''s the bare minimum?"

    The knife lowered slightly. "I... five hundred," the man said, his voice barely above a whisper. "She needs medicine, and with the NARS... everything''s so expensive now."

    Lance nodded, his hand slowly reaching for his wallet. "Okay. I can help with that. Can¡¯t give you five, but¡­"

    Lance''s brain must not have evolved enough yet, because while he was distracted, struggling to unfasten the zipper of his water-resistant, compact running pack that snugly hugged his back and carried personal items for his gym trips, he felt a sharp pain erupt from under his ninth rib on the right side.

    He¡¯d completely miscalculated the man¡¯s desperation. Luckily, the knife felt like it had only dug about three inches deep, hadn''t found any organs, and, all told, hurt less than when he''d haphazardly injected himself with the gene treatment at BioNova.

    Also, he wasn''t as calm as he''d thought, because at that moment¡­ he saw red.

    His breath caught. His muscles tensed. His hand shot out, faster than thought, and clamped around the man''s wrist. The world narrowed to a pinpoint focus: the pressure of his fingers, the rapid pulse beneath his grip, the startled gasp that escaped the lowlife¡¯s lips.

    Squeeze, Squeeze. Squeeze.

    The bones in the man''s wrist ground together under Lance''s grip. The knife clattered on the sidewalk. Lance hardly registered the sting of the wound in his side, his body already working to staunch the bleeding.

    The man crumpled. ¡°FUUUUU¡ª¡±

    "You shouldn¡¯t have done that.¡±

    The thief''s eyes widened in terror as he realized the tables had turned. He tried to pull away, but Lance''s grip was unyielding. The man''s struggles were futile, like a mouse caught in the paws of a lion.

    Lance felt another surge of power course through him. And a barrage of system messages. It was intoxicating, this newfound strength. He could feel every tremor in the man''s body, hear the frantic beating of his heart. Part of him wanted to squeeze harder, to feel the bones crumble beneath his fingers.

    Stop. The thought cut through the red haze of anger. He deserves it, but¡­ Lance inhaled and exhaled through his nose, forcing himself to loosen his grip and let go.

    The thief''s arm fell limp, swinging unnaturally at his side. It dangled like a wet noodle, as if the bones inside were no longer there. The wrist bent at an impossible angle, and the fingers hung motionless, refusing to respond to any attempt at movement.

    ¡°Oh, shit, I¡¯m so sorry, man. I got one of those gene treatments¡ªanyway, I was trying to help you," Lance said. "And you stabbed me. Not cool. Not cool at¡ª¡±

    He stopped mid-sentence. The man had already passed out. ¡°Damn it.¡±

    Lance stared at the unconscious man sprawled next to the electronics store. Raindrops pelted his face¡ªat least they had cleaned off the bruise above his eyebrow.

    What now? he asked himself, bringing a finger to his lips.

    He glanced around, half-expecting to see curious onlookers or the flashing lights of a police car. But the street remained deserted.

    Ambulance? The thought came instinctively, but he dismissed it almost immediately. With the NARS crisis still in full swing, emergency services were stretched thin. A broken arm, no matter how severe, would be low on their list of priorities.

    He looked down at the man again, taking in the lines of worry etched into his unconscious face. The anger had completely left his gut now, and he felt a spark of sympathy¡ªand remorse for inadvertently breaking the poor man''s wrist. More like crushing, he thought. But he did stab me... Lance shrugged it off.

    The world had gone to hell, and this guy was just trying to survive. Badly, sure, but still. Think: Solutions.

    The hospital wasn''t far. A mile, maybe less. He could make it there in minutes, even carrying dead weight. Lance couldn''t help but chuckle at his own pun as he considered his options.

    This is going to mess up my workout schedule¡ªScrew it, why not?

    He bent down, carefully scooping up the man. It wasn¡¯t difficult, but he was still mindful of the broken arm. No need to make things worse.

    As he straightened up, Lance felt a sharp twinge from the knife wound. He glanced down, half-expecting to see blood soaking through his shirt. But there was nothing. Just a dull ache, already fading.

    Huh. Guess I heal fast now, too.

    With one last look around the empty street, Lance set off towards the hospital. His feet found a steady rhythm on the wet pavement, his enhanced muscles easily compensating for the extra weight.

    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

    The rain pounded on, turning his clothes into a soggy weight and flattening his hair against his forehead. But Lance paid little attention. His goal was clear: drop this guy at the hospital and spring back to the Titan¡¯s Den.

    He''d been stabbed. Actually stabbed. And here he was, jogging to the hospital like it was nothing more than a papercut. The realization was¡­

    Kind of awesome. But there was still room for improvement. After all, [Genetic Optimization: 62%], still wasn¡¯t one hundred percent.

    The unconscious man stirred slightly in his arms, mumbling something incoherent. Lance adjusted his grip, careful not to jostle the broken arm.

    The hospital loomed ahead, the inside a hive of chaos, unlike the dead streets he''d just jogged through. Lance slowed his pace as he approached the emergency entrance, suddenly unsure of how to proceed.

    Just drop him off and go? It seemed cold, but what else could he do? Stick around and try to explain how he''d crushed the guy''s wrist with his bare hands?

    Lance hesitated at the entrance, but the door slid open, releasing a wave of antiseptic-scented air that screamed, ''Let''s get this over with.''

    A harried-looking nurse glanced up from her station, sizing up the unconscious man before giving Lance a once-over. "What happened?" she asked, already moving towards them.

    "He, uh, fell," Lance said lamely. "I think his arm''s broken. And he passed out."

    The nurse nodded, gesturing for Lance to follow her. "Bring him this way. We''ll get him checked out."

    Lance followed. He dodged patients on stretchers, weaving around IV poles and navigating carts piled high with medical supplies, as he followed the nurse to an examination room where the fluorescent lights buzzed harshly overhead after being under the soft gray of the rainy morning, and carefully deposited the man onto the bed.

    "Thanks for bringing him in," the nurse said, checking the man''s vitals. "I''ll need you to fill out some paperwork."

    "Oh, uh, actually I''ve got to run."

    She looked up, frowning. "Sir, this is important. We need information about what happened."

    "Right, but see, I''m already late for my workout."

    The nurse blinked. "Your... workout?"

    "Yeah, you know, gym time. Gotta keep these guns loaded." Lance flexed, then immediately felt foolish.

    "Sir, this man might have serious injuries. We need to know-"

    "Look, I found him like this. Shoplifting gone wrong, I think. But I¡¯ve got to go."

    "You can''t just-"

    "Thanks for understanding!" Lance backed towards the door. "You''re doing great work. Don¡¯t let up¡­ oh and don¡¯t forget to call the cops."

    He slipped out before she could protest further; his ears, however, caught every detail of her exasperated sigh as the door swung shut.

    In the hallway, Lance took a deep breath. Definitely time to go, he told himself as he speed-walked towards the exit, dodging gurneys and ignoring the strange looks from staff. He made it out. Relief welcomed him, along with the damp air outside.

    Lance checked his watch and grinned.

    [9:09 AM]

    If he hurried, he could still make it to Titan''s Den in time for his favorite squat rack. As if that matters now, he thought wryly. With the state of the world, I''d be lucky to see another soul at the gym.

    His watch beeped. His legs moved.

    Faster. Faster. Faster, he urged himself. Absolute limit.

    He leaned into the run, arms pumping, legs driving him forward with inhuman power. The rain had stopped, leaving the air fresh. The streets were a gray smear, the cars blobs of color, and his body a machine fine-tuning itself with each stride.

    [New skill unlocked: Kinetic Acceleration]

    [Momentum Control increased]

    [Genetic Optimization: 63%]

    More messages came and went, but he ignored them all as he propelled himself forward.

    It was overwhelming. Exhilarating.

    Terrifying.

    He stopped in front of the Titan¡¯s Den. Made it, he thought, starting at the watch:

    [5:34.7], [1.49 mi]

    Five minutes and thirty-four seconds. For a mile and a half. His jaw dropped. This is world record pace.

    A giddy laugh bubbled up from his chest. He felt light-headed, drunk on adrenaline, and more than ready to pump iron.

    He stepped inside and scanned the room.

    Marcus stood behind the counter, his massive frame impossible to miss. The gym owner''s face lit up with recognition as Lance approached.

    "Lance! Good to see you, man. Wasn''t sure if anyone would show up today."

    Lance grinned, genuinely pleased to see a familiar face. "Marcus! I¡¯m glad you¡¯re back.¡±

    ¡°Damn, man, you look like you''ve seen a ghost."

    Lance straightened up, trying to compose himself. "Hey, Marcus. Just... just finished a run. How about you? You got the shot, then?"

    Marcus nodded, flexing his bicep dramatically. "Yep. Still not cleared for max lifts, but I''m getting there."

    Lance chuckled. Relief, meet excitement¡ªold friends reuniting in the pit of his stomach. As he studied Marcus''s enhanced physique, an idea sparked in his mind.

    "Hey, Marcus," Lance began, his tone casual but his heart rate picking up again. "You still teach Krav Maga, right?"

    Marcus cocked his right eyebrow into a high arch, his left unmoved and eyes intent. He leaned in slightly. "Yeah, why? You never seemed interested before."

    Lance shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. "Well, things have changed. Thought it might be useful to learn some self-defense. You know, with the world going to shit and all. Besides I need a change of pace."

    He didn''t mention the incident with the shoplifter. The memory of the man''s wrist crumpling under his grip made his hand shake. Control and discipline didn''t sound like a bad idea. And if it helped him understand the limits of his new strength even a little, it''d be well worth the investment.

    Marcus seemed to consider for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly. "It''s not just about throwing punches, you know. It''s about discipline, situational awareness."

    Perfect, Lance thought. "That''s exactly what I''m looking for."

    "Aight," Marcus said, his expression brightening gradually like a sunrise. ¡°You ever done Krav Maga before?"

    "Not at all," Lance admitted. "I''m more of a weights guy."

    Marcus glanced around the empty gym. ¡°You up for a trial lesson right now?¡±

    "Sure, that''d be... yeah, great."

    "Let¡¯s go to the group exercise room, then."

    Lance followed Marcus into a spacious area where overhead LEDs cast crisp shadows across the polished wooden floor. Mirrored walls multiplied their figures as they moved to the center of the space.

    "Aight," Marcus said, his deep voice very overwhelming in the empty room. "Let''s start with the basics. Krav Maga is about efficiency and effectiveness. No fancy moves, just what works."

    Lance''s eyes lit up, hungry for more. "Got it. What''s next?"

    "First, your stance." Marcus demonstrated, feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent. "This gives you stability and allows for quick movement in any direction."

    Lance mirrored the position, feeling the subtle shift in his balance. It felt natural, almost instinctive. Made sense.

    "Good," Marcus nodded. "Now, the most important thing in Krav Maga is situational awareness. Always be aware of your surroundings, potential threats, and escape routes."

    They moved through a series of drills, practicing quick scans of the room while maintaining a defensive posture. Lance found himself cataloging every detail effortlessly - the number of exits, potential improvised weapons, lines of sight.

    "Next, we''ll cover some basic strikes," Marcus said. "Remember, in Krav Maga, we aim for vulnerable areas - eyes, throat, groin. The goal is to neutralize the threat quickly and escape."

    He demonstrated a palm heel strike, then a groin kick. Lance watched every twitch of his instructor¡¯s body, his mind seemingly recording every nuance of the movements.

    "Your turn," Marcus said.

    Lance executed the strikes flawlessly, his body moving with precision and power. The palm heel strike cracked through the air, and the groin kick snapped up with startling speed.

    Marcus blinked. "Huh."

    "What?" Lance asked, lowering his guard.

    "Nothing, just... that was pretty good for a first-timer." Marcus shook his head slightly. "Let''s try something a bit more complex."

    They moved on to combination strikes and defensive maneuvers. Marcus demonstrated a series of moves - block, counter-strike, knee to the midsection, then disengage. It was a fluid sequence that would typically take beginners multiple sessions to master.

    Lance repeated the combination. Once. Twice. Three times. Each repetition more crisp, more precise, until it was almost a mirror image of Marcus''s demonstration.

    Marcus crossed his arms, a puzzled expression on his face. "You sure you haven''t done this before?"

    "Nope," Lance replied, trying to keep the pride out of his voice. "Just a quick learner, I guess."

    "Quick learner," Marcus echoed, his tone skeptical. "Right. Well, let''s see how you handle this."

    Without warning, Marcus lunged forward, arm outstretched in a simulated knife attack. Lance''s body reacted instinctively, the memory of the thief''s blade flashing through his mind more vividly than Marcus''s recent instructions. He sidestepped, deflecting Marcus''s arm with his left hand while simultaneously striking with his right palm towards Marcus''s face, pulling the blow at the last second.

    They froze in that position, Marcus''s eyes wide with surprise.

    "Damn," Marcus whispered.

    Lance stepped back, his pulse drumming an erratic beat against his ribs. The move had flowed through him like water finding a new channel¡ªinstinctive, yet unfamiliar. His muscles felt strange, like they were talking to him. He could tell where his moves were sloppy or off-balance. Doing it for real was way harder than just thinking about it. But hey, not bad for his first try.

    "That was... unexpected," Marcus said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "You''ve got some natural talent, I''ll give you that."

    Lance nodded, unsure how to respond. He was getting it faster than he''d expected, but it wasn''t coming easy. Weird mix of cool and kinda freaky.

    "Let''s try some grappling," Marcus suggested, moving to the center of the room. "Krav Maga isn''t just about strikes. Sometimes you need to break holds or take an opponent to the ground."

    They spent the next half hour working on various grappling techniques - escapes from chokes, bear hugs, and wrist grabs. Lance absorbed each move like a sponge, but he still stumbled through the counters as Marcus explained them.

    "Aight," Marcus said finally, a sheen of sweat on his brow. "Last thing for today. Let''s put it all together. I''m going to come at you, and I want you to defend yourself using what we''ve covered. Ready?"

    Lance nodded, settling into his stance.

    Marcus attacked, a flurry of strikes and grabs. Lance moved like water, deflecting, countering, his body flowing from one technique to the next with fluid grace. He blocked a punch, countered with an elbow strike, then used Marcus''s momentum to throw him off balance.

    Thud.

    Marcus hit the mat, the impact echoing in the empty room. He lay there for a moment, blinking up at Lance.

    "Whoa," Marcus said, accepting Lance''s offered hand and pulling himself up with a wince. "You''ve got some serious power there, man. Didn''t expect that."

    Lance''s grin faded quickly. "Sorry, I... that''s actually what I''m trying to control. It''s new, and I''m not great at holding back yet."

    Marcus kneaded his shoulder, eyeing Lance. He inched closer, curiosity drawing him in, then retreated, caution holding him back. "Right. Okay. Let''s take a break."

    "Sure," Lance said. "You alright?"

    "Yeah, yeah. Just... wasn''t prepared for that. We''ll need to work on your restraint."

    Lance sighed. "That''s exactly why I''m here. I need more control."

    ¡°Remember, Krav Maga isn''t just about physical techniques. It''s about mindset, about using your skills responsibly."

    The words hit Lance like a bucket of cold water, reminding him of the incident with the shoplifter. He sobered quickly, nodding.

    ¡°Let¡¯s take a break,¡± Marcus said.

    Lance moved to the side of the room and crouched down beside his backpack, unzipping it with a swift motion. His hand dove into the bag, fingers brushing past his water bottle and towel until they closed around the crinkly wrapper of a protein bar. He pulled it out, tearing open the yellow and red packaging with a satisfying crunch.

    The first bite hit his system like a jolt of energy. Delicious fuel¡­ Lance hadn''t realized just how hungry he was until the flavors hit his tongue. Chocolate and peanut butter, a classic combination that now tasted like ambrosia to his enhanced senses.

    He devoured the bar in three large bites, gulping it down after less than a few chews. It wasn''t enough. Not even close. The gnawing emptiness in his stomach persisted, a primal urge that demanded more.

    Without hesitation, Lance reached back into his bag. Another protein bar emerged, clutched in his eager fingers. He tore into this one with even more fervor than the first, the taste lost as he wolfed it down.

    As he swallowed the last bite, Lance became acutely aware of Marcus watching him from across the room. Marcus''s mouth twitched, caught between a smirk and a frown. He leaned back, fingers drumming on the counter.

    "Did you just eat two whole protein bars?" Marcus asked, his deep voice tinged with humor.

    Lance blinked and froze for a whole second, feeling a flush of embarrassment creep up his neck.

    He glanced down at the empty wrappers in his hand, suddenly self-conscious about his voracious appetite. It was just another reminder of how much his body had changed, how different he was becoming from the person he used to be. Different. Stronger. Hungrier.

    "Those are like 400 calories each,¡± Marcus said. ¡°Watch out for all that protein and sugar, man."

    "Oh. Yeah, I''ve been... uh, my metabolism''s gone haywire lately."

    "..."

    "Hey, Marcus... have you noticed any changes in your body since getting the shot?"

    "Not really, no. Why?"

    "Nothing, just... wondering. What about, uh, any system messages?"

    "System messages? What are you talking about?"

    "Never mind. Listen, do you think you could squeeze another lesson right now?"

    "Another one? I''m beat, Lance. Unlike you, the shot didn''t turn me superhuman," he chortled

    "Come on, you don''t have any clients right now. And I''ll pay."

    "You''ve got a point there. But I can''t go another round. How about I watch your form and give you some pointers?"

    "Deal. I''ll take whatever I can get."

    The protein bars had taken the edge off, but Lance could still feel a hollow ache in his gut. His body craved more, demanding the nutrients it needed to fuel his enhanced physiology. He wondered, not for the first time, just how much food he would need to consume to keep up with his new metabolism.

    ¡°Aight, get in position¡­¡±

 Eight: Arma

    [Day 8]

    ¡°Alright, Lance, what about your genetic stability stat?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s at 4.6 now.¡±

    ¡°4.6? That¡¯s incredible!¡± Ananya¡¯s voice rose an octave. ¡°You¡¯re among the top performers in our clinical trial. Your progress is truly remarkable.¡±

    Lance shifted in his seat, a blend of pride and unease flitting up and down his face. ¡°Is that... good?¡±

    ¡°Good? It¡¯s phenomenal! Most participants struggle to break 4.0.¡± Ananya tapped her tablet, scrolling through data. ¡°And your Mind stats... they were high to begin with, but they¡¯ve increased dramatically since our last check-in. Have you been doing anything special?¡±

    ¡°Well, I¡¯ve been learning Krav Maga,¡± he said, rubbing the back of his neck. ¡°Had my second lesson this morning, actually. The genetic treatment seems to be making it easier to grasp new concepts and train muscle memory.¡±

    ¡°Kay, we¡¯ve noticed this with another patient. Seems learning new skills really boosts those stats. It all has to do with the brain.

    ¡°I guess¡­that makes sense,¡± said Lance. ¡°The messages had slowed down, but when I started Krav Maga yesterday, they picked back up again.¡±

    ¡°Either way, that¡¯s awesome, but just to keep things clear: it¡¯s not the genetic vaccine. It¡¯s this energy we¡¯re dealing with. They started calling it ¡®arma¡¯ colloquially. We¡¯re still trying to figure it out, but as you¡¯ve probably guessed, humanity¡¯s gonna have to learn to live with it.¡±

    ¡°Arma?¡± Lance asked. ¡°What does that stand for?¡±

    ¡°Not sure, actually. Good question.¡±

    ¡°So, this arma is... enhancing us?¡±

    ¡°In a way, yes,¡± said Dr. Patel. ¡°But it¡¯s more complex than that. We¡¯re still uncovering its full effects. As I explained before, the gene therapy only allows your body to regulate it. Which brings us to today''s visit. I¡¯ve got some news for you."

    "What''s up?" Lance asked.

    "We''ve developed a second dose of the genetic vaccine. It''ll help your HUD identify and catalog your energy classification."

    "Another dose? I don''t know..."

    "It''s totally optional," Dr. Patel said, her words tumbling out rapidly. "But it might help you better understand this new world. We just finished it yesterday¡ªused all the data we''ve collected on how the foreign energy behaves in the human body."

    Lance tapped his fingers on the armrest, mulling it over.

    "As I said, not required, but if you want it, one of the nurses can bring it over and it¡¯ll be faster than the flu shot." Dr. Patel said between small nods.

    Great. More unknowns to deal with. I hope it¡¯s not a quest system, he didn¡¯t say out loud.

    After a moment, Lance exhaled slowly. "Well, if it''ll help me get a handle on things... Sure, why not?"

    "Great! I''ll message Marta to bring the paperwork and get things ready."

    "So, what exactly will this do?" Lance asked, crossing his arms.

    "Think of it like an upgrade for your internal HUD," Dr. Patel said, her hands typing on her computer. "It''ll give you more detailed info on your energy output, classification, all that good stuff."

    "Seems like it could be useful. Alright, I''m in."

    "Trust me, it''s cooler than it sounds. Like going from standard def to 4K." Dr. Patel grinned. "But with less pixelation and more genetic awesomeness."

    "If you say so, doc." Lance frowned, a new thought occurring to him. ¡°Wait a second. This energy... it only affects humans, right? What about animals? My dog Jiro seems completely normal.¡±

    A nurse¡ªpresumably Marta¡ªentered, wheeling a small metal cart with medical supplies, and began preparing a syringe for the injection.

    ¡°That''s a great point, Lance. Actually, That''s one of the most fascinating aspects of this whole shebang. The energy appears to interact exclusively with higher-order neural structures. Specifically, those found in human brains."

    ¡°Only human brains? Shit, that¡¯s scary.¡±

    "Yes, and to be honest I haven''t touched the subject much, but some of our more caffeinated colleagues have done tons of studies on various animals. Mammals, birds, reptiles - none show the same susceptibility to NARS or responsiveness to the gene therapy that humans do.¡± She cocked her head to the side for a slight moment then said: ¡°Chimpanzees did show some minor signs, but the data is so negligible it''s barely worth mentioning. For all practical purposes, it''s just us humans.¡±

    ¡°Okay, higher-order neural structures, got it. And here I thought my dog was just really good at hiding his superpowers,¡± Lance said. ¡°So what makes human brains so special?"

    "Well, our leading hypothesis - and I stress, it''s still a hypothesis - is that this energy specifically targets the most developed areas of the human brain, particularly the prefrontal cortex."

    Questions cascaded like a cognitive avalanche. ¡°But why? How is that even possible?¡±

    "We think¡ªhere at BioNova¡ªthat this energy might be acting as a catalyst for rapid genetic changes in humans. Not quite evolution in the traditional sense - that takes millennia - but more like... forced adaptation on steroids."

    Lance sat back. "Evolution? In my cells?

    "Not quite. It''s more like... imagine if your DNA suddenly decided to play Jenga with itself. The energy seems to be the toddler shaking the table."

    "That''s... that''s insane. Why isn''t everyone freaking out about this?"

    ¡°Well, you know how it is. The government''s keeping things on the down-low to avoid widespread panic. They''re focusing on NARS as a disease and the gene therapy as a cure, rather than the broader implications.¡± This time she sat back.

    ¡°Plus,¡± Dr. Patel added, ¡°most people are too focused on immediate survival to contemplate the larger picture. But make no mistake, Lance. What¡¯s happening now could redefine what it means to be human.¡±

    ¡°Dr. Patel, the treatment¡¯s ready,¡± the nurse said.

    ¡°Thank you, Marta. You can go ahead, I think Lance is ready too.¡±

    He nodded slowly, the weight of this revelation settling on him. He thought about the changes in his body, the newfound abilities, the strange messages in his vision. It wasn¡¯t just an epidemic or a genetic vaccine side effect. It was evolution in action, playing out in real-time within his very cells. Or as Dr. Patel put it: rapid adaptation, or was it forced evolution?

    A sudden rustle of papers broke his train of thought.

    "Mr. Lawthorn, before we proceed, I need you to sign this informed consent form," Marta said, offering Lance a clipboard. "It''s similar to the one you signed for your first treatment. It outlines the potential risks and benefits of this second dose."

    Lance skimmed the document, his eyes catching on phrases like "experimental treatment" and "unknown long-term effects."

    "Any questions about the form?" Marta asked.

    "Nah, I''m good," Lance replied, scrawling his signature at the bottom.

    The nurse nodded, taking back the clipboard. "Alright, then. Please roll up your sleeve, Mr. Lawthorn."

    She turned to prepare the syringe as Lance complied. Then¡­

    "You might feel a slight pinch," Marta warned.

    "Yeah, I remem¡ªow," Lance grunted.

    "Sorry about that. Almost done... there we go. All set, Mr. Lawthorn."

    "Thanks," Lance said, but Marta was already wheeling her cart out the door.

    The entire process appeared to have taken less than a second: Needle in. Sharp pain. Cool bandage. Nurse gone.

    "Fantastic," Ananya chirped, snapping Lance''s attention back to her. ¡°Where were we?¡±

    Wrapping up his questions, Lance asked, ¡°So, what does all of this mean for the future?¡±

    ¡°That is what we¡¯re all trying to figure out,¡± she said. ¡°That¡¯s kinda what we¡¯re doing right now, in a way.¡±

    Lance leaned back, exhaling heavily as he processed the implications. The silence stretched for a moment before Ananya glanced down at her tablet. ¡°Is there anything else of note you¡¯d like to mention for my report?¡±

    Lance¡¯s eyes widened suddenly. ¡°I, uh... I lifted my car the other day.¡±

    ¡°A car?!?¡± Ananya¡¯s pink-rimmed glasses slipped down her nose as she gasped. ¡°You what? Lance, that¡¯s incredible! Why didn¡¯t you lead with that? How much did you lift? For how long? Did you experience any strain or¡ª¡±

    ¡°Whoa, slow down,¡± Lance chuckled, holding up his hands. ¡°It¡¯s not that impressive. It¡¯s a very small car, and I only managed to lift the front end a few inches. Plus, I¡¯m still pissed that I broke the bumper. That¡¯s gonna be expensive to repair.¡±

    Ananya laughed, shaking her head. ¡°Well, that¡¯s certainly an interesting development. We¡¯ll have to look into the implications of that kind of strength increase.¡± She tapped a few more notes into her tablet. ¡°Well, I think that concludes our report for today. And thank you for coming in on such short notice.¡±

    ¡°No big deal. Besides, I¡¯m pretty sure I don¡¯t have a job anymore, so my schedule is wide open.¡±

    An awkward silence fell between them. Ananya straightened, her lab coat rustling as she leaned forward eagerly.

    ¡°Oh... I¡¯m sorry to hear that. Well, um, good luck with everything, Lance.¡±

    Lance stood up, stretching his arms above his head. ¡°Thanks, Doc. Same time next week?¡±

    ¡°Yes, that would be perfect. We¡¯ll continue to monitor your progress closely¡ªOh! I can¡¯t believe I almost forgot. Lance, do you know what type your arma is?¡±

    ¡°My arma type?¡± Lance asked, tilting his head slightly. ¡°I just heard about arma five minutes ago. Is this like some monster-catching thing? Am I water type or fire type?¡±

    ¡°Ha! Not exactly, but I appreciate the analogy. Don¡¯t worry about it. Your system should help you identify it, eventually. If you find out, please let us know. It¡¯s crucial data for our research.¡±

    ¡°Suuure,¡± Lance drawled, his eyes narrowing slightly. ¡°I¡¯ll just wait for my internal HUD to ding with a ¡®Congratulations, you¡¯ve unlocked your arma type!¡¯ message, shall I?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s... not entirely inaccurate, actually. Your neural interface might very well present the information that way.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m gonna go now.¡±

    As Lance turned to leave, Ananya called out, ¡°Uh, Lance? Try not to lift any more cars without supervision, okay?¡±

    Lance grinned over his shoulder. ¡°No promises, Doc. No promises.¡±

    Water type or fire type. He smirked at his own joke¡ªit was brilliant, he thought¡ªas he strode out of Dr. Patel¡¯s office. But the reality was far more complex, wasn¡¯t it? This wasn¡¯t some game. This was his life now.

    The sterile corridors of BioNova felt different somehow. Colder. More clinical. Or maybe it was just his senses picking up on details he¡¯d missed before. The faint hum of air conditioning. The subtle scent of disinfectant. A familiar floral perfume teased his nostrils, growing stronger as he approached the lobby.

    Great, Lance thought wryly. Time to reunite with my biggest fan, Zara, was it? I¡¯m sure she¡¯ll be thrilled to see me again. Maybe she¡¯s even got the police on speed dial this time.

    But as he entered the lobby, he spotted another familiar face across the open space. Carl¡ªthe guy from that day, the one who¡¯d gotten a front-row seat to Lance¡¯s impatient desperation, who¡¯d watched wide-eyed as Lance grabbed the first syringe in sight and jabbed it into his own leg, the same man who¡¯d probably spent those chaotic moments shaken and confused, wondering if he¡¯d just lost his chance at protection¡ªnah, they probably gave him my dose. It was paid for, he thought with a grin.

    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

    ¡°Hey, Carl,¡± he called out, raising a hand in greeting.

    Carl¡¯s head snapped up, his eyes doing a comical double-take. He visibly flinched, shrinking back into his chair. ¡°You-you¡¯re that guy,¡± he stammered. ¡°I... uh... hello.¡±

    ¡°Look, Carl, I owe you an apology. What I did the other day... it wasn¡¯t okay. I was desperate, terrified, you know. Thought I was gonna die if I didn¡¯t get that shot right then and there.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s... it¡¯s fine. We were all scared.¡±

    ¡°No, it¡¯s not fine.¡± Lance shook his head. ¡°I acted like a complete asshole. Probably scared the hell out of you and everyone else there. I¡¯m sorry.¡±

    Carl¡¯s shoulders relaxed slightly. ¡°Thanks, I guess. It was pretty intense.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s one way to put it,¡± Lance chuckled nervously. ¡°I feel better, seeing they gave you a gene shot.¡±

    ¡°They did,¡± Carl nodded. ¡°Got mine right after... well, you know. They, uh, actually did end up giving me yours. I think.¡±

    The tension in the air dissipated slightly. Lance opened his mouth to speak again when movement caught his eye. A young man, probably in his late teens, strode past them. His clothes¡ªall black¡ªscreamed money: designer jeans and a leather jacket that probably cost more than Lance¡¯s monthly rent. An older man in a crisp suit trailed behind him, carrying a sleek briefcase.

    Carl¡¯s eyes followed the pair. ¡°Speaking of assholes,¡± he muttered.

    ¡°You know him?¡± Lance asked.

    ¡°Not really. Seen him around here before. Some rich kid. Always barking orders at that poor guy following him around.¡±

    As if on cue, the young man¡¯s voice rang out, sharp and demanding. ¡°Jenkins! Where the hell is my phone? I told you to have it charged!¡±

    The older man¡ªJenkins, apparently¡ªfumbled with the briefcase. ¡°I¡¯m terribly sorry, Master Preston. It should be fully charged by now.¡±

    ¡°Should be? It better be, or you can kiss your Christmas bonus goodbye.¡±

    Lance winced. The kid¡¯s voice dripped with entitlement, each word laced with casual cruelty. He glanced at Carl, who wore a look of disgust.

    ¡°Charming,¡± Lance said.

    Carl snorted. ¡°Yeah, real prince charming. Makes me almost grateful for...¡± He trailed off, his face clouding over.

    ¡°For what?¡±

    Carl shook his head. ¡°Nothing. Just... this whole situation. The pandemic. It¡¯s been rough, but at least my kids aren¡¯t turning out like that brat.¡±

    Lance nodded, a pang of guilt hitting him again. Here he was, enhanced as fucked, while people like Carl were just trying to keep their families safe. ¡°How are they doing? Your kids, I mean.¡±

    Carl¡¯s face softened. ¡°They¡¯re hanging in there. It¡¯s been tough, you know? But they¡¯re resilient. They got their dose. We¡¯re making it work.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s good to hear.¡± Lance meant it. In all the chaos of his transformation, he¡¯d almost forgotten about the human cost of this pandemic. The families torn apart, the lives upended.

    ¡®Click-clack. Click-clack.¡¯ Footsteps echoed all around the open lobby.

    The rich kid¡ªPreston¡ªwas heading back their way, his face twisted in annoyance. ¡°Jenkins! We¡¯re leaving. This place is a waste of time.¡±

    As they passed, Preston¡¯s shoulder slammed into Lance¡¯s. Hard.

    Lance reeled backwards, the impact like a meteor strike to his sternum. He¡¯d expected the boy to bounce off his iron-hard frame and teach him a lesson, but reality had other plans. Lance staggered, struggling to stay upright as the shock of the collision radiated through his body. Preston, seemingly unfazed, continued walking as if he¡¯d brushed past a feather. The surprise was Lance¡¯s, and it tasted of rust and disbelief.

    Fuck me! I need to get stronger, he thought, but nonetheless played it cool. His jaw clenched, throat tightening as he fought to keep his breathing steady. He stood there, desperately trying to project an air of indifference while his insides churned with a toxic mix of humiliation and panic. Lance hadn¡¯t been in many fights before, but this was, by far, the hardest he¡¯d ever been hit.

    ¡°Watch where you¡¯re going, you clumsy oaf!¡± Preston snarled, his eyes flashing red.

    Lance blinked, momentarily stunned by the kid¡¯s audacity. He felt a surge of anger rising in his chest, his fists clenching involuntarily. Easy, he told himself. Play it cool. He¡¯s like fourteen years old. One wrong move and you¡¯ll be explaining your new Krav Maga skills to a judge.

    ¡°I believe you ran into me, actually,¡± Lance said, keeping his voice level. ¡°Maybe you should pay attention to your surroundings instead of treating people like garbage.¡±

    A new shade of red Lance didn¡¯t know existed crept up Preston¡¯s neck and face. ¡°Do you have any idea who I am? My father could buy and sell this entire building!¡±

    ¡°And yet, here you are, getting treatment just like the rest of us,¡± Lance retorted. ¡°Funny how money can¡¯t buy immunity to a global pandemic, huh?¡±

    Preston¡¯s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. For a moment, Lance thought the kid might actually try to take a swing at him. But then Jenkins stepped in, placing a gentle hand on Preston¡¯s arm.

    ¡°Master Preston, perhaps we should be on our way. Your schedule is quite full today.¡±

    Preston glared at Lance for a moment longer before turning on his heel. ¡°Fine. Let¡¯s go. This place is full of peasants anyway.¡±

    As they walked away, Lance heard Carl chuckle beside him. ¡°I guess that¡¯s your MO? Trouble anytime you¡¯re around?¡±

    Lance grinned. ¡°Yeah, well, someone had to knock him down a peg or two.¡±

    ¡°True enough.¡± Carl glanced at his watch. ¡°I should get going. My appointment¡¯s in a few minutes.¡±

    ¡°Right, of course.¡± Lance nodded. ¡°Take care, Carl. And again, I¡¯m sorry about before.¡±

    Carl gave him a small smile. ¡°Water under the bridge. Good luck with... whatever it is you¡¯re dealing with.¡±

    As Carl walked away, Lance felt a weight lift from his shoulders. One small wrong, at least partially righted. But as he turned to leave, his enhanced hearing picked up Preston¡¯s voice from outside BioNova¡¯s doors.

    ¡°Jenkins, find out who that guy was. I want his name, address, and tell Mark to pay him a visit.¡±

    Lance sighed. Great. Just what I need. A spoiled rich kid with a grudge.

    The brief moment of relief he¡¯d felt after patching things up with Carl evaporated. From one problem to another¡ªthat seemed to be his life now. Enhanced abilities or not, he was still just fumbling through this new reality. The simple days of donning a mask of outgoingness and likeableness and maneuvering through corporate politics and grabbing after-work beers with colleagues were long gone.

    Maybe now I¡¯m just a glorified lab rat after all, he thought as he stepped out of BioNova¡¯s sleek glass doors and the chill air slapped him in the face, prompting him to zip up his black leather jacket and shove his hands deep into his pockets.

    Well, this lab rat¡¯s about to run the whole damn maze and ¡°I¡¯m gonna raise the fuck out of his genetic optimization.¡±

    His breath came out as wintry white puffs of fog.

    But damn. Just... damn. When did it get so frigid? So he hurried on.

    The streets were as the streets had been this past week: no honking horns, no chattering crowds. There was one thing different, though.

    Halfway home, something caught his eye. A military NARS treatment station, manned by the U.S. Public Health Service, stood like a fortress of hope amidst the desolation. Lance slowed his pace, observing the small queue of people waiting for their shot at survival. Regular folks, he thought. No super strength or enhanced senses for them.

    ***

    Hours passed. Lance fed Jiro, scrolled through countless websites, and paced his apartment. His search for answers yielded little. Dr. Zoe Blackwell offered no insight or videos on arma types. Most online sources drew blanks. But buried in obscure forums, conspiracy theory boards, and dubious health blogs, Lance uncovered scattered bits of information. Pieces of a puzzle he couldn¡¯t quite assemble. Although incomplete, these fragments hinted at some interesting narratives. Superpowers!

    The internet swore arma was the equivalent of superpowers for folks who¡¯d gotten the right gene mod.

    Which brought Lance to his current predicament. He¡¯d learned that ¡°Enhancer¡± seemed to be the most common arma type by far. To determine this, netizens swore by ¡°The Spoon Bend Challenge.¡± The test was simple: Take a standard stainless steel spoon. Grip it with your thumb on the handle near the bowl, index finger at the handle¡¯s end. Focus your energy. Try to bend it.

    Lance stared at the spoon in his hand, concentrating hard. Very hard. Extremely hard.

    But all he managed to do was spend thirty minutes gawking at his own distorted reflection¡ªhis face stretched into a comical oval, nose bulbous and elongated¡ªwhile his arm slowly went numb from holding the spoon so tightly. He felt less like a superhuman and more like a sleep-deprived mime practicing a particularly absurd routine.

    So he moved on to ¡°The Houseplant Whisper Test¡±

    It sounded like something out of a new-age self-help book, but at this point, he wouldn¡¯t have batted an eye if someone told him to stand on his head and recite the alphabet backwards.

    He eyed the potted fern on his windowsill and exhaled slowly through pursed lips, but still approached the plant, feeling slightly ridiculous. Holding his hands out, palms facing the fern but not quite touching it, he took a deep breath, just as the questionable websites suggested. Focus, he told himself. Channel your inner plant whisperer.

    Minutes ticked by. Lance maintained his position effortlessly, his enhanced physique barely registering the strain. He squinted at the fern, searching for any sign of movement. A leaf twitch. A stem bend. Anything. Nothing.

    The fern remained stubbornly still, its fronds swaying only with the gentle breeze from the open window. Lance gritted his teeth, pushing his concentration to its limits. He imagined his energy flowing out through his palms, willing the plant to respond.

    Come on, you glorified weed. Do something.

    Five minutes passed. Then ten. Then twenty. Lance¡¯s body showed no signs of fatigue, but his patience was wearing thin. The fern, utterly indifferent to his efforts, continued its plant-like existence without so much as a quiver.

    Frustrated, Lance finally dropped his arms, glaring at the uncooperative plant. ¡°Well, that was a waste of time,¡± he said to himself. ¡°So much for being a plant whisperer.¡± Not that he was secretly hoping he wouldn¡¯t be. Talking to plants wasn¡¯t exactly high on his list of desired superpowers.

    He turned away from the fern, the next test already crystallizing in his thoughts. The Static Electricity Challenge. It sounded simple enough, and hey, at least it didn¡¯t involve talking to vegetation.

    Rummaging through a drawer, Lance found an old party balloon, surprised he even had one. He blew it up, tying it off with a quick knot. Then, feeling slightly foolish, he began vigorously rubbing the balloon against his hair.

    The static electricity built up quickly, making his hair stand on end. A bark of laughter escaped him as he caught his reflection in the mirror. He looked like he¡¯d stuck his finger in an electrical socket.

    Pay attention, he reminded himself. Time to move some paper.

    He grabbed a handful of Post-it notes from his desk, scattering them across the coffee table. Taking a deep breath, Lance held the balloon above the papers, willing them to move.

    At first, nothing happened. Then, slowly, one of the Post-its began to lift, drawn towards the static charge of the balloon. Lance felt a surge of excitement. Was this it? Had he finally discovered his arma type?

    But as he watched, his hopes deflated. The paper rose only a few centimeters before falling back to the table. No matter how hard he concentrated, he couldn¡¯t make it move any further or influence the other papers.

    Just normal static electricity, he realized with a sinking feeling. Nothing special about it at all.

    Dejected, Lance flopped onto the couch, the balloon bouncing off his head and floating to the floor. He ran his hands through his still-static-charged hair, feeling utterly defeated.

    ¡°Some superhuman I am,¡± he grumbled. ¡°Can¡¯t bend spoons, can¡¯t talk to plants, can¡¯t even master static electricity. Electricity powers¡ªnow that would¡¯ve been sick. But this must be a joke. And I fell for it.¡±

    He glanced at his phone, considering calling Dr. Patel for advice. But he hesitated. She¡¯d given him her number for emergencies, and this didn¡¯t qualify. Besides, she¡¯d told him not to worry¡ªhis HUD would reveal his abilities eventually. No need to bother her over this.

    There has to be something I¡¯m missing, Lance thought, frustration gnawing at him. Some key to unlocking these abilities.

    He stood up, pacing the room restlessly. His enhanced senses picked up every detail¡ªthe faint hum of the refrigerator, the subtle shifts in air currents as he moved, the soft rustle of his clothes with each step. All these incredible changes, and yet he felt powerless to control them.

    Lance¡¯s gaze fell on the fern again. It sat there, mockingly serene, so glad I don¡¯t talk to plants. For a moment, he considered tossing it out the window in a fit of pique.

    No, he thought, reining in his frustration. That¡¯s not going to solve anything, he thought while looking at Jiro.

    ¡°You don¡¯t have to deal with arma, do you¡ª¡±

    ¡®GRRROWL.¡¯

    Lance¡¯s stomach growled.

    The failed attempts at discovering his arma type had left him mentally drained and physically famished. So, he padded to the kitchen, bare feet silent on the cool tiles, drawn by the aroma of leftover noodles that he¡¯d picked up on his way from BioNova this morning at the Chinese place near his apartment. The always-smiling owner, who never failed to throw in an extra egg roll, had amazingly kept the place open throughout the pandemic. They never close, do they?

    As he reached for the takeout container, his fingers brushed against the smooth, cool surface of his titanium chopsticks. A gift from his mother, brought back from her trip to Japan earlier that year. The memory of her excited face as she presented them to him tugged at his heart. How long ago that seemed now, in this new world of arma and enhanced abilities and supposed superpowers. Before the world went to hell. Before NARS. Before... this.

    He shook off the melancholy and settled on his couch.

    Between mouthfuls of noodles, Lance fired up his laptop. He navigated to a particular tab he¡¯d left open during his earlier ¡°arma research.¡± Curious to know what it was about, he clicked it open.

    ENHANCED INDIVIDUALS SUPPORT GROUP

    Durham Chapter

    Are you struggling with recent changes?

    Feeling alone in a world that no longer makes sense?

    Join us every night at 7 PM!

    - Share your experiences

    - Learn coping strategies

    - Connect with others like you

    All levels of enhancement welcome. Confidentiality assured.

    Where: Durham Community Center, Room 201 1234 Oak Street

    When: Mon-Fri, 7:00 PM

    Who: All enhanced individuals welcome

    This is a safe space for those affected by the NARS pandemic and subsequent enhancements.

    For more information, call: (919) 555-HELP or email: [email protected]</a>

    That¡¯s not far, he thought, then looked at the clock in the usual corner of his computer screen.

    [6:45 PM]

    His chopsticks froze mid-twirl for a moment before he continued slurping noodles.

    Huh. Not a bad idea. Could be helpful for some folks.

    He pictured himself in that community center room, sharing his ¡°enhanced¡± experiences. Nah. He twirled more noodles around his chopsticks. Between BioNova, Krav Maga, and his own experiments, his schedule was pretty full. Plus, he wasn¡¯t exactly struggling. Different, sure, but not lost. He closed the tab and reached for his drink. Maybe someday, if things got weird. For now, he had noodles to finish and more questionable arma tests to try out.

 Nine: Pyrokinesis

    [Day 9]

    Lance''s feet pounded the pavement, each stride propelling him forward with effortless grace. The cool evening air whipped past his face, carrying the scent of blooming jasmine and grass that had been getting a bit too tall¡ªhe wondered if he could find a mower and take care of it himself since it didn¡¯t seem like that HOA would be making its rounds anytime soon. Mental note.

    His muscles hummed with energy, still buzzing from the day''s intense workout and Krav Maga session.

    Damn, I feel good, he thought, a grin spreading across his face. The endorphin high from his run mixed with the satisfaction of a productive day. His bank account was looking healthier thanks to some well-timed stock sales, and his body felt like a finely tuned machine.

    But a nagging thought persisted, gnawing at the edges of his contentment. Hours spent on bizarre online tests had yielded nothing. No bent spoons, no levitating objects, no sudden ability to commune with houseplants. It was frustrating, to say the least.

    There has to be something I''m missing, Lance mused as he rounded the corner onto his street. Those tests can''t all be bogus, right? I mean, they''re on the internet. That''s gotta count for something.

    He chuckled, maybe my superpower is awesome jokes.

    He slowed his pace as he approached his apartment building, his nostrils picking up on something... off. An acrid scent tickled his nose, growing stronger with each step.

    Smoke.

    Lance''s eyes snapped to his building, scanning for any signs of flames or distress. Nothing obvious, but the smell was unmistakable now. His heart rate, barely elevated from the run, began to quicken. Shit.

    He sprinted the last few yards to his front door, taking the concrete steps two at a time. The smoke smell intensified as he reached the entrance, and a tendril of gray seeped out from under the door.

    His fingers drifted to the small scar above his left eyebrow while he considered his options. Had he left something on? The candle for the ¡®whatever-candle test?¡¯ The stove? No, he was sure he''d checked everything before leaving. His keys jingled in his hand as he cursed under his breath, struggling to find the right one.

    The door swung open, and a wall of smoke hit him. Lance coughed, squinting through the haze. The acrid smell was overwhelming, but there were no visible flames.

    "Jiro?" he called out with desperation. "Here, boy!"

    A muffled whimper came from the direction of the kitchen. Lance moved swiftly, his vision piercing through the smoke with far more ease than he would¡¯ve been able to a week ago. He found Jiro huddled in a corner, trembling.

    "It''s okay, buddy," Lance soothed, scooping up the frightened dog. "Let''s get you out of here."

    He turned, ready to make a quick exit, when his eyes fell on the source of the smoke. His potted fern¡ªthe very one he''d spent hours trying to "communicate" with earlier¡ªsat on the living room floor, smoldering. The leaves were charred, wisps of smoke curling up from the blackened fronds. Surrounding the plant was a haphazard pile of items: crumpled papers, wooden picture frames, and what looked like the remains of a small side table.

    Lance blinked, momentarily dumbfounded. "What the actual fuck..."

    Snapping out of his confusion, he shooed Jiro towards the door with a frantic wave, yanked a cushion from the couch and flung himself at the smoldering pile. He landed hard, driving the cushion down onto the fern and its surrounding debris, smothering the last of the embers. The smoke began to clear, leaving behind the acrid stench of burnt vegetation and singed fabric.

    As he lay sprawled atop the cushion on his living room floor, while surveying the damage, Lance felt his thoughts begin to whirl with the remaining smoke that had just filled the room.

    Only his living room had been trashed, nothing else seemed harmed.

    How had a houseplant spontaneously combusted? It defied logic. Unless...

    A wild thought struck him. Could this be related to his earlier attempts at discovering his arma type? He''d spent a good chunk of the afternoon focusing his energy on that damn plant, willing it to move, to grow, to do something.

    Had he accidentally set it on fire with his mind?

    The idea was absurd, yet Lance couldn''t shake the feeling that this was more than a coincidence.

    Pyrokinesis? This is so much better than Plant whisp¡ª

    ¡®PFFT¡¯

    Glass shattered. Lance''s head snapped up. Another ¡®pfft.¡¯ Bullet whizzed past his ear. Shit.

    He dove behind the couch, heart pounding. Jiro whimpered, cowering in the corner. More shots. Fabric ripped. Stuffing flew.

    Lance wondered. Who? Why? No time to think. Had to move. Had to survive.

    He army-crawled towards the end of the couch. Risked a glance. Muzzle flash. Ducked back down. Fuck.

    The shooter was in his apartment. How? When? Questions for later. Now, action. Think! Krav Maga, what to do? What to do? Look for weapons!

    Lance''s muscles coiled. Ready to spring. He reached for the nearest object. A lamp. Heavy. Good.

    Deep breath. In. Out. Now.

    He lifted the lamp, ready to throw. A bullet shattered it in his hand. Ceramic shards rained down.

    Fuck, that could¡¯ve been my head. A thought pierced through the turmoil in his mind: This must be that Frank, that Preston-prick kid. Fuck me¡­

    Bullets peppered the floor behind him. Close. Too close, again.

    His eyes locked onto a half-eaten carton of Chinese noodles on the floor and the titanium chopsticks glinting beside it, and with a swift and silent motion, he rolled them towards himself, and his palm closed around the metal, and he listened.

    Silence. Is he reloading¡ªdoesn¡¯t matter¡ªbe faster.

    His fingers tightened around the chopstick. The apartment was quiet, save for the faint creak of floorboards and the whisper of fabric against skin.

    Now or never.

    In one fluid motion, Lance sprang up, arm cocked back. Time seemed to slow as he zeroed in on the origin of the sound. The chopstick left his hand, a silver blur cutting through the air.

    Pain.

    White-hot agony exploded in his forearm as a bullet tore through flesh and muscle. Lance stumbled, gritting his teeth against the urge to cry out. Blood poured from the wound, hot and sticky against his skin.

    The sudden quiet was deafening. No more gunshots, no footsteps, nothing. Lance''s ragged breathing sounded thunderous in the stillness.

    Did I... did I hit him?

    Clutching his injured arm, Lance inched forward. His eyes moved frantically around the room, searching for any sign of movement. There was none. The kitchen doorway loomed ahead, a rectangle of darkness.

    Heartbeat pounding in his ears, Lance crept towards the kitchen. The metallic tang of blood¡ªhis own¡ªmingled with the caustic odor of gunpowder, of smoke, of fear and sweat. And as he eased past the island, his vision, already adjusted to the dark, pierced the gloom.

    A figure lay on the linoleum, motionless.

    Lance froze, muscles tight, ready to act. Was it a trick? A trap? Seconds ticked by, each one an eternity.

    No movement.

    Cautiously, he approached the prone form. It was a man, face-up on the floor. The chopstick protruded from his left eye, buried deep.

    Holy shit.

    Lance''s stomach lurched. He''d done that. With a fucking chopstick.

    Swallowing hard, he nudged the man with his foot. No response. He crouched down, fingers searching for a pulse¡­

    Dead.

    The realization slammed into him like a runaway freight train. He''d killed someone. Self-defense or not, a man lay dead on his kitchen floor. At his feet.

    His hands shook as he ran them through his hair, leaving streaks of red. Shit. Shit. Shit. He''d never even been in a real fight before, and now... this. His gaze darted around the kitchen, looking anywhere but at the body. The pristine counters, the cheerful yellow walls¡ªeverything seemed obscene in its normalcy. A hysterical laugh bubbled up in his throat. He choked it back down. Get it together, he snarled at himself. He broke in. He had a gun. It was him or you. The thought steadied him, a cold resolve settling in his chest. Yeah. The bastard had it coming.

    If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

    What now?

    More thoughts tumbled over each other in a frantic jumble. Call the cops? Run? Try to hide the body?

    Lance took a deep breath, forcing himself to think logically. Focus. It was self-defense, he entered my home. Don¡¯t touch the gu¡ª

    Down by his feet, he saw blood¡ªhis blood¡ªmixing with the attacker''s. The red liquids swirled together, creating dark pools on the floor. He felt cold, his arm felt cold. He stared at it for a second before everything went dark.

    ***

    [Day 10]

    Lance''s eyelids cracked open, his vision blurry and unfocused. The cold linoleum pressed against his cheek, while warm stickiness pooled beneath him. He blinked, trying to make sense of his surroundings.

    Kitchen. Floor. Blood.

    The recent memories came back to haunt him. The intruder. The gunshots. The chopstick.

    Lance''s stomach churned as he pushed himself up with his left arm, his right oddly unresponsive. He looked down at it, expecting to see the angry red of a fresh wound.

    White.

    His forearm and hand were a ghastly shade of white, like marble or bleached bone. Lance stared, uncomprehending. He tried to wiggle his fingers, but none yielded an inch.

    Panic clawed at his throat. He couldn''t feel his arm from the elbow down. It was as if it belonged to someone else, a foreign appendage attached to his body.

    Fuck¡­ just fuck.

    Inspecting the wound, he noticed the angry red flesh had already begun to knit together, a thin layer of new skin forming at the edges. He pulled out his phone.

    [5:31 AM]

    It was healing faster than it should, but the unnatural pallor of his forearm remained unchanged.

    His gaze shifted to the dead man on the floor. The chopstick that had been protruding from his eye was gone. So was the eyeball. Lance''s heart rate spiked. Had he imagined it? Was he losing his mind?

    A wet, gnawing sound reached his ears. Lance''s head whipped around, following the noise.

    "Jiro, NO!"

    His dog crouched in the corner, the missing chopstick clenched between his teeth. Jiro''s muzzle was stained red, his eyes wild and unfocused. He gnawed on the metal utensil with a ferocity Lance had never seen before.

    Shit. Shit. Shit.

    He needed to get the chopstick away from Jiro. It was evidence. But more importantly, it could hurt him. He tried to stand, but his arm felt so heavy.

    "Jiro," Lance called, his voice hoarse. "Come here, boy. Drop it."

    The dog''s ears perked up, but he made no move to obey. Instead, he produced a deep, resonant growl, a sound Lance had never heard from him before.

    What the hell is wrong with him? Forget it.

    He probed at his cold, unresponsive arm. Something wasn¡¯t right. His fingers brushed against a hard lump beneath the skin.

    Fuck. The bullet. It was still lodged in his forearm, likely pressing against a nerve or something. If he didn''t act fast, he could lose the limb entirely. The memory of his brief stint in ROTC training flashed through his mind¡ªthe gruff instructor''s warnings about field injuries echoing in his ears. Who knew those few months before he washed out for a minor heart arrhythmia would come in handy now?

    Okay, okay, think¡­ I should have done this sooner¡­

    9-1-1.

    The operator''s voice crackled through the speaker, but Lance''s words wouldn¡¯t leave his throat. How could he explain this mess? A dead body, a wounded arm, a dog gone feral?

    He dropped the phone. They¡¯ll come¡­ eventually¡ªNo, they''ll take forever. I''ll lose my arm before they even get here.

    His eyes jumped around the kitchen: his pale arm, the pool of blood, Jiro, and the dead body of the one-eyed hitman casually laying on his kitchen floor.

    The dog padded towards him, the blood-stained chopstick still clenched in his maw. Lance''s eyes widened as a wild idea took root in his mind.

    No. That''s insane.

    But the numbness in his arm persisted. He touched his arm, and a burst of pain shot up to his shoulder. He glanced at the chopstick again, its titanium surface glinting in the dim light.

    Fuck it.

    "Here, Jiro," Lance called softly, holding out his hand. "Drop it, boy."

    Jiro hesitated, a low growl rumbling in his chest. Lance held his breath, willing the dog to obey. After what felt like the longest time, Jiro''s jaw relaxed, and the chopstick clattered to the floor.

    Lance snatched it up. He crawled across his kitchen floor, reaching the far-right cabinet and clumsily groped for a bottle of Canadian whiskey, his fingers knocking against glass before finally grasping the right one. Sterilize it, right? That''s a thing.

    Alcohol splashed everywhere, but mostly on the makeshift surgical tool. With white-knuckled determination, he homed in on the lump in his forearm where the bullet lay hidden.

    Just do it.

    Lance pressed the tip of the chopstick against his skin, feeling the resistance of flesh. He took a deep breath, steadying himself.

    How the fuck did the bullet not go through? Guess I¡¯m semi-bulletproof?

    Deep breath. Deep breath. Now.

    He closed his eyes. He bit down on a piece of his sweaty, bloody, disgusting exercise shirt and¡ª

    I can¡¯t do it.

    The held breath escaped in a shuddering gasp. Another inhale, sharp and quick, filled his lungs. Teeth clenched, jaw tight. Fingers trembling around the chopstick. In, out. In, out. Faster now, each breath shorter than the last. Sweat beaded on his forehead, trickling down his temple. Muscles taut, ready¡ªor trying to be. The room swam, edges blurring. Focus narrowed to a pinpoint: the chopstick, his arm, the task ahead. One more breath. Steel resolve crystallized in his gut.

    Lance had never been one to shy away from a thrill. As a kid, he''d always been first in line for the scariest roller coasters, scaling the tallest trees, taking dares that made other kids pale. But this? This was different. Self-preservation had always warred with his daring nature, a tug-of-war between excitement and an almost obsessive need to protect himself. It''s what drove him to steal the injection, to ensure his own survival at any cost. But now, faced with the prospect of digging a bullet out of his own arm with nothing but a chopstick, that instinct screamed at him to stop. The line between bravery and stupidity had never felt so thin.

    This is gonna hurt like hell¡ªNo, I can¡¯t fucking do it.

    Genetic Optimization: 100%

    Evolution Process Initiated

    Lance''s body seized¡ªfrom the tiniest twitch in his eyelid to a massive spasm in his thighs. It all lasted less than a fraction of a second, but the sensation was familiar¡ªlike that night last week when he''d jolted awake, heart racing, body humming with an inexplicable energy. But this time, it was more intense, more... complete.

    First Evolution Achieved

    Body primed for advanced energy regulation

    Energy Alignment identified: Nullifier

    Nullifier: Energy manifests as negation, suppression, or adaptation of various forces and influences

    New skill unlocked: [Pain Nullification]

    Pain Nullification: Ability to suppress the body''s natural pain response

    Lance blinked, momentarily distracted by the unordinary system messages. ¡°Nullifier?¡± He blinked again. ¡°And my superpower is pain nullification? What the fuck, really?¡± He shook his head. If it saves the arm¡­

    Okay, perfect. It''s not gonna hurt, it¡¯s not gonna hurt, it¡¯s not gonna hurt. He bit down on the white shirt again, just in case. Then he took the deepest breath his lungs had ever taken and plunged the titanium chopstick down into his forearm with enough force to break skin, feeling the eating utensil scrape against the bullet.

    And it did hurt.

    Pain exploded. White-hot. Blinding. A scream ripped from his throat. Muffled by the shirt. Vision blurred. Tunneled. The chopstick shook. His grip weakened. Sweat poured. Tears fell. Every nerve on fire. His body rebelled. Screamed to stop. To give in. But he couldn''t. He wouldn¡¯t. He had to get it out; blood was already gushing everywhere, and the system had already tricked him into breaking past the mental barrier that kept him from inflicting self-harm.

    Through huffs and puffs and ragged breaths, Lance bit down on that shirt with so much pressure that his teeth made contact, aching from the force¡ªbut not more than every tiny movement the chopstick made.

    Lance maneuvered the chopstick beneath the bullet. He took a shaky breath, then began to apply pressure, trying to pry the metal intruder upward. The chopstick slipped once, twice, slick with blood. Gritting his teeth, he repositioned and tried again. This time, he felt resistance. A slight give. The bullet shifted ever so slightly. Encouraged, he increased the pressure, angling the chopstick to lift the bullet just enough to get a grip. His other hand hovered nearby, fingers poised to pinch the moment the bullet emerged far enough from his flesh. Every muscle in his body tensed as he focused on this precarious balancing act¡ªapplying enough force to dislodge the bullet without pushing it deeper.

    However, it slipped again. Tears poured out unchecked. This is impossible, he confessed internally.

    He continued to probe, and then the unthinkable occurred: The bullet shifted, its edge scraped against the pinched nerve, and a searing explosion of pain tore through his body. In that instant, Lance experienced agony beyond anything he''d ever known. I¡¯m done. He was pretty sure he would faint right then and there.

    [Extreme pain detected]

    [Physiological stress levels critical]

    [Pain Nullification ability available]

    [Activate Pain Nullification? Y/N]

    Fucking yes!

    In an instant, the agony vanished. The burning, tearing sensation in his arm disappeared as if someone had flipped a switch.

    He stared at the chopstick still protruding from his forearm, blood oozing sluggishly around the metal. The sight was gruesome, but the pain... gone. Completely. Lance exhaled shakily, his body trembling from the sudden absence of torment, but his heart and his mind were serene.

    Huh.

    Holy shit, he thought, a hysterical laugh bubbling up in his throat. It actually worked.

    It took almost no time for his breathing to even out.

    With newfound clarity, Lance refocused on the task at hand. He gripped the chopstick firmly, maneuvering it beneath the bullet with surgical precision. The metal utensil scraped against the foreign object, and Lance braced himself for pain that never came.

    This is surreal, he mused, watching dispassionately as he worked the bullet free from his flesh.

    He applied light force, and the metal slid upwards, breaking through the surface of his skin. Blood welled up around it, but he felt nothing. No pain, no discomfort. Just a vague sense of pressure.

    The bullet popped free, landing on the linoleum with a soft ¡®plink.¡¯

    Lance stared at it, then at the hole in his arm. He should be horrified, he knew. Should be freaking out. But all he felt was a sort of mild curiosity, as if he were watching a particularly interesting science experiment.

    I should probably do something about this, he thought idly, watching the blood trickle down his arm.

    He reached for a kitchen towel, pressing it against the wound with the same casual air one might use to wipe up a spilled drink. The white fabric quickly bloomed red, but Lance found he couldn''t summon the energy to care.

    The adrenaline crash came, and his whole body felt heavier than his arm did a minute ago.

    His eyelids grew heavy, his limbs turning to lead. The kitchen floor suddenly looked incredibly inviting.

    I did it, he thought, his lips curling into a smile that felt more like a grimace. I actually fucking did it.

    ¡°Here, boy. We¡¯ll take care of the mess in the morning. Let¡¯s rest.¡±

    Jiro ambled over with blood-stained paws and settled on Lance''s lap, his muzzle red and wet as he rested his familiar weight against his owner.

    Just for a minute, he thought, lowering himself down.

    The cool linoleum felt good against his overheated skin. Lance''s eyes drifted closed, the events of the night fading into a hazy blur. He was vaguely aware of the blood pooling beneath him, mixing with that of the dead man¡ªFrank?¡ªa few feet away. He should be concerned about that, he knew. But the thought slipped away like smoke, impossible to grasp.

    Later, he decided. He''d deal with it all later.

    Sleep.

 Ten: Not Really My Style

    Mitsuki''s nose wrinkled as she stepped over the threshold, her eyes darting from the blackened remains of a potted plant to the dark stains on the living room floor. It looked like a war zone, and reeked of charred vegetation and something metallic.

    So we only have one paramedic, one forensic specialist, and a junior detective, she sighed. This pandemic has stretched us so thin, it''s a miracle we can respond to calls at all.

    She snapped on a pair of latex gloves, and as she tugged at each fingertip, ensuring a perfect fit, the paramedic approached, his eyes heavy with fatigue.

    "Are you Detective Yamada?¡±

    "I am," she replied, flashing her badge.

    ¡°We''ve been here since dawn. It''s... not pretty."

    Mitsuki angled her wrist, [8:25 AM]. First case, and it''s a bloodbath, she thought. "What can you tell me?"

    The paramedic gestured towards the kitchen. "Male, late twenties. Multiple lacerations, one gunshot wound to the arm. But here''s the kicker¡ªhe''s alive."

    "Alive?" Mitsuki''s tongue pressed against her cheek. "With all this blood?"

    "That''s not his." The paramedic''s voice lowered. "There''s another body. Behind the kitchen island."

    Mitsuki shifted to the balls of her feet, hands loosely curling. "Show me."

    As the paramedic turned, her mind flashed back to the dispatch report. All they had to go on was an open line 9-1-1 call¡ªa man''s voice screaming in what sounded like agony, then abrupt silence. The operator had tried to re-establish contact for several minutes before sending units to investigate. And by units, they meant two overworked beat cops, who quickly called in paramedics¡ªvolunteers who had to come in their private cars given the scarcity of ambulances.

    It was Mitsuki''s first week as a detective, and she was supposed to shadow her senior partner. But like so many plans in this chaotic-stricken world, that fell through. Her partner, well¡­he had too much to drink before the pandemic¡ªa deadly mistake in these times¡ªleaving Mitsuki to learn the ropes all on her own. Despite the grim circumstances, a part of her welcomed this baptism by fire. It was an opportunity to prove herself, to show that she was ready for the responsibility thrust upon her by a world in crisis.

    They moved further into the kitchen, stepping around shattered glass and overturned furniture. There, sprawled on the floor, lay a man. Or what was left of him.

    "Kuso," Mitsuki muttered, crouching beside the corpse. The man''s eye socket was a gaping wound, as if something had been violently extracted. But it was the remaining eye that caught her attention¡ªhalf-lidded and cold.

    "Any ID?"

    The paramedic shook his head. "Nothing on him. But get this¡ªthe weapon was a chopstick."

    Mitsuki''s eyebrow arched. "A chopstick?"

    "It¡¯s on the victim. Looks like it was pulled out of the wound."

    She stood, surveying the room. Blood spatter painted the walls, telling a story of frenzied violence and desperation. But something didn''t add up. The precision of the kill strike contradicted the chaos around them.

    "Where''s the survivor?"

    "He''s right over there," the paramedic said, gesturing to the other side of the kitchen island. "We sedated him to check him over. Blood pressure''s low, but he''s stable. Apart from the visible injuries, he''s surprisingly okay. There''s no need for an ambulance, at least."

    "He''s lucky, then. With this pandemic, I''d be surprised to see an ambulance in this neighborhood," Mitsuki said while her thoughts churned through the bizarre scene. A fight to the death with kitchen utensils. What the hell happened here?

    She made her way around the kitchen island, noting the trajectory of the bullet hole in the living room wall. Shot fired from the kitchen towards the living room. Shooter had a clear line of sight, she analyzed. Her gaze fell on the singed remains of the plant. Attempted arson to cover tracks? Or collateral damage from a struggle? This level of violence suggests more than a simple break-in. Targeted attack, maybe?

    Thoughts for later. For now, she filed everything she observed into her mental grid.

    "Detective?" the forensics specialist called out. "You might want to see this."

    Mitsuki stopped before him. She took a look at the man laying there, his muscular frame barely contained by the blanket draped over him. His eyes were closed, but his face was taut with tension.

    "Lance Lawthorn," the paramedic said, handing her a wallet. "Software engineer at Qualtech. No priors, no record."

    Mitsuki studied Lance''s face. Software engineer takes down an intruder? There''s more to this story. She leaned closer, noticing something odd about his arm. "Is that... the gunshot wound?"

    The paramedic glanced at his tablet. "Looks like he dug the bullet out himself. With the same chopstick he used on the other guy. What¡¯s weird is that it¡¯s already healing."

    Impossible, Mitsuki thought. But the evidence was right in front of her. She glanced at Lance''s other hand, clenched tightly around something.

    "I¡¯m guessing that¡¯s the murder weapon?"

    The paramedic shrugged. "We couldn''t pry it loose. Even sedated, his grip is like iron."

    ¡°Is he one of those arma users?¡± Mitsuki asked.

    "Hard to tell, but..." The paramedic trailed off, nodding towards Lance. On the floor, the man stirred, his head lolling to one side. ¡°You might be able to ask him.¡±

    Lance Lawthorn''s lips moved, soft words escaping. "Don'' want... pain n''llification," he slurred, the words floating just above silence.

    Mitsuki reached for Lance''s hand, her fingers barely touching his when his eyes snapped open. In a blur of motion, he sat up, his hand shooting out to grab her wrist.

    "Who are you?" Lance''s voice was a low growl, his eyes wild and unfocused.

    Mitsuki froze, acutely aware of the crushing strength in his grip. "Detective Yamada. You''re safe now, Mr. Lawthorn,¡± Mitsuki soothed, while inwardly puzzling over his quick recovery. Wasn¡¯t he sedated?

    Lance blinked, confusion replacing the feral look in his eyes. He released her wrist, slumping back onto the linoleum. "I... I didn''t mean to..."

    ¡°It¡¯s okay, Mr. Lawthorn, nobody is blaming you.¡± She produced a clear evidence bag, holding it open. "But I''m going to need that. Please place the chopstick in here."

    Lance raised his arm and his eyes flicked to his hand as if noticing the chopstick for the first time. Mitsuki drew the bag closer, and he let the utensil drop with a soft clink.

    The man¡¯s eyes suddenly crossed the entire apartment, then panic rose in his voice. "Jiro... where''s Jiro?"

    "Jiro?"

    "My dog," Lance said, trying to sit up again. "He was with me when¡ª"

    A bark interrupted him. A small dog trotted into the kitchen, tail wagging. Lance visibly relaxed. The dog''s muzzle was stained with dried blood, dark smears around its mouth and nose.

    ¡°I¡¯m so glad you¡¯re okay, buddy¡ª¡±

    There goes my crime scene. Mitsuki snapped her head to the forensic worker. "Secure that dog. We need photos and samples from it."

    She crouched beside Lance. ¡°Mr. Lawthorn, I need you to step out of the apartment. Given the state of our hospitals, the paramedic will check you over here. If necessary, we''ll take you to the hospital. Once you''re cleared, we''ll need you to come down to the station to give a formal statement.¡±

    She nodded to the paramedic, who moved in to help Lance out of the home.

    ¡°Mr. Lawthorn, do you have somewhere you can stay while we process the scene?¡±

    He nodded.

    ¡°Good. Do not discuss this incident with anyone except medical personnel as necessary for your treatment. We''ll be in touch soon.¡±

    ***

    It took Lance a lot of sweet talk to convince John, the paramedic, that he didn''t need to go to the hospital. John kept asking how Lance was so calm after what he''d endured. Then, the third time he had asked the same question was when Lance realized his new ¡°Pain Nullification¡± superpower was still active.

    The power worked like an on-off switch in his mind. When on, it blocked all pain signals from reaching his brain. Through quick trial and error, he figured out how to control it. It was like holding your breath¡ªnot the physical inability to breathe, but the conscious act of telling your body not to inhale. It was simple, weird, and fascinating and terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

    Once he turned it off for good, discomfort from his arm hit him, along with some dizziness from blood loss. But it wasn''t too bad; his arm had already started to heal. He asked John for some ibuprofen, which the paramedic seemed ecstatic to administer. Lance tried for a sandwich too, but John didn''t bite. At least he managed to stuff himself with protein bars, powder, and amino acids from Titan''s Den.

    Lance would be forever grateful to Mark for letting him crash at the gym for a few days. As a thank you, he bought his temporary wardrobe from the gym''s merchandise. Now he looked like a meathead in the Titan¡¯s Den signature tank top, and his ''genetically optimized'' body sure didn''t help. On the bright side, he seemed to be working out a lot recently, so the clothes wouldn¡¯t be wasted.

    Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    Later, giving his statement went smoother than expected. Lance was free to go, thankfully not in any trouble. It helped that the intruder turned out to be Frank, who had a criminal record. Lance kept the knowledge about the little prick, Preston to himself, weighing whether it was a good idea to make accusations without evidence. The last thing he wanted was more assassins paying him visits.

    Oh, and he got Jiro back. Luckily, the police didn''t have the manpower to keep a dog as evidence and turns out Frank loves dogs¡ªFrank the owner of Titan¡¯s Den, not the killer¡ªor corpse¡ªso that was a win, win, and win.

    These were the thoughts that accompanied him as he enjoyed the frigid night air while on his way to 1234 Oak Street.

    Fingers huddled in the thin gym hoodie''s pockets for warmth. Ears stung from the cold, turning red in the wind. Each breath formed a small cloud in front of his face. Thank god Frank carries hoodies and sweatpants, he thought, ducking his head against the chilly air.

    Lance stepped into room 201, the community center gymnasium. The door slammed shut behind him, the sound echoing through the room like a gunshot. Silence followed. Four heads snapped up. Eyebrows raised. Lips tightened. One woman leaned forward, squinting. A man in the corner crossed his arms and pushed back in his chair.

    Shhhit.

    He shuffled forward, his new gym shoes squeaking against the polished floor. The sound echoed in the quiet room, making him wince. Lance''s gaze darted around, taking in the circle of chairs and the small group seated there. Three men, one woman. All staring at him like he was some kind of alien.

    Maybe I am.

    "Sorry I''m late," Lance said, his voice sounding too loud in the stillness. He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous habit he couldn''t seem to shake. "Is this, uh, the Enhanced Individuals Support Group?"

    The woman, a petite lady with long black hair and glasses, stood up from her chair. "That''s us," she said with a welcoming smile. "I''m Elena, the group organizer. Please, grab a seat and join us."

    Lance unfolded one of those ubiquitous brown metal folding chairs, the kind found in every community center across the country. When the legs scraped against the polished hardwood of the basketball court, the noise stretched on for what felt like an eternity as he maneuvered it into the circle. The situation rapidly evolved from merely uncomfortable to painfully, excruciatingly awkward. Just when he thought it couldn''t get any worse, he realized the only thing that would amp up the vibe would be if he took off his zip-up hoodie and revealed the Titan''s Den tank top underneath, which suddenly felt about two sizes too small in the overly warm gymnasium.

    "I''m Lance," he said, clearing his throat. "Lance Lawthorn."

    The woman smiled, though it didn''t quite reach his eyes. "Welcome, Lance. As I mentioned, I''m Elena. I facilitate these meetings." She gestured to the others in turn. "This is Simon, Maverick, and Diego."

    Lance nodded to each of them, noting their varying expressions. Maverick, a guy with wavy brown hair and glasses, looked nervous. Simon, a slender man with tousled blonde hair, just looked bored.

    Then Lance''s eyes landed on the last person, and his jaw nearly hit the floor. Unmistakable Aztec warrior tattoos. Diego. Diego "The Beast" Ramirez was here, sitting on the floor instead of a chair. Lance noticed with a start that Diego was wearing the same Titan''s Den hoodie as him, making them look like they were part of some weird gym cult. But what really threw Lance was Diego''s legs. They looked massive, easily twice the size of when Lance had last seen him.

    It wasn''t that Diego''s legs looked inhuman. They just looked like the legs of a gym bro who''d skipped everything-but-leg-day for a year straight. And then multiplied that by ten. The guy was a reverse chicken leg, all thigh and calf with a normal upper body. Lance couldn''t stop staring, wondering how Diego even found pants that fit anymore.

    Diego noticed him as well, and they exchanged a down nod.

    Elena leaned forward in her chair. "So, Lance, what brings you to our group today?"

    Lance opened his mouth, then closed it. He tried again. "I... well, it''s... The gene therapy, you know? And now I''m dealing with changes I wasn''t prepared for. I''ve had some... incidents."

    First, I broke a man''s arm, literally snapped it in two. And then I killed someone with a titanium chopstick, he didn''t say.

    Instead, he took a deep breath to reorganize his thoughts and said: "Nothing too serious, but it scared me. Made me realize I need help figuring out how to handle this new reality."

    Simon dipped his chin, eyes closing briefly. When he looked up, his face showed he got it. "That''s a common feeling around here, Lance. Many of us have struggled with similar concerns."

    Elena smiled encouragingly. "Thank you for sharing, Lance. It takes courage to admit you need help. We''re here to support each other through these challenges. Would you like to hear how some of our regulars have been coping?"

    Lance''s shoulders relaxed a bit, relieved to shift the focus from himself.

    Elena turned to Simon. "Simon, would you mind sharing your experience?"

    "It''s been... difficult," Simon said, his voice barely above a whisper. He rubbed his left forearm nervously. "I lost my parents to NARS. They were... they were everything to me."

    Simon''s words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Lance''s chest tightened. He thought of his mom in Florida, one of the lucky veterans who''d snagged an early NARS treatment at the local VA. How close had he come to Simon''s fate? His mind flashed to Diego''s family, to all the families he''d never thought about before. The treatment had changed him, sure, but for so many others, it had been the difference between life and death. Lance looked at his hands. They shook. Remembering. It seemed so long ago. Without the gene therapy seven days ago, he wouldn''t be sitting here now.

    Maverick cleared his throat, breaking the tension in the room and pulling Lance from his thoughts. "I know what you mean, Simon. The isolation, the fear... it was like being thrust onto a stage without knowing your lines."

    Lance''s brow furrowed, one side hitching higher than the other. Theatrical metaphors? Really?

    "The genetic treatment hunt was a nightmare," Maverick continued, his hands gesturing expressively. "I spent days refreshing pharmacy websites, calling clinics. It was like trying to score tickets to the hottest show in town, except the stakes were life and death."

    Diego bobbed his head up and down, his massive legs shifting. "For real, man. I camped outside the clinic all night. Thought I''d freeze to death before I even got the shot."

    "These are all valid experiences,¡± said Elena. ¡°The pandemic affected us in ways we''re still trying to understand. Lance, do you have any similar experiences you''d like to share?"

    Lance tensed. He thought about the night he''d injected himself with the experimental vaccine, the desperation that had driven him to such reckless action. But admitting that felt... dangerous.

    "I... I was lucky," he decided to say. "Got into a clinical trial early on. But the changes afterward..." He trailed off, unsure how to continue without revealing too much.

    Elena perked up, catching Lance''s unease. "Change can be overwhelming, especially when it''s unexpected. How have you been coping with these changes, Lance?"

    Lance rubbed the back of his head softly, buying time. "Honestly? Not great. I''ve been trying to figure things out on my own, but it''s... it''s a lot."

    Like breaking arms, killing people, he thought grimly.

    At that moment, Maverick¡¯s chair squeaked. "Have you tried any coping strategies? I''ve found that treating life like a performance helps. We''re all just actors trying to find our roles in this new world."

    Lance resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Not really my style," he said. "I''m more of a... hands-on learner. Thank you, Mav¡ªMaverick, was it?"

    ¡°Everyone calls me Rick. But you¡¯re right, each should find what works for them.¡±

    Yeah, I''ll stick with the Krav Maga approach. At least I know where I stand there.

    "I''ve been working on accepting that I can''t control everything. It''s... it''s hard, but it helps," said Simon.

    Lance acquiesced with his head while thinking about his superhuman abilities. Control was definitely something he needed to work on.

    The conversation flowed effortlessly for about thirty minutes, with Simon, Maverick, and Diego sharing stories from their first week of the pandemic. Lance listened intently, chiming in occasionally with a question or comment. The easy back-and-forth felt surprisingly natural¡ªnot what he¡¯d expected. He got the feeling that the group was keeping things mild, probably to make him feel comfortable on his first day. He was thankful for that.

    Elena glanced at her watch. "I''m afraid our time is almost up for today. Does anyone have any final thoughts they''d like to share?"

    The room fell silent. Lance shifted in his chair, feeling the weight of unspoken words pressing down on him. He was disappointed they hadn''t discussed superpowers. No one mentioned seeing system messages, a.k.a. BioNova''s interface. Maybe their changes were more subtle, less dramatic than his. Or maybe they were just better at hiding them. Lance wondered if the real support happened outside these meetings, in hushed conversations and secret gatherings where people felt safe to reveal their true abilities.

    "Well," Elena said, breaking the silence, "I want to thank everyone for sharing today. Remember, you''re not alone in this. We''re all navigating this new world together."

    As the group dispersed, Lance stood up and folded his chair. He felt unsatisfied, but a little calmer. The session had helped, yet left him wanting more. He hadn''t found the answers he''d hoped for, but this place might lead to them. He couldn''t wait to be back tomorrow.

    Diego approached him, his massive legs making his gait awkward. "Hey, Lan. Good to see you here."

    "Yeah, you too. I didn''t expect..."

    "To see me here?" Diego finished with a grin. ¡°Well, bro, having strong legs hasn¡¯t been easy.¡±

    "So, uh, Diego... your legs..."

    Diego chuckled, a deep rumble that seemed to vibrate through the air. "Yeah, man. It''s wild, right?"

    Understatement, sprung instantly inside Lance¡¯s mind.

    They made their way towards the exit, Diego''s movement noticeably awkward. Lance couldn''t help but stare at the way Diego''s muscles bulged and shifted with each step.

    "How did... I mean, when did this happen?"

    Diego''s face darkened. "It started that day we met at the gym, man. Each day, my legs got bigger, stronger. By the end of the week, bam! Legs like tree trunks."

    Lance winced. He knew all too well how sudden and jarring these changes could be. "That must have been a shock."

    "You have no idea, bro." Diego shook his head. "At first, I thought it was awesome. I mean, who doesn''t want to be stronger, right?"

    They pushed through the double doors into the chilly night air. Lance zipped up his hoodie, grateful for the extra layer.

    "But?"

    Diego sighed. "But then I realized how dangerous it could be. I... I hurt someone."

    A cold knot formed in Lance¡¯s gut. Shit. "What happened?"

    "My girlfriend. We were... you know." He made a vague gesture with his hands. "And I... I crushed her pelvis."

    Fuck.

    Lance felt the blood drain from his face. Just like he''d done to the shoplifter. "Is she okay?"

    "She''ll recover. Eventually." Diego said. "But she won''t see me anymore. Can''t say I blame her."

    They walked in silence for a moment. Icy wind cut through their hoodies. Streetlights cast long shadows on the empty sidewalks. Lance''s breath puffed out in white clouds. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold. The chill took over his bones, making it hard to think. The cold deepened, matching the heavy atmosphere between them.

    He needed to clear his mind. He flipped the switch.

    [Pain Nullification: On]

    And just like that, the cold was gone. Well, not entirely accurate¡ªthe sensation of cold remained, but it didn''t make him shiver or ache or feel painful. He could focus entirely on his friend.

    "How do you deal with it?" Lance asked. "The fear of hurting someone?"

    Diego shrugged. "I''m still figuring it out, man. That''s why I''m in the group. Trying to learn control, you know?"

    Control. That word again. Lance nodded, understanding all too well.

    "It''s not just the strength," Diego continued. "It''s everything. The speed, the reflexes. One wrong move and..." He trailed off, leaving the unspoken consequences hanging in the air.

    Everything that had happened last week replayed in Lance''s mind. "Yeah, I get it. It''s like we''re walking around with loaded guns for bodies."

    "Exactly!" Diego exclaimed. "And the worst part is, no one tells you how to handle it. It''s all ''congratulations, you survived NARS'' and then they just... leave you to figure it out."

    They reached the corner where they''d have to part ways. Lance stopped, adjusting his hoodie against the cold. ¡°Well, I gotta go that way.¡±

    Diego suddenly stopped mid-step. "Isn''t your apartment the other way?"

    "Uh, yeah," Lance said, shuffling his feet. "There was a problem with my place. I''m crashing at the gym for a few days."

    Diego''s face scrunched up. After a beat, his expression cleared. He clapped Lance on the shoulder. ¡°Well, let me know if you need anything, man."

    Lance felt a spark of... something. Not quite hope, but close. He wrestled with the feeling, trying to pin it down. Then it hit him.

    I¡¯m not alone.

    "Thanks," he said. "I appreciate it."

    Diego turned to go, then stopped. "Hey, you''ll be at tomorrow''s meeting, right?"

    "Count on it," Lance replied, a half-smile tugging at his lips. Genuine.

 Eleven: Peak Human Performance

    [Day 11]

    "Lance? Oh, thank God. I just got a call from the police. They said you''d been shot!"

    "Mom, relax. It was nothing. Barely a scratch."

    "A scratch? That¡¯s not what they said!"

    "Yeah, well, you know how they exaggerate. Probably trying to justify their budget or something."

    "This isn''t funny, Lance. Are you okay? Do you need me to come up there?"

    "What? No. Seriously, it''s fine. Boring, actually. Didn''t even leave a scar," Lance said while taking a look at his arm.

    "You''re sure?"

    "Positive. Can we talk about something else?¡ªActually, what treatment did you get for NARS?¡±

    "Oh, um, the Synergy shot at the VA. Why do you ask?"

    "Just curious." Lance paused, his knuckles rapping a quick pattern on his knee. "And have you experienced any... side effects?"

    "Side effects? No, sweetie, nothing at all. I feel perfectly fine. Why? Lance, are you having problems?"

    "Me? Nah, everything''s dandy.¡± He turned his wrist.

    [7:48 AM]

    ¡°Listen, I gotta run. Don''t want to be late."

    "Late for what? It''s Thursday. You said you don¡¯t have to work."

    "Crime doesn''t take weekends off, Mom."

    "Lance..."

    "Kidding. Sort of. Love you, gotta go."

    "I love you too. Please be safe."

    "Always. Bye, Mom."

    ***

    Zara had refused to tell Lance when his new friend Preston would be swinging by BioNova; patient confidentiality and whatnot.

    So, he decided to keep pondering how to approach that situation. But for now, he sat across from Ananya, playing drums with his fingers on the armrest.

    His leg bounced up and down as he glanced around the office. Papers were stacked haphazardly on every surface, and he couldn''t stop staring at the Newton''s cradle on Ananya''s desk, its metal balls clicking hypnotically. Ananya wore yellow-rimmed glasses instead of her usual pink ones. Her eyes looked huge behind the lenses. She offered him a plate of murukku, a crunchy South Indian snack. They were insanely good. Lance couldn''t tell if it was just how tasty they were, or his optimized body craving fuel, but he had to use serious willpower not to demolish Ananya''s whole damn bowl of murukku. He limited himself to a few, trying to focus on why he was here.

    "Thanks for coming in, Lance. When you texted about finding your arma type, I knew we had to update your file right away."

    "No problem. I''ve got some questions myself."

    "Good, good. Let''s start with your stats. Your text mentioned genetic optimization reached one hundred percent?"

    "Yeah, all my stats are now fives. When it happened, I only had one not at five - Control, specifically Power Precision. That was my lowest from the beginning."

    Ananya bobbed her head up and down. "Okay, that''s what we were expecting. You''ve reached peak human performance."

    Lance laughed. "Peak human performance?"

    "Precisely," Dr. Patel said with a smile.

    "Oh. You weren''t joking."

    "Nope! Why the surprise?"

    "I feel... beyond what a human body should do."

    "That''s not what our studies have shown. What makes you think that?"

    "Pretty sure I mentioned it during my last checkup." Lance''s voice trailed off, realizing it sounded more like a question than a statement.

    Didn¡¯t I? he now wondered.

    ¡°Nope,¡± Ananya chirped. ¡°Nothing superhuman there.¡±

    ¡°I said I''ve been running at superhuman speeds. On a treadmill, I maintained about 16 miles per hour for an extended period."

    "Ooh, impressive! But not superhuman. The world record pace for one mile is slightly above that, so..."

    "Okay, but I also ran a mile and a half in five and a half minutes."

    "That''s certainly fast! But again, within human limits. Elite marathoners can sustain paces close to that for much longer distances."

    "Fine. What about strength? I lifted the front end of my car several inches off the ground."

    "Amazing! What kind of car do you have?"

    "A NeoTech Phantom."

    "Oh yes, that''s a nice car.¡± Ananya clapped her hands once. ¡°Compact sports model, right? Engine in the back?"

    "Yeah, that''s right."

    "So most of the weight''s in the rear. And the front end''s pretty light - lots of carbon fiber and aluminum."

    "Makes sense,¡± Lance said, his mouth twisting into a wry smirk. ¡°Still felt heavy, though."

    "Oh, I''m sure it did! But that design makes it easier to lift than, say, a big SUV.¡±

    "So you''re saying it''s not that impressive?"

    "Oh, it absolutely is impressive! But there''s a video online of Brian Shaw lifting a Camaro - that''s about two thousand pounds more than your Phantom. Humans are capable of extraordinary feats of strength with proper training."

    "Alright, what about healing? I was shot, lost a lot of blood, and the wound closed up within two days."

    "Fascinating! Did you notice any other unusual symptoms? Increased appetite, fever, extreme fatigue?"

    "Yeah, all of those. Why?"

    "I see. Have you ever heard of Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome? Some people with the hypermobility type report quicker wound healing. It doesn''t usually work that fast, but combined with your optimized genetics, it might explain the accelerated recovery. And it still took two days¡ªit¡¯s not like you grew a limb." ¡®Heh-snrk!¡¯ Dr. Patel snort-laughed.

    "So everything I''ve done is... normal?"

    "Not normal, Lance. Exceptional. But within human limits." She adjusted her glasses, which were perched precariously on the tip of her nose. ¡°I can see your wound, it¡¯s still tender. Actually, how did you get shot?¡±

    "That''s a long story..." Lance said with more mischief than he intended. "What about my pain suppression ability?" he asked in an attempt to change the subject.

    And it worked! Ananya''s eyes lit up. "Now that''s different! If you''re using arma, that''s a whole other story - one we don''t have much data on yet."

    "Really?"

    "Absolutely! But let''s change that. Have you tried those breathing exercises I texted you?¡ªA clinical trial in Chicago has shown a strong correlation between arma energy control and breathing.¡±

    ¡°Oh yeah! They''re great. That¡¯s how I found the ability¡¯s on and off switch.¡±

    ¡°Right, you said your energy alignment is Nullifier? How does the pain nullification feel?"

    Lance paused, considering. "It''s like... a wall of calm. When I focus, pain just... stops. Not gradually. It''s there one second, gone the next."

    "That¡¯s fascinating! Can you describe the sensation when you activate it?"

    "It''s a coolness that starts in my core and spreads outward. Like ice water flowing through my veins, but... pleasant?"

    Ananya scribbled furiously on her tablet. "Any visual effects? Changes in perception?"

    "Sometimes I see a faint blue glow around my hands. And everything gets... sharper. Colors more vivid."

    "Incredible! Do you notice any limitations? Duration? Intensity of pain it can block?"

    Lance shook his head. "Haven''t found the limits yet. Held it for hours by mistake. Blocked out a gunshot wound."

    "A gunshot?! Lance, that''s... wait." Ananya narrowed her eyes. "Is that how you got shot? Were you testing your abilities?"

    "Maybe."

    "Lance! That''s incredibly dangerous. Even if you can block the pain, you''re not invulnerable."

    "Relax, doc. It was a controlled test. Had a medical team standing by." He didn¡¯t.

    Ananya sighed. "Still reckless. Promise me you won''t do anything like that again.¡±

    "Fine, fine. So, am I some kind of super-soldier now?"

    "You''re certainly pushing the boundaries of what we thought possible with arma. But remember, Lance, great power-"

    "Yeah, yeah. Okay."

    "I''m serious. Your abilities could revolutionize pain management, emergency medicine... but they could also be incredibly dangerous¡­¡± She made a vague gesture towards all of him. "As you have just explained.¡±

    Lance''s cocky grin faded. "You think someone might try to... weaponize me?"

    "It''s a possibility we have to consider. Which is why it''s crucial we document and understand your abilities fully."

    ¡°Okay¡­ I¡¯m just gonna go to¡­¡±

    ***

    Room 201.

    Lance crossed the double doors of the community center''s gymnasium ten minutes early. He was the first participant in, though Elena, the facilitator, was already there setting up. He winced with every step, even more so than the day before. The squeak of his shoes echoed extra loud in the nearly empty gym.

    Elena looked up from her clipboard. Her eyes crinkled at the corners. "Lance! I¡¯m so glad you came again. And you''re early."

    "Figured I''d lend a hand setting up," he said, shrugging off his hoodie. The Titan''s Den tank top underneath felt less conspicuous today.

    "That''s very thoughtful of you," Elena said, gesturing to the stack of folding chairs against the wall. "Would you mind helping me arrange them in a circle?"

    Lance nodded, grabbing two¡ªno, four chairs at a time. That''s how you impress ladies at church, he chortled, thinking his jokes were on point today.

    As he set them up, the lightness of the chairs in his hands struck him. He wondered if Elena noticed how easily he maneuvered them, if she suspected anything about his superhuman strength.

    Or as Dr. Patel would say, "peak human performance," he chided himself.

    "So, Lance," Elena said as they worked, "how are you feeling after yesterday''s session?"

    He paused, his mouth half-open as he searched for the right words. "Better, I think. It''s... nice to know I''m not alone in this."

    Elena smiled encouragingly. "That''s often the first step. Recognizing that others are going through similar experiences can be very validating."

    Lance set down another chair, his mind racing. He wanted to ask her about the others, about their abilities, but he held back. Trust took time, and he wasn''t ready to reveal everything about himself yet.

    Coward.

    The door creaked open, and Diego''s massive frame filled the entrance.

    "Hey, man," Diego said, nodding at Lance. "Dr. Rodriguez."

    "Diego, welcome," Elena said. "And please, call me Elena."

    Diego shuffled into the room with feet dragging against the floor, yet eyes locked on Lance by the stack of chairs. Lance noticed he was wearing sweatpants that looked custom-made to accommodate his enormous thighs.

    "Early bird crew, huh?" Diego said with a grin.

    Lance returned the smile, warmth and wariness battling in his gut. "Yeah. Here, grab a chair."

    ¡°No thanks. They¡¯re too uncomfortable for me. I prefer to sit on the floor.¡±

    A beat of silence stretched between them. Lance blinked, his mouth slightly open.

    ¡°Uhh¡­ I was just asking if you could help out.¡±

    At least that¡¯s one mystery solved, he thought.

    Diego''s head jerked. ¡°Oh yes, ah sorry¡­¡±

    ¡°Actually, never mind. I think we have enough,¡± Lance said.

    The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    He finished setting up the last of the chairs, then sat next to Elena. Diego took the seat beside him¡ªif by "seat" one meant "floor."

    He watched people trickle into the gymnasium. Chatter, footsteps, and chairs scraping against polished hardwood echoed off the high ceilings and blended into a stew of irritating noise.

    Zack was the first to arrive after Diego. Lance recognized him from the previous session¡ªthe IT guy whose face seemed stuck in a perpetual frown. Today, Zack''s jaw clenched so tight Lance could almost hear his teeth grinding. The man''s eyes pingponged around the room, never settling on one spot for more than a second.

    What''s got him so worked up?

    As Zack took a seat across from Lance, two women in matching black hoodies slipped through the door. Their faces were hidden beneath their hoods, but Lance caught a glimpse of matching silver nose rings glinting in the fluorescent light. They moved in sync, taking seats next to each other without a word.

    Sisters? Or just really close friends?

    The last to enter was an elderly man in a cardigan, his wrinkled hands gripping a wooden cane. He shuffled towards the circle, each step deliberate and slow.

    Christ, how old is this guy? And how the hell did he survive NARS?

    Lance found himself holding his breath, half-expecting the man to collapse before reaching his chair.

    But he didn¡¯t. The old man shuffled across the circle, veering directly towards Lance, his rheumy eyes fixed on him.

    "Hello there, young man," he said, dragging out each word. "I don''t believe we''ve met. I''m Rony."

    "Lance. Nice to meet you, sir," he said, standing, and offering a hand.

    Rony''s grip was surprisingly firm. It had to be enhanced strength. "First time here, Lance?"

    "Second, actually. I almost didn''t come today. Was on the phone with my mom this morning and I didn¡¯t want to tell her I come to these..."

    ¡°Ah, I missed yesterday. Back problems, bone problem, everything problems,¡± Rony chuckled. ¡°That''s good, son. Talk to your parents as much as you can. Some... well, we can¡¯t do that anymore."

    Lance''s face pinched. "I''m sorry, I didn''t mean to¡ª"

    "No, not your fault," Rony waved him off. "It''s just... the night before this whole mess started was my Jennifer''s birthday. Whole family was there celebrating." He paused, his gaze went away. "Couldn''t drink myself, of course. Cirrhosis, you see¡­"

    Lance nodded, unsure how to respond.

    "I guess you know what that means.¡± Rony''s eyes refocused on Lance. ¡°I¡¯ll get my seat. We¡¯re about to start."

    Before Lance could ask, Rony was already on his way.

    As the old man lowered himself into a seat, his bones creaked louder than the brown, metal chair beneath him. Lance winced, phantom pains shooting through his own joints.

    And here I was, upset about losing touch with my Qualtech buddies¡­

    Elena cleared her throat, drawing Lance''s attention back to the gathering''s focus. "Welcome, everyone. I''m glad to see some familiar faces and some new ones as well. Let''s start by introducing ourselves and sharing one thing that''s been on our minds since our last meeting. Who would like to go first?"

    Silence.

    Lance''s gaze drifted back to Zack. The man''s leg bounced rapidly, his fingers drumming an erratic beat on his thigh. A sheen of sweat glazed his forehead, and his eyes... Jesus, his eyes looked ready to pop out of their sockets.

    Something''s definitely off with this guy.

    "I''ll start." Diego¡¯s voice was thunder breaking tension. "I''m Diego. And I''ve been thinking about control. How to use my strength without hurting anyone."

    Lance nodded, grateful for his friend¡¯s initiative. He understood that struggle all too well.

    "Thank you, Diego," Elena said. "Who would like to go next?"

    More silence. The room crackled with unsaid thoughts. And awkwardness. He opened his mouth, ready to volunteer, when¡ª

    "This is bullshit," Zack spat. He leapt to his feet, chair clattering to the floor behind him. "We''re wasting time here while everything''s falling apart out there. You think talking about our feelings will fix this? We''re not human anymore. Freaks. And you want us to pretend it''s all gonna be okay?"

    Lance tensed, preparing, ready to intervene if Zack got violent. But the man just stood there, chest heaving, fists clenched at his sides.

    The other attendees didn''t flinch at Zach''s outburst. The old man''s head jerked forward as he woke for a second, only to nod off again. The tallest of the two women slouched in her chair, legs stretched out in front of her, looking bored. A huge bubble of gum expanded from her mouth, eclipsing her face. As it popped, Lance spotted pink-dyed tips on her short blonde hair that matched the color of her gum; that was all he could make out under her hood. The younger woman sat perfectly still, completely unfazed.

    Elena''s tone remained calm. "Frank, I hear your frustration¡­¡±

    What the fuck, Frank? Lance asked himself. I thought his name was Zack.

    ¡°...these changes are overwhelming for all of us,¡± Elena continued. ¡°But that''s exactly why we''re here.¡±

    "To do what? Pretend everything''s normal?" Zack¡ªor Frank, apparently¡ªscoffed.

    But Elena stood firm. "To support each other. To learn. Frank, you called us freaks. But what if we could show you¡ªshow each other¡ªthat these changes aren''t just scary? They can be remarkable."

    Frank''s anger faltered, confusion replacing it. "What are you talking about?"

    "I''m suggesting we allow everyone to demonstrate their new abilities to the group. Something fun, something that amazes even us. This is a safe space to explore that side of our changes, too."

    Interesting, Lance thought, his fingers tapping against his thigh. New faces. New stories. New powers?

    His mind played with the idea of abilities hidden beneath their ordinary exteriors. Were they like him, grappling with strength they couldn''t fully control? Or did they harbor more exotic gifts?

    Frank''s fists slowly unclenched. "You want us to, what, put on a circus act?"

    "I want us to see the potential in ourselves," Elena said. "Will you start us off, Frank? Show us something you''ve discovered you can do?"

    Frank''s eyes crawled around the room, his body wound tight. Lance watched, fascinated, as the man''s internal struggle played out across his face. Finally, Frank rubbed the side of his nose with his knuckle in defeat.

    "Fine," he growled. "But don''t expect much."

    Frank closed his eyes, three divots forming above the bridge of his nose. Seconds ticked by in silence. Then, slowly, his feet began to lift off the ground. Inch by inch, he rose until he hovered a foot above the floor.

    Holy shit.

    Lance''s jaw dropped. He''d seen some incredible things since his transformation, but this... this was something else entirely. Frank opened his eyes, a smug grin replacing his characteristic sourness.

    "Impressed?" he asked. ¡°And FYI, I¡¯m also stronger than ya¡¯ll.¡±

    Elena clapped her hands together. "That''s wonderful, Frank! Thank you for sharing."

    Frank descended, his feet touching down with surprising grace. He slumped back into his chair, arms crossed, but Lance caught his barely-hidden smugness.

    "Who''s next?" Elena asked, her gaze sweeping the circle.

    Diego cleared his throat. "I''ll go, if that''s alright. I didn''t get to show these," he said, patting his thighs awkwardly.

    Following Elena¡¯s approval, Diego stood up from the floor and walked to the center of the circle. He squatted down, his fingertips touching the polished gymnasium hardwood. Then, in a burst of motion, rocketed upward.

    What''s he doing? Lance wondered.

    Up and up Diego went, easily clearing seven, maybe eight feet.

    Damn, just damn, Lance thought. So much for peak human performance¡­ that''s not just strength. That''s... superhuman.

    Diego''s descent seemed to happen in slow motion. As he landed, the floor groaned under the impact. A visible shockwave rippled out from his feet, and Lance felt the vibration through his own chair.

    A smattering of half-assed claps rippled through the room. The old man woke up again for another moment.

    Lance, however, wasn¡¯t expecting that. Fuck, that¡¯s at least two thousand newtons of force¡ªper leg. Maybe more. He was rusty, but he did some mental math. He must be packing four hundred pounds.

    Again. Damn, just damn. Four hundred pounds, landing from eight feet up... that''s over three thousand joules of energy. If this were a two-story, he''d punch right through.

    Lance found himself clapping.

    Diego grinned, giving a small bow that no one but Lance found amusing, before settling back onto the floor next to Lance.

    "Thank you, Diego," Elena said. ¡°That was truly remarkable. But how has this ability affected your daily life?"

    Diego sighed, rubbing his thigh. "It''s... not easy. My legs hurt constantly. Chairs don''t work for me anymore¡ªtoo weak. I''ve broken three toilets." He gave a humorless chuckle. "It''s like living with a superpower and a disability rolled into one."

    Geez, Lance thought. I had no idea. Can¡¯t imagine how hard that must be.

    "Thank you for sharing that, Diego. It''s important we understand both the gifts and challenges of our changes. Now, who would like to go next?"

    The old man in the cardigan raised a trembling hand. "I suppose I could give it a try," he croaked slowly. Very, very slowly.

    Rony, Lance remembered. His name is Rony.

    Rony struggled to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane. He shuffled to the center of the circle, his movements slower than his voice. Lance felt a twinge of impatience, quickly followed by a wave of guilt.

    Give the guy a chance, he thought, raising his fist slightly, giving it a small shake of encouragement. He¡¯s been through so much.

    Rony closed his eyes. His face scrunching up. Concentrating. For a long moment, nothing happened. Lance was about to look away when he noticed something strange.

    ¡®Bzzt-bzzt.¡¯ ¡®Bzzt-bzzt.¡¯

    The lights were flickering.

    At first, it was subtle¡ªa slight dimming, barely noticeable. But as Rony''s concentration deepened, the effect intensified. The fluorescent bulbs overhead pulsed like a heartbeat, casting shifting shadows across the room.

    Electromagnetic manipulation, Lance realized. Fascinating. Maybe he can sense the flow of electrons in the wiring.

    The display lasted for about thirty seconds before Rony opened his eyes, the lights stabilizing. He gave a small, satisfied nod.

    "Not much," he said, "but it''s something."

    ¡°Something special¡¯s what that is. So, Rony, how do you manage the effects of your ability?¡± Elena asked.

    With his hand trembling on his cane, Rony said: "The migraines are... intense. But it''s nothing compared to the pain of being alone in this world.¡± He croaked as slowly as before. "Some days, I don''t know why I keep going. Why I even care about living..."

    He paused, blinking back tears. "But then I think of my Jennifer. My daughter. I... I wouldn''t be able to face her in heaven if I did something stupid. It''s her fault I''m still here, really."

    The room fell silent once more. Damn, this is too much? Lance thought as he wrestled with the lump in his throat. His problems seemed like a stubbed toe next to a broken leg. Rony''s words were an invisible smoke that seeped into everyone''s lungs and made it hard to breathe.

    "Rony, thank you for your honesty. It takes great courage to share such deep pain. Your love for Jennifer is clearly a powerful force in your life.¡± Elena beamed at him. ¡°Thank you for sharing and trusting us with it."

    The brave old man returned a weak nod and brushed a hand across his cheek, wiping away unrestrained moisture.

    As Rony made his way back to his seat, Elena turned to: "Lance, would you like to go next?"

    Shit.

    His stomach churned. After what he''d just seen, how could he possibly measure up? Flying, superhuman strength, control over electricity¡ªand what did he have? The ability to not feel pain?

    Lame.

    "I, uh..." he stammered, his mind racing for an excuse. "I''m not sure I..."

    Elena''s smile was encouraging. "It''s alright, Lance. There''s no pressure. Just show us what you''re comfortable with."

    Lance stood, his legs feeling like two dead trees as he advanced to the circle''s core. All eyes were on him, expectant. Judging.

    What the hell am I supposed to do? he thought, panic rising in his chest. Stab myself?

    He cleared his throat. "So, uh... my ability is kind of... internal."

    Frank snorted. "What, you got superpowered constipation or something?"

    Lance felt his face flush. "No, it''s... I can suppress pain."

    ¡°Riveting,¡± Frank said, not sarcastically at all. ¡°Show us, then.¡±

    Complete. And utter. Silence. Panic seized him at gunpoint.

    God, this is embarrassing.

    "I... I can''t," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I''m sorry, I just... I can''t do this."

    She turned to address the group. "Remember, we''re here to support each other, not to judge. Some enhancements are more visible than others, but that doesn''t make them more valuable."

    Elena''s gaze swept the room before settling back on Lance. "Would you be comfortable telling us how you discovered this ability? Sometimes the story behind our changes can be just as enlightening as the powers themselves."

    No, he couldn¡¯t bring himself to talk about how he killed someone less than two days ago.

    ¡°I¡­ I can¡¯t.¡±

    "It''s alright, Lance," Elena said. "You don''t have to demonstrate if you''re not comfortable. Why don''t you take your seat?"

    Grateful for the reprieve, Lance nodded and zipped to his chair. He slumped down, wishing he could disappear into the hard metal.

    "Perhaps we could take a short break," Elena suggested. "Let''s reconvene in five minutes."

    As the group dispersed, Lance remained rooted to his seat, not quite wishing he could talk to plants, but close. He barely registered the soft shuffle of feet approaching until a wrinkled hand appeared in his field of vision.

    "Mind if I sit?" Rony''s gravelly voice asked.

    Lance looked up, surprised to see the old man standing before him. He nodded, gesturing to the empty chair beside him.

    Rony lowered himself. "Quite a show today, eh?"

    Lance managed a weak chuckle. "Yeah, I guess so."

    "You know, son, not all powers are flashy. I¡¯m interested in what you mentioned."

    Lance turned to face him, left eyebrow up. "What do you mean?"

    "You said you can suppress pain, right? That sounds like what I need."

    "I guess," Lance shrugged. "Doesn''t feel very useful compared to flying or super strength, though."

    "Usefulness is relative," Rony said, tapping his temple. "These migraines of mine... they''re a real beast. Some days, I can barely think straight."

    "That sounds awful. I''m sorry you have to deal with that."

    "It is what it is,¡± Rony said. ¡°But... I was wondering. Do you think you might be able to help with that? Your pain suppression, I mean."

    Can I deal with it?

    Lance''s heart rate spiked. He''d never tried to use his ability on someone else before. Hell, he barely understood how it worked on himself.

    "I... I don''t know. I''ve never tried anything like that before."

    Rony''s face fell slightly, but he quickly masked his disappointment. "Ah, well. No harm in asking, right?"

    Lance felt a twinge of guilt. Here was this man, who''d lost everything, asking for just a moment''s relief. And he was too scared to even try?

    Screw it, I can do it.

    "Wait," Lance said, surprising himself. "Let¡¯s give it a shot?"

    Rony''s eyes flared wide. "Really? You''d do that?"

    Lance nodded, trying to project more confidence than he felt. "I can''t promise anything, but I''m willing to try if you are."

    "Son, at this age, I''d try anything short of voodoo."

    Lance smiled back. "Alright, then. Let''s see what we can do."

    He closed his eyes, focusing on Dr. Patel¡¯s breathing exercises and trying to focus on the strange energy that flowed through him whenever he activated his ability.

    ¡®Hup. Hup. Hup.¡¯

    ¡®Phewww.¡¯

    Three breaths in. Long breath out.

    He''d never tried to direct it outward before, but he imagined it like a stream, flowing from his core and down his arm.

    Come on, he urged silently. Work.

    He placed his hand on Rony''s temple, willing the energy to transfer. The world held its breath. Then, ever so slightly, he felt... something. A tingle, like static electricity, dancing across his palm.

    Lance redoubled his efforts. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His arm began to tremble with exertion. But still, nothing changed. He poured everything he had into it, imagining the pain being siphoned away, absorbed into his own body where it could do no harm.

    Lance''s eyes snapped open. "Did you feel that?"

    Rony''s brow furrowed in concentration. "I''m not sure... I don¡¯t think so."

    Lance¡¯s shoulders dropped. He''d failed. Again. ¡°I don¡¯t have that ability.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s too bad.¡± Disappointment moved across Rony''s face like a shadow on a sundial.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry. Really. I wanted to be able to do that.¡±

    "Don''t beat yourself up," Rony said, patting Lance''s knee. ¡°You tried, and that says a lot about you.¡±

    Rony stood and returned to his chair, wincing slightly as he sat.

    "Alright, everyone,¡± Elena called. ¡°Let''s get back to our circle."

    The moment everyone had settled back into their spots and before Dr. Rodriguez could say anything else, the blonde woman jumped to her feet.

    "Guess it''s my turn."

    The voice was¡­ interesting.

    Lance''s eyes engaged the newcomer.

    She pulled her hoodie back. Blonde waves cascaded down to her just above her shoulders, their tips kissed with cotton candy pink. A swift motion. Fingers interlaced, arms stretched high above her head. Joints popped. She rolled her shoulders, then turned. The movement was as graceful as it was erratic. A flash of rosy cheek ambushed his senses.

    She pivoted a little more and blue eyes met his. A jolt. Recognition flared, then faded. Lance blinked, confused by his own reaction¡ªit was her. The woman he''d flirted with at the bar, the one he''d walked home that fateful night before everything went to hell.

    But how? She''d died. Hadn''t she?

    Think, think, think! First, he thought Frank was Zack, now Valentina was standing right in front of him. But she had died¡ªthat''s what Alex said. She had alcohol. Or did Alex get it wrong? Maybe he never even met her. Or were the clinical trial''s side effects finally kicking in? Was he dreaming? Those Guinnesses from the early pandemic days¡ªhad they caused brain damage? I¡¯m dreaming, that has to be it. I was pretty fucked up when the pandemic started.

    And superpowers, come on. That¡¯s ridiculous.

    Valentina¡¯s gaze jumped from person to person until it paused on Lance. A flicker of... something. Her mouth quirked up, and Lance''s chest tightened. Then her features pinched, as if she''d caught a whiff of spoiled milk. She jerked back, defensively.

    Lance bounced up. The brown metal chair flew back, clanking. Rony was wide awake now.

    Lance and Valentina spoke at the same time.

    Cutting through the murmur of voices, Lance and Valentina spoke as one.

    "Valentina." / "Creep."

 Twelve: So Much Fun

    "You''re not dead?" he blurted. ¡°I mean¡ªyou¡¯re alive?¡±

    Her gaze became a scythe. "Excuse me?"

    "Sorry, it¡¯s just... Alex said..."

    "Who the fuck is Alex?"

    The room fell silent. All eyes locked on them.

    Lance''s pulse quickened. "Your coworker. At the office."

    "Coworker?" She spat the word like venom. "I don¡¯t know Alex, asshole."

    Lance moved forward.

    So did Elena. "Perhaps we should all take a deep breath¡ª"

    "No," Valentina snapped. "This guy¡¯s disrespecting my turn."

    Lance pinched the bridge of his nose. "No, that¡¯s not it? We met at the Rusty Nail. We talked. And walked outside."

    Her face contorted with rage. "Liar! I''ve never seen you before in my life."

    Chaos erupted. Frank leapt to his feet. "I knew it! This whole thing''s a setup!"

    Diego moved to Lance''s side. "Whoa, man. What''s going on?"

    Lance''s head spun. Nothing made sense. He took another step forward. "I don''t understand. We had drinks. We flirted. You challenged me to step out of my comfort zone."

    "Boludo," Valentina hissed. She turned to Elena. "Is this what your support group is? A place for psychos to stalk women?"

    Same exotic voice, he thought as his mind ran through the scenario.

    Elena raised her hands. "Please, everyone. Let''s calm down and¡ª"

    "Calm down?" Valentina''s voice rose. "This freak¡¯s been staring at me all night!"

    Frank''s voice cut through the chaos. "I say we teach this stalker a lesson."

    A large pair of legs stepped between them. "Back off, man. This is just a misunderstanding."

    Blood rushed all over Lance¡¯s cheeks. Anger. Confusion. Hurt. "I''m not lying. We met. We talked¡­¡± He said while taking another step¡ª

    Valentina¡¯s fist connected with his jaw.

    Lance flew backwards, landing on his chair and tumbling onto the hardwood.

    He saw the fist coming. He could''ve dodged. He could''ve even used 360-Degree Defense to block and restrain her. But as his mind cleared, he realized that might only make her angrier. So he took the hit, figuring it wouldn''t hurt much. At first, it didn''t. Then it did. The pain wasn''t immediate, but this wasn''t a simple punch. Something else was behind it. It burned.

    "Stay away from me," she spat.

    Then she turned and ran.

    The gym doors slammed shut behind her.

    And Elena was already beside him. "Lance, are you alright?"

    His jaw throbbed and stung like hell, yet he managed to get up just as the other woman with black hair stood and left, so he quickly pulled himself together and scrambled up, brushing past Elena as she reached out to check on him.

    Ouch¡ª¡°Yeah, I''ll see you tomorrow,"

    ¡°Please, Lance, just give her some space¡ª¡±

    But rubbing his jaw, he said, "Sorry for the trouble," while dashing for the door."

    Lance charged across the gym, sneakers squeaking and sliding on the polished hardwood, the sweat, the Titan¡¯s Den hoodie, breath rasping in his chest, blood thumping in his head. He stumbled and lurched to the side, nearly got his elbow caught in Frank''s grasp, righted himself panting, scanning the chaotic basketball court.

    "Get over here, let''s play," Frank sneered.

    ¡°No time. In a hurry.¡± Lance instinctively used a Krav Maga redirect, twisting his arm to deflect Frank''s attack. He followed through with a palm strike, aiming to push Frank away. It felt like shoving an oak tree. Instead of moving Frank, Lance propelled himself off. Not what he''d planned, but it worked. He stumbled, regained his footing, and kept moving.

    Diego positioned himself between them, grabbing Frank''s arm. "Whoa, man. Bad idea."

    "Thanks, Beast!" Lance called as he crossed the threshold. The heavy fire door slowly closed behind him.

    A quick glance back showed him their facilitator¡¯s disappointed face.

    "Tonight''s session is over. Everyone needs to cool off.¡±

    "Bravo. Best support group ever!" Frank slow-clapped.

    Elena''s firm voice carried through the gap: "That''s enough, Frank¡ª"

    He ran down the hall. Exited the community center. Saw two figures in black who had to be the women he was after since they were literally the only people on the otherwise empty street because apparently the universe wanted to make his chase ridiculously obvious. Time to find out if this had all just been a fucking dream.

    Lance''s feet pounded the pavement. The two women ahead of him moved with purpose.

    He pushed himself harder, closing the gap. The women''s voices carried on the night air, indistinct but unmistakably agitated. His head replaying their conversation at the Rusty Nail. How could Valentina not remember him? Why did she react so violently? And magical burning fists¡­ seriously?

    In seconds, his feet got him within range, but was he chasing a ghost? A figment of his imagination? The gene therapy had done strange things to his body and mind. Could it have warped his memories too?

    Lance''s throat constricted. "Valentina!" he called out, his voice hoarse. "I''m sorry!"

    The women stopped abruptly. One of them turned, her face half-hidden in shadow. "What did you call me?" she asked, the hood sliding back.

    Lance skidded to a halt, his sneakers scraping against the concrete. He blinked, trying to process what he was seeing. She¡¯d gotten a new haircut, but it was her. There was no doubt. Her hair was shorter, dyed at the tips. Her stance was different, more aggressive, maybe.

    "Why don¡¯t you remember me," Lance stammered, the gray matter in his head a mess of confusion. "You look like¡ª"

    "Like who?" the woman demanded, taking a step forward. Her companion grabbed her arm, whispering something urgently.

    Lance studied her, doubt creeping in. Had he imagined their encounter? He searched for details to confirm her reality. The curve of her jaw, the glint in her eye. Was she real? He frowned, remembering. NARS had started the very night he met her. Not a coincidence.

    "Like Valentina," he said, pulling courage. "Valentina Contreras Sabatini. We met at¡ª"

    Emotions flickered across the woman''s face like a faulty neon sign, each one too brief for Lance to read. Anger buzzed. Pain sputtered. Confusion blinked on and off. Her voice crackled through the static: "You knew my sister?"

    "Sister?" Lance echoed, his tongue suddenly dry. The pieces clicked into place - not Valentina, but her twin. He blinked rapidly, heat rising to his face. "I... shit. I''m sorry. I thought you were... God, I''m an idiot."

    ¡°There you go, boludo,¡± she said.

    The woman''s companion stepped forward. "Vicky, we need to go. Now."

    Vicky. Not Valentina.

    Lance''s skull was on fire. He reached out, steadying himself against a nearby wall. ¡°Damn, so it was true.¡±

    "How did you know her?" Vicky asked.

    "We met at a company event. The night before... everything." He gestured vaguely, ¡°NARS.¡±

    Vicky''s companion tugged at her arm again. "We really need to go."

    Vicky shrugged her off, her gaze never leaving Lance''s face. "In a minute." She took a step closer, her voice low and intense. "What was she like? That night?"

    "She was... vibrant. Brilliant. And she helped me...¡±

    "Sounds like her," she said defensively.

    Her companion shifted impatiently. "Vicky, please. We can''t stay here."

    She nodded and turned back to Lance. "Look, I have to go. But... come to tomorrow''s meeting. If you can stop being weird, maybe we can talk about her."

    Yes. He could do that. Not being weird was his specialty. He took a deep breath and donned his mask of confidence. ¡°See you, tomorrow.¡±

    Vicky''s demeanor shifted, her face twisting as if she''d just tripped into something unpleasant. "Great," she said, the word dripping with as much enthusiasm as a week-old sandwich. Without moving her head, Vicky flicked her eyes towards her partner and the two women beat a hasty, if ungraceful, retreat.

    ***

    [Day 12]

    Lance''s hand hovered over Marcus''s bruised shoulder, trembling with concentration. Come on, work dammit.

    It sadly didn¡¯t.

    The gym owner winced as he rotated his arm. "You sure about this arma thing, kid?"

    "There¡¯s no reason it shouldn¡¯t work," Lance muttered, frustration seeping into his voice. He closed his eyes, focusing on the strange energy that coursed through his veins. The same power that had allowed him to pluck a bullet from his own flesh without flinching now refused to cooperate.

    Useless.

    "Maybe it only works on yourself," Marcus suggested, sounding like he wanted to wrap up the conversation and get back to work, while still attempting to be sympathetic to Lance. Who opened his eyes, shoulders slumping.

    "I know it works on me. But I want to be able to help other people with it. With everything that''s going on, there are a lot of folks who could really use it right now."

    "And you think it''ll heal my shoulder?" Marcus asked.

    ¡°Heal?¡± Lance blinked. "Uh, I don''t think I can heal anyone yet. But I should be able to help with your pain, I can do it, I just need to figure it out."

    Marcus shook his head. "Lance, pain''s not always the enemy. Pain I can handle. It''s the not knowing that gets to me." He stood up, wincing slightly as he moved to the cash register.

    He ran a hand through his hair, the familiar gesture doing little to calm his racing thoughts. Why won''t it work?

    Lance recalled Ananya''s words about arma. "It''s like tapping into a wellspring of potential," she had said, her eyes alight with excitement. "Our research suggests that arma abilities might be limitless, constrained only by our understanding and control." She had emphasized the importance of breathing exercises, explaining how they seemed to act as a bridge between conscious thought and arma manipulation. "Think of it as tuning an instrument," Ananya had told him. "The right breathing pattern can harmonize your body with arma energy."

    ¡®Ding¡¯

    The gym¡¯s front door opened and fresh oxygen circulated throughout the unaired space.

    Lance turned, expecting to see one of the usual afternoon regulars, but instead found himself face-to-face with Diego "The Beast" Ramirez. It was unusual to see him at this hour.

    "Sup, hermanos?" Diego''s booming voice livened up the quiet gym. He paused, dark eyes narrowing as he took in the scene before him.

    "Lance, you alright man? I tried calling you after what happened last night, but you never picked up."

    An awkward chuckle escaped his mouth. "Oh, yeah... my phone broke during the, uh... fire at my apartment."

    "Whoa, there was a fire? I thought your place was under renovation or something," Diego said, eyebrows up.

    "Yeah, nothing big," Lance replied, trying to brush it off. "But it''s kind of unlivable until it gets fixed. No big deal."

    Diego nodded slowly, then glanced between Lance and Marcus. "So what''s going on here? You two look like you''re trying to summon the ghost of Arnold Schwarzenegger or something."

    Much needed laughter escaped his lips. "Just, uh, trying something new,¡± Lance said, beaming at Marcus.

    "Lance here thinks he''s developed healing hands." Marcus flexed his shoulder, grimacing slightly. "Can''t say I''m feeling the magic yet, though."

    "Healing hands? That''s some new-age bullshit, man. Can you even do that?"

    Lance''s cheeks burned. "It''s not... I mean, I thought..." He trailed off, unsure how to explain without sounding completely insane.

    "No judgment here, bro," Diego said, holding up his hands. "We''ve all got our weird post-NARS quirks. Me? I can''t stop eating protein bars. Like, seriously, I think I''m single-handedly keeping the entire industry afloat."

    ¡°That¡¯s not just you. I¡¯m eating like crazy, too.¡±

    As if on cue, Diego pulled a bar from his gym bag and tore into it, gracing them with the smell of artificial chocolate and making Lance''s stomach growl. He hadn''t realized how hungry he was.

    "At least your quirk is helping you bulk up,¡± Marcus said. ¡°Lance here is trying to turn into either some kind of superhero or a televangelist."

    "Not a superhero," Lance mumbled, heat creeping up his neck.

    Diego swallowed a mouthful of protein bar, his expression turning serious. "Man, with all the crazy shit happening, we could use a few superheroes. Can you believe over two hundred million people are just... gone?"

    ¡°Two hundred?!?¡± Lance echoed. ¡°That¡¯s equivalent to all of Brazil.¡±

    "Yeah, it''s nuts. And what about the ones still sick? It''s been almost two weeks now.¡± Marcus crossed his arms. "Can''t imagine feeling NARS symptoms for that long. Must be hell."

    "I follow this streamer, Dr. Zoe Blackwell, and she said they just can''t produce the treatment fast enough." Diego''s voice lowered. "High-risk folks are taking up every hospital bed. Everyone else is stuck at home, trying to hold on."

    Lance bit back a grin. Of course Diego followed Zoe. He''s a cultured man, after all. Her viewer count must be through the roof by now.

    He imagined "The Beast¡± between sets of heavy lifts, sneaking peeks at his phone to catch Zoe''s latest updates; furiously typing "First!" in the comment section.

    The image of Diego fanboying over the same chirpy scientist Lance had been following religiously was both hilarious and strangely comforting.

    "Shit. How long until everyone gets treated?" Lance asked, bringing his head back into the conversation.

    Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

    "They''re saying two months, maybe more." Marcus''s jaw tightened. "It''s a mess."

    "At least folks have finally stopped drinking themselves to death,¡± said Diego. ¡°Numbers are going down now."

    "My doc says once you''ve had the NARS treatment, booze can''t hurt you anymore," Lance said.

    "Ha! I''ve heard that too, hermano. But you willing to roll those dice?"

    "Nah, I''ll pass." Lance bent down to grab his bag. It was still where he''d left it, leaning against the counter. "Don''t need that drama in my life right now."

    A deep chuckle blossomed from Marcus''s chest. "Aight, you want to practice those moves, or not?"

    "Thank god. Yes, let''s go do that¡ª" Lance paused. "Actually, Diego, would you like to learn Krav Maga with us?

    ¡°Huh. I was planning for a quick workout before heading to the community center, buuuut Crab-Maga sounds interesting.¡±

    Did he just say ''Crab''? Lance wondered, but decided not to correct him.

    They moved to the group exercise room, Marcus settling onto a bench to support his injured shoulder. Lance took Diego through the basic Krav Maga moves, with Marcus chiming in from the sidelines with occasional pointers. Diego picked up the techniques surprisingly fast, his movements becoming smoother and more confident with each repetition. Lance concluded that even though Diego didn''t have visible stats like he did, the big guy must have some kind of hidden Mind stat that had been increasing behind the scenes. It was the only explanation for how quickly Diego was picking up these complex movements.

    All in all, Lance was glad Diego seemed very interested in the martial art. Krav Maga was fun, so much fun that every day after his one-hour session with Marcus, he would continue practicing for an extra two hours. It was very convenient that the gym was now his home.

    Lance circled Diego. The Beast¡¯s eyes tracked his every move, a predator waiting to strike. They''d been at it for nearly an hour, and both were slick with sweat.

    Let¡¯s make it fun, conveyed the grin on his face.

    Lance feinted left, then darted right. Diego''s arm swung out, but Lance was already gone, slipping under the blow. He planted his feet, ready to counter-

    Diego''s leg whipped around in a devastating roundhouse kick. Lance''s senses screamed danger, instincts firing rapid-fire assessments. The force behind that kick... if it connected...

    Oh, shit.

    Instinct took over. Lance''s muscles moved without conscious thought, twisting away from the incoming strike. But he was a fraction too slow. Diego''s foot grazed his ribs, and even that glancing blow sent shockwaves through Lance''s nerves.

    Crack.

    The sickening crack of bone split the silence. But it wasn''t Lance''s.

    Diego howled, collapsing to the mat. His knee wielding a distressing shape, and Lance''s gut lurched. He''d done that. Somehow, in dodging the kick, he''d caused... this.

    But what happened? He asked himself, trying to make sense of the situation. That kick would''ve shattered his ribs if it had landed square. His dodge was pure reflex¡ªa slight step back, his elbow dropping instinctively. It must have caught Diego''s leg at just the wrong angle, driving it into the mat with all that momentum behind it.

    "Fuck!" Diego writhed on the ground, squinting through barely opened eyes. "What the hell, man?"

    Lance recoiled back to reality. "I... I didn''t mean to-"

    "What''s going on here?" Marcus rushed over. "Christ, Diego. Don''t move, we''re calling an ambulance."

    Lance stood frozen, his ears ringing. The gym''s overhead lights suddenly seemed too bright, the mat beneath his feet unsteady. He stared at Diego''s unnatural leg, his own body numb.

    "Lance!" Marcus''s sharp tone snapped him back to reality. "What happened?"

    "I... we were sparring," Lance said. "He threw a kick, and I just... reacted. I barely touched him, I swear."

    Marcus''s eyes narrowed, but he didn''t press further. "Go get some ice," he ordered, turning his attention back to Diego.

    Guilt weighed down Lance''s steps as he approached the mini-fridge. Its hum seemed louder than usual, grating on his nerves. He pulled out a blue bag of ice, surprised when it didn''t feel cold against his skin. The bag sat warm in his hand, matching the uncomfortable heat of shame cursing through his veins.

    He''d wanted to learn control, to help people. Instead, he''d seriously injured a friend. Nothing has changed. I haven¡¯t learned anything.

    Returning with the ice pack, Lance knelt beside Diego. The Beast''s face was pale, a sheen of moisture on his skin. "I''m so sorry, man," Lance said quietly. "I didn''t mean for this to happen."

    Diego''s lips twitched, a ghost of a smile fighting against his clenched jaw. "S''okay, hermano. Accidents happen."

    But it wasn''t okay. Not even close. Yes, Diego''s kick had packed serious force, but it was too slow¡ªLance had seen the tell¡ªa slight shift in weight, a twitch of muscle. Despite only a week of Krav Maga, Lance''s body reacted instinctively. He''d moved without thinking, exploiting the opening with beginner''s luck and unnatural speed. But once again, his strength had betrayed him. What should have been a simple deflection became a devastating counter. He''d done it again¡ªhurt someone because he couldn''t dial back his power. And now Diego was paying the price.

    "Looks like we can skip the ambulance, but I¡¯mma need your help, Lance.¡±

    The tension in Lance''s chest eased, his breath escaping in a long, silent exhale. His eyes, fixed on Diego''s leg, traced the unnatural bulge beneath the skin just above the knee. The joint looked wrong, misshapen. Lance stood motionless, awash in sudden relief. The world around him faded, leaving only the warm glow of Marcus''s words.

    Diego¡¯s gonna be alright¡ª

    ¡°Lance. Help. Now!¡±

    "Come on, man," Diego grunted, shifting his weight slightly. A strangled cry tore from his throat. Each breath sounded like a careful negotiation, teetering on the edge of another outburst.

    "Ah, yes! What should I do?" Lance asked, positioning himself on the right side of Diego''s injured leg, mirroring Marcus''s position on the left.

    "Alright, we''ve got a dislocated kneecap here. Nothing too serious if we act fast."

    Lance''s heart loosened. A dislocated kneecap. That''s fixable, right? Half-remembering first aid videos he''d barely paid attention to during ROTC.

    But the moment was short-lived. Marcus continued, "Problem is, Diego''s leg weighs a ton. We need to work together on this."

    Lance nodded as fear retreated and determination rushed to fill the void. "Just tell me what to do."

    Marcus looked like he¡¯d done this a thousand times. "First, we need to straighten his leg. Slowly. Any sudden movements could make things worse."

    Lance moved his hands to Diego''s calf. The muscle felt like steel cable wrapped in skin.

    "On three," Marcus instructed. "One... two... three."

    They began to extend Diego''s leg. The Beast''s face twisted, a low growl escaping through clenched teeth. Lance could feel the resistance, the leg impossibly heavy.

    Fuck, my estimate wasn¡¯t far off, he thought, putting his back into the lift.

    "Hold it there," Marcus ordered. "Now, Lance, I need you to apply gentle pressure to the outside of his kneecap. We''re gonna guide it back into place."

    Lance positioned his fingers on Diego''s swollen knee. The skin felt hot, angry. He pressed gently. He was terrified of causing more damage.

    "More pressure," Marcus urged. "Don''t be afraid, kid. You won''t hurt him."

    But I already have, Lance fumed to himself. Still, he increased the force, feeling the misaligned bone start shifting beneath his touch.

    From Diego came ragged breaths and a chant of "Fuck, fuck, fuck," each word punctuated by a sharp inhale.

    "Almost there," Marcus encouraged. "Lance, keep that pressure steady. Diego, try to relax your leg muscles."

    "They are relaxed," Diego squeaked.

    "Really?" Marcus snorted.

    "Have you felt his quads lately? Like trying to knead steel cables."

    "Not helping, guys."

    Lance focused entirely on his task, blocking out everything else. The world narrowed to just his fingers and Diego''s knee. He could feel something moving, realigning.

    ¡®Pop¡¯

    The sound was satisfying¡ªLance felt it more than heard it¡ªand Diego let out a strangled yelp, then went limp.

    "We did it," Marcus breathed. "Nice work."

    Lance sat back on his heels with shaking hands while staring at Diego, whose eyes were closed and chest rising and falling in deep, even breaths¡ªhis leg now looking more normal.

    "Is he okay?" Lance asked.

    "Yeah, he just passed out from the pain. It''s actually a good thing ¨C gives his body a chance to reset."

    He''d done it. He''d helped fix what he''d broken. But the guilt still gnawed at him, a constant reminder of his lack of control.

    "You did good, kid," Marcus said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Quick thinking and steady hands. That''s what we need in situations like this."

    He managed to smile weakly, but inside, he was far from reassured. Yes, he''d helped, but only after causing the injury in the first place¡­ A sudden, uncomfortable realization hit him. The truth was¡­

    The truth was: he''d done it on purpose. Not maliciously, but he''d wanted to test his strength against Diego''s. He''d thought Diego could handle it¡ªthe guy was built like a tank, after all¡ªand had trees for legs.

    As they waited for Diego to regain consciousness, Lance continued looking for solutions. There was no way he could trust himself in everyday situations if a simple Krav Maga practice could end like this? What if next time it wasn''t just a dislocated knee?

    What if he threw a pencil a little too hard?

    That''s what he was. A ticking time bomb of uncontrolled power. He needed to get a handle on this, and fast. Before someone got seriously hurt ¨C or worse.

    Diego stirred, groaning softly. His eyes fluttered open, exuding confusion.

    "Welcome back, Beast," Marcus said, helping Diego sit up slowly. "How''re you feeling?"

    Diego blinked, focusing on his surroundings. "Bien jodido," he said. His eyes found Lance, and the smile that he managed to summon was weak but genuine. "Remind me never to spar with you again, hermano. You pack one hell of a punch. Uh, elbow."

    Lance''s stomach hit the floor. In what world could Diego joke about this? He''d nearly crippled the man. "I''m so sorry," he began, but Diego waved him off.

    "Nah, man. It was an accident. Besides, I''ve had worse." He flexed his leg experimentally, wincing slightly. "See? Good as new. Well, almost."

    Marcus stood up, stretching his back. "Aight, I gotta close up shop. Diego, rest up for a few more minutes if you can. Keep that ice on."

    "Got it, jefe. We''ve got about ten before we need to head to the support group, that enough?"

    "That''s fine. Don''t push it." Marcus nodded at both of them and headed out.

    Lance slumped against the wall. "Some superhero I am."

    "Nah, you''re Captain Accidental Damage."

    "Really? That''s the best you''ve got?"

    "Okay, okay. How about... Captain Klutz? The Incredible Bulk? Elbow-tron?"

    "Those are all terrible."

    Diego chuckled, then winced. "Speaking of super powers... you said something about healing hands, right?"

    "Yeah, why?"

    "Think you could work some magic on these legs? To be honest, this knee''s nothing compared to how they feel every day. It''s like they''re on fire, man. Can''t even sleep most nights."

    "You''re serious?"

    "Dead serious, hermano. If you think you can take away pain, I''m all in."

    "I... yeah, I know I should be able to. You really want me to try?"

    "Por favor. Anything''s gotta be better than this."

    ¡°Okay. Let¡¯s do it!¡±

    Wasting no time, Lance placed his hands on Diego''s legs, closing his eyes to focus. The gym''s background noise faded away.

    Three breaths in. Long breath out.

    A minute went by. Then two. Three. He started to feel silly. Until he didn¡¯t. Lance felt something¡­

    ¡°It¡¯s okay, if you can¡¯t¡ª¡±

    "Shhh..." He pressed a finger to his lips. ¡°Keep your eyes closed. Keep breathing.¡±

    There it was. A sudden shift.

    In. Out. Slow.

    As he concentrated, he became aware of Diego''s breathing, ragged and uneven, most likely from the pain. Absent-mindedly, Lance matched his rhythm to Diego''s.

    Inhale. Exhale. Another shift. Their breathing synchronized, each gasp perfectly matched.

    The question remained: how to go about taking Diego¡¯s pain? Lance visualized the now familiar process of activating his own ability, Pain Nullification. In his mind, it had always been like flipping a switch¡ªsimple, instant. But now, as he concentrated, he noticed something more. It wasn''t just his thoughts doing the work; he sensed his arma activating, responding to his intent. He suddenly understood: his arma was the true mechanism, the "finger" that flipped that mental switch. If that was the case, then to take Diego''s pain, he''d need to sense Diego''s arma too. It had to be there, waiting to be found. That had to be the right course. He had to find a way to perceive Diego''s arma, to connect with it. Only then could he hope to nullify the Beast¡¯s pain.

    The nagging shift intensified. There was no other way to describe it. It was a faint glow that seemed to pierce through his eyelids.

    Colors.

    New ability unlocked: [Energy Classification]

    [Energy Classification]: Ability to perceive and categorize arma energy signatures.

    Energy signature detected

    [Human Enhancer (Nascent)]

    His eyes flew open, a gasp escaping his lips. But what he saw wasn''t the gym''s fluorescent-lit interior. Instead, shimmering auras surrounded both him and Diego. Lance''s own body glowed with a soft blue light, while Diego¡¯s upper body radiated a vibrant green. His legs, however, screamed an angry sea of red. No, not his legs¡ªit was his arma that was in pain. At least, that''s what Lance sensed.

    He quickly processed the system messages. New ability... so I can now identify arma? The dots started to connect. These colors must represent arma energy signatures.

    Diego was the only other ¡°human¡± around, so¡­

    Is Diego an Enhancer, the way I''m a Nullifier? he wondered. He recalled reading online that Enhancer was supposedly the most common arma type discovered so far. The memory of his failed attempt at the "Spoon Bend Challenge" flashed through his thoughts, and he felt a pang of anxiety mixed with curiosity about how the two arma types differed.

    Lance blinked, but the vision remained. He glanced down at his own hands, finding them wreathed in the otherworldly glow.

    He tried to identify himself and¡­ it didn¡¯t work.

    What the hell?

    It wasn¡¯t like the blue sheen enveloping him was new. He recognized the blue glow. It appeared every time he used Pain Nullification, but usually fainter, never this intense.

    If he could now see arma energy, perhaps he could finally nullify someone else''s pain. He was a Nullifier, after all¡ªit made perfect sense. Flawless logic, really.

    Instinctively, he reached out, his fingers brushing against the ethereal light surrounding Diego, drawn to soothe the pain. As his fingers brushed against Diego''s aura, he felt a surge of... something. Power? Energy?

    Oh shit.

    Whatever it was, it flowed from Diego into Lance, mingling with his own arma in a dizzying rush, filling him with an indescribable sensation.

    Genetic structure undergoing rapid reconfiguration

    Attempting energy manipulation¡­

    Unexpected energy interaction detected

    New Core Power unlocked: [Appropriation (Alpha I)]

    [Appropriation (Alpha I)]: Ability to assimilate, store, and utilize others'' arma-based abilities under specific conditions. Can only assimilate abilities up to [Appropriation]¡¯s rank. Assimilated abilities can be used individually or in combination.

    Core Power: [Appropriation (Alpha I)] activated

    Target: [Human Enhancer (Nascent)]

    Assimilation in progress¡­

    Without thinking, Lance grasped at that energy more forcefully and continued pulling it towards himself.

    Assimilation complete

    New ability acquired. Internalizing¡­

    New Essence Power acquired: [Adaptive Limbs (Alpha I)]

    [Adaptive Limbs (Alpha I)]: Ability to dynamically enhance lower body functionality.

    [Mode: Saltatorial]

    [Saltatorial]: Optimizes legs for powerful leaping and rapid movement.

    Ho. Ly. Fuck.

    Just when Lance thought he''d gotten used to the system messages, this happened. He didn''t know where to begin processing it all; he really wished he had a notepad. Ananya had explained how to navigate through past system messages, but if he was being honest, that explanation had gone in one ear and out the other.

    System messages aside, his body thrummed with newfound strength, his legs suddenly feeling as if they could propel him to impossible heights.

    "Whoa, man. What did you just do?" Diego asked as if coming out of a trance.

    "I... I''m not sure," he admitted.

    Although, if he was reading this right, in a nutshell, he''d somehow absorbed Diego''s ability to enhance his legs for jumping. Great. Because that''s exactly what he needed right now - the power to leap tall buildings in a single bound. But he wasn''t about to say that out loud. Instead, he asked, "How do you feel?"

    Diego stared at his legs for a second. "Better. Way better. There¡¯s no pain. None at all!¡±

    Lance''s chest tightened, his breath coming in short bursts. His hands trembled, still glowing with the mixed auras. A grin spread across his face, then a chuckle escaped his lips, growing into full-blown laughter. Excitement. Joy. Passion. He didn¡¯t know which emotion to focus on. He''d done it. He¡¯d helped someone. He could help people. He¡ª

    ¡°But, I can¡¯t¡­move them. I can¡¯t move my legs.¡±

    Lance''s elation evaporated instantly. His stomach plummeted, and a cold sweat broke out across his forehead. "What do you mean you can''t move your legs?" he asked.

    "They''re... I just can¡¯t lift them, man. It''s like they''re too heavy."

    Fuck me. His thoughts a chaotic whirlwind. What had he done? How could he fix this? He''d wanted to help him, not paralyze him. His hands shook as he reached out, desperate to undo whatever he''d accidentally done.

    "I''m sorry, I''m so sorry," he babbled, his fingers hovering over Diego''s legs. "I''ll fix this, I swear. I''ll give it back."

    Appropriation: Undo, he broadcasted throughout his thoughts.

    But Diego''s hand shot out, gripping Lance''s wrist with surprising strength. "Wait," he said, his voice oddly calm. "Don''t."

    "W¡ªWhat? Diego, I¡¯ll fix this. I know I can."

    Diego shook his head, a strange light in his eyes. "No, hermano. Not yet. This... this is incredible."

    "Incredible? Diego, you''re paralyzed!"

    "Yeah, but the pain¡¯s gone. My legs don¡¯t feel like they¡¯re burning anymore," Diego countered. "For... since NARS started. It''s gone, man. All of it."

    Lance stared at the Beast, trying to comprehend what he was hearing. The auras had faded, but he could still feel the strange energy pulsing through his body. Diego''s energy. He''d stolen it, somehow.

    "But your legs¡ª"

    "Can wait," Diego interrupted. "Just for tonight. Please."

    This was insane. He couldn''t just leave Diego paralyzed, could he? But the pleading look in his friend''s eyes gave him pause. He remembered Diego''s earlier words about the constant pain in his legs, how he couldn''t sleep through the night.

    "Are you sure?" Lance asked.

    "Yeah, man. I''m sure. Just... just let me have this for a little while. One night without pain. That''s all I''m asking."

    Lance swallowed hard, guilt and uncertainty warring within him. He''d caused this situation, but now Diego was asking him not to fix it. At least, not yet. It felt wrong, dangerous even. But who was he to deny his friend this respite?

    "Okay," he finally said, the word feeling heavy on his tongue. "But first thing tomorrow, we fix this. Deal?"

    "Deal," Diego agreed, his relief palpable. ¡°Besides, you look like you haven¡¯t slept in years. You should probably take a break.¡±

    Silence fell between them. But theories, fears, and the distant hum of the gym''s air conditioning played in tag in his brain. What exactly had he done? How had he absorbed Diego''s... what? Power? Arma? More like arma ability, maybe? Core power? And more importantly, how was he going to give it back?

    "So," Diego said, breaking into Lance''s thoughts. "You gonna help me get to that support group, or what?"

    "The group? You still want to go?"

    Diego grinned. "Hell yeah, I do. This is some next-level shit, hermano. What time is it?¡±

    [6:43 PM] read his smartwatch.

    ¡°A quarter till seven.¡±

    ¡°Good. Marcus has a wheelchair in the back closet. Would you get it for me?"

    Reluctantly, Lance nodded. He still felt like he was making a terrible mistake, but Diego''s enthusiasm was hard to argue with. Plus, he had to admit, the idea of talking this through with people who understood was appealing.

    "Alright," he said, standing up. "I¡¯ll be right back."

    But as Diego beamed up at him, gratitude shining in his eyes, Lance couldn''t shake the feeling that he''d done more than just ease his friend''s pain. He''d taken something from Diego¡ªsomething vital and uniquely his.

    Stolen. Appropriated.

    Lance flexed his legs, feeling the new power coursing through them. He''d always been fast, and even more so after the NARS treatment, but this... this was at a whole other level. A part of him itched to test these new limits, to see just how high he could jump, how far he could run.

    But the cost...

    As he returned, pushing the wheelchair, he looked at Diego, who was still smiling up at him, oblivious to what had truly transpired.

    The guilt intensified.

 Thirteen: Smooth as Ken

    Peak human performance, my ass, Lance thought as he pushed Diego''s wheelchair down the sidewalk. Each step felt like a restrained explosion, power surging through his legs, begging to be unleashed. And it took a lot of teeth grinding to force himself to maintain a steady pace.

    The weight of Diego in the chair ahead of him nagged at Lance''s conscience. He''d done this. He''d taken so much. Lance looked around for bumps or cracks on the sidewalk. Anything to keep his mind off the intoxicating strength screaming to be used.

    A jogger approached from the opposite direction¡ªthe first one he''d seen since the NARS pandemic. Before, these blocks had been crammed with runners at all hours, like an endless relay race where dodging the slowpokes was an Olympic sport in itself. His legs twitched, eager to match her pace, to surpass it.

    No, he told himself firmly. You''re responsible for Diego right now. No showing off.

    But oh, how he wanted to. The new strength buzzed in his veins like a Red Bull overdose. Lance had never felt so wired. His Power stat had jumped to seven the moment he acquired this Adaptive Legs¡ªcorrection, limbs¡ªability. He imagined himself sprinting down the street, leaping over cars, bounding from rooftop to rooftop like some comic book hero.

    The jogger passed, and Lance''s lungs burned. He hadn''t realized he''d stopped breathing. He let out all the air, willing his wound-up muscles to unclench.

    "You okay back there?" Diego called over his shoulder. "It¡¯s so quiet I can hear your breathing."

    He was right. Diego had a point. Also, the old wheelchair''s wheels squealed with each rotation, like a piglet thrown into a bathtub. "Yeah, just... thinking."

    "Legs feel unstoppable, don¡¯t they?" Diego asked. "You can go faster, you know. I don¡¯t care."

    The casual way Diego spoke about it made Lance''s stomach churn. Did he not realize the gravity of the situation? Or was he just that desperate for relief from his constant pain? Either way, Lance wasn''t about to argue. He obliged with pleasure.

    And boy were his legs fast.

    They burned, but in a good way. He got messages about his Saltorial legs optimizing themselves during the trip, but he ignored them all. There was nothing he could do anyway. He figured he would let the program do its thing in the background and worry about...

    The wheelchair rattled and creaked, threatening to shake apart with each pothole they hit. Diego hunched forward, eyes squinted against the wind.

    "My face feels like an ice cube," Diego shouted over the rush of air.

    Lance grinned, slowing down as they neared their destination. "Sorry. Got carried away."

    Diego rubbed his face. "At least we made good time."

    The wheelchair groaned as they came to a stop, as if relieved to have survived the journey.

    "Lance, I''m glad you returned, but we need to talk," said Elena as they entered more unceremoniously than ever, thanks to the abused wheelchair that hushed the conversations of the few other members already gathered near the three-point line.

    ¡°I¡¯ll join you in a second,¡± Lance said to Diego, who, after a down nod, leaned forward, moved his hands back and forth in a steady rhythm, and glided away.

    Lance started a chuckle, but said, ¡°I¡¯m sorry for the spectacle yesterday¡±

    "Lance, I appreciate your apology. Look, it wasn''t just you. Things always get tense when Frank''s around. Vicky was out of line too. They''ve both been through a lot. I can tell you have as well, which is exactly why we have this group - to help each other through tough times. I''m glad you came back. But we need to set some ground rules so everyone feels safe and respected here."

    "I get it. I do. It won''t happen again. And I also want to help with this group." Lance gestured towards the other side of the court and Diego, who had almost traversed the gym''s length.

    ¡°Great, as long as we¡¯re on the same page,¡± Elena said. ¡°Why don''t you grab some coffee and get settled? We''ll start in a few minutes."

    Lance¡¯s expression lifted. "Coffee?"

    "Yeah, something new we''re trying," she explained with amusement in her tone. "Hoping it''ll take the edge off for everyone."

    "Touch¨¦. Might need a whole pot after last night."

    Elena chuckled, grabbing her own cup. "Just pace yourself. We don''t need anyone bouncing off the walls." She gave him a friendly smile and walked away, leaving Lance to fix his drink.

    As he reached for the coffeepot, Lance caught sight of Vicky entering the gym. She gave him an up nod before making a beeline towards the huddle. Almost simultaneously, another figure appeared in his peripheral vision.

    Lance tensed, his fingers tightening around the coffeepot handle. Just... shit. I didn''t want to speak to Frank this soon.

    He turned, plastering on a forced smile. "Frank, look¡ª"

    The man''s attention dropped to his feet as his right hand instinctively moved to his left forearm, fingers tracing nervous circles on the skin. "I¡­ I¡ªI''m not Frank."

    Wait, what? ¡°Not Frank?¡± that last part coming out of his mouth. ¡°Are you Frank¡¯s twin?¡±

    ¡°Um, no. I¡­ I¡¯m Zack. Yeah, Zack.¡±

    What the hell? At least I¡¯m not fucking crazy, then. Everyone¡¯s got a twin now.

    Same blonde hair, same pale blue eyes behind thick-rimmed glasses. But at the same time, this was a different person. The posture, hunched and uncertain. The eyes lacking that simmering rage.

    Yeah, doppelg?nger.

    "Sorry, I thought, um. You look just like your brother¡ª"

    "Frank?" The man''s lips twitched in a nervous smile. "I''m Zack. Frank''s... well, it''s complicated."

    Lance set down the coffeepot, his guard lowering. "Complicated how?"

    Zack glanced around, lowering his voice. "Frank and I, we''re... the same person. Sort of."

    "What?"

    "It''s called Dissociative Identity Disorder," Zack explained, fidgeting with his sleeve. "Frank''s my... other personality."

    Lance''s mind was blown. He''d heard of multiple personalities before, but to see it up close? "So yesterday, that was¡ª"

    "Frank," Zack nodded, grimacing. "I''m sorry about that. He can be... intense."

    "Intense¡­sure," Lance said. He studied Zack''s face, searching for the parts of the man who''d nearly come to blows with him the night before. "How does it work? Do you share memories?"

    Zack frowned. "Not really. It''s like waking up from a dream sometimes. I know something happened, but the details are fuzzy." He paused, worry creasing his brow. "Did Frank do something bad?"

    For a heartbeat, Lance''s fingers drummed a slow, deliberate rhythm on the side of his cup. "Nothing too serious. Just a misunderstanding."

    Zack shock his head, clearly relieved. "That''s good. Sometimes he... Well, let''s just say I''m glad it wasn''t worse."

    He noticed Zack''s elevated heart rate and the slight tremor in his hands. This wasn''t easy for him. Whoa, Lance suddenly realized his own senses had sharpened. Was it because of Adaptive Limbs?

    They didn¡¯t overpowered like his legs did, but his senses had certainly also upgraded. And since he had now become an expert at pulling up his stats screen on demand, he checked.

    Cognitive Processing Speed: 5.4

    Reaction Time: 5.5

    Mind-Body Synchronization: 5.2

    Sheesh, what did I steal from Diego?

    "Look," Lance said, waving his thoughts and system messages away. "I appreciate you explaining this. It can''t be easy dealing with all of that."

    Zack''s shoulders relaxed slightly. "Thanks. It''s why I come to these meetings. They help, you know? But Frank doesn¡¯t like coming."

    ¡°Yeah, I''m starting to get that."

    "So," Zack ventured, "can we maybe... start over?"

    The irony wasn''t lost on Lance. He''d come in ready to make peace with Frank, only to find himself face-to-face with an entirely different person¡ªsort of.

    "Absolutely," Lance said, extending his hand. "I''m Lance. Nice to meet you, Zack."

    Zack''s grip was surprisingly firm as they shook hands. "Nice to meet you too, Lance. And... uh... I heard... well, Diego mentioned that you can... um... take away powers? Is that right?"

    The coffee cup froze halfway to Lance''s lips. ¡°Wait, what? I mean¡­ It¡¯s new and unpredictable.¡±

    Zack leaned in, staring him in the eye for the first time since the conversation started. "But you can take powers away, right? That''s what Diego said."

    "Look, Zack, I don''t want to make any promises. I need to see how things go with Diego first, do some more experimenting."

    "Please, Lance. I can''t keep going like this. After NARS... it''s like living in a cell. Frank is destroying my life. You saw how he was last night." Zack¡¯s voice was a taut wire.

    The man deflated like a punctured balloon. Meanwhile, Lance couldn''t shake the image of Diego''s face, free from pain for the first time in who knows how long. He remembered how Diego had settled into his wheelchair, his features softening with relief as he''d murmured, "I can sit without hurting. It''s... it''s incredible."

    Christ, what am I getting myself into?

    "Zack, I get it, but-"

    "No, you don''t get it!" Zack''s outburst was followed by a quick, nervous glance around the room. He lowered his voice again. "Every day, I wake up not knowing what Frank might have done. I can''t have relationships, I¡¯ve lost weeks¡ªI¡¯m lucky he even lets me come to these meetings. Please, I''m begging you."

    Lance sat his cup of coffee down. ¡°Look, I can¡¯t possibly imagine what you must be going through, but taking someone¡¯s power away¡ªit scares me. Have you tried other options? Therapy, medication?"

    "Nothing works.¡± Zack shook his head. ¡°I think¡­I think Frank¡¯s also tried a bunch of stuff too to get rid of me.¡±

    I mean, the guy really is an asshole, Lance thought, cupping his chin in his pal. That much is clear.

    "And you''re sure you want to get rid of your power completely? Right now, I don¡¯t know how to give it back. You¡¯ll probably lose Frank forever.¡± A voice inside his skull reminded him that Diego can¡¯t walk at all. ¡°Shit¡ªthere might even be side effects that I don¡¯t know about."

    Lance¡¯s jaw slacked as he mulled over the consequences. The thought of sharing headspace with Frank, or worse, failing to nullify him, made his skin prickle. He absently massaged the back of his neck, remembering his experience with Diego''s Core Power an hour earlier. Despite taking on Diego''s ability, Lance hadn''t felt any of the chronic pain that had plagued Diego since NARS. So, maybe that was an advantage of his ability?

    That sounds too convenient¡­

    "I''m willing to take that risk," Zack insisted. ¡°I won¡¯t blame you. I¡­ I promise.¡±

    What the hell am I supposed to do again? Before he knew it, Lance¡¯s finger was already tapping his thigh.

    Jesus, what am I getting myself into? I''m still figuring this shit out. But if I could actually help this guy¡­

    Lance took another look at Diego chatting with Rick¡ªthe friendly guy with wavy brown hair¡ªand saw Diego''s face light up as he laughed while effortlessly popping a wheelie in his chair.

    ¡°Okay,¡± Lance said. ¡°I''ll try. But I can''t promise anything, alright? I don¡¯t even understand how my power works. You get that, right?¡±

    "Tha¡­ thank you¡ªThank you so much," Zack said.

    As Zack moved closer, Lance''s heart raced. What the hell am I supposed to do again? Lance asked himself as he focused on his breathing. And the colors.

    Auxiliary Ability activated: [Energy Classification]

    Energy signature detected

    [Human Shifter (1st Evolution)]

    So far so good. At least I''ve got part one down, he thought. As he watched, Zack''s aura shifted through the spectrum¡ªred to blue to green and back again. Must be related to his shifter nature, Lance realized.

    He moved his hand closer, attempting to grasp Zack''s arma.

    The man in front of him tensed, his energy recoiling against Lance''s reach. Unable to get a hold, Lance jerked back.

    "Are you sure?" Lance asked, eyeing Zack.

    Zack nodded, visibly trying to relax.

    "Breathe," Lance instructed, trying again. This time, he felt the energy yield, and began pulling it towards himself.

    Core Power: [Appropriation (Alpha I)] activated

    Target: [Human Shifter (1st Evolution)]

    Assimilation in progress¡­

    Warning: Multiple modes detected. Partial assimilation only.

    Assimilation complete

    New ability acquired. Internalizing¡­

    New Essence Power acquired: [Multiplicity (Alpha I)]

    ©¸©¤[Multiplicity (Alpha I)]: Ability to alter physical form.

    Appropriation failed for multiple modes.

    [Mode: Impervious] Appropriated

    ©¸©¤[Impervious]: Dramatically increases skin density and durability.

    Core Power evolution detected

    ©¸©¤[Appropriation (Alpha I)] has ascended to [Appropriation (Alpha II)]

    ©¸©¤©¤©¤[Appropriation (Alpha II)]: Improved assimilation efficiency. Can now partially appropriate complex abilities.

    Lance''s world became sharper, but before he could relish the new power¡­

    Zack snapped back, bobbed his head, leaned against the table with the coffee jug and the scattered papers and half-eaten muffins, and pushed his palm against his forehead, squeezing his temples.

    ¡°Zack, are you alright?¡± Lance asked.

    "Ah... ye¡ªyeah. I think so. Did it work?"

    ¡°Seems like it did. Do you feel any different?¡±

    ¡°Um, yes. My head feels lighter actually¡ª¡±

    Their conversation was cut short as Elena''s voice rang out across the room. "Everyone, gather round! We are about to start!"

    Lance and Zack exchanged a quick glance before turning their heads towards Elena, who was gesturing for everyone to join the circle.

    Lance eased himself into his seat, carefully distributing his weight to avoid the dreaded ''brown chair symphony'' he''d perfected dodging over the past few days.

    As the discussion picked up, Lance decided to test his energy classification ability. He wanted to see if he could use it more easily now. It still took a lot of effort to see the colors, but he was determined to practice.

    He started with Diego and Zack, sitting on either side of him. Their arma energy came into focus, after a moment of concentration, exactly as he had seen it before. But when he tried to identify the others, he drew a blank.

    Curious, Lance casually leaned forward, angling towards Vicky. Suddenly, her elemental affinity popped into view. There must be a distance limit, he realized. He tried the same move to his left, aiming for Elena. This time, his system labeled her as ''unawakened''. Whatever that means, Lance thought. Probably people who can''t use arma.

    Rick, sitting directly across from Lance, remained a mystery. No matter how much Lance stretched or leaned forward¡ª

    ¡°Are you okay, bro?¡± Diego whispered from his wheelchair.

    He gave Diego a quick nod and forced himself to refocus on the discussion.

    Tonight''s session on "Responsibility and Power" left Lance conflicted. As the group explored the ethics of their abilities, a nagging doubt about taking away others'' powers persisted in Lance''s subconscious. Yet, seeing Diego fully engaged, offering insights without wincing in pain, and Zack actively participating instead of shrinking into the background¡ªas he had done during the first session, not last night as Frank¡ªgave Lance a sense of purpose.

    Vicky, still processing her twin Valentina''s loss during NARS, talked about using her power to shape her own identity. Maverick tied everyone''s thoughts together with his usual empathy and charm.

    Lance missed Rony''s presence; the 63-year-old''s wisdom would''ve added depth to the discussion. As the session wrapped up, Lance noticed Diego''s genuine smile and Zack''s relaxed posture. Maybe, he thought, his actions weren''t so irresponsible after all.

    As the meeting ended, Lance realized his powers came with a price tag he was still learning to read. Lance absently scratched his arm, his skin suddenly itchy.

    He would¡¯ve enjoyed the session more if it weren¡¯t for this unappeasable itch. Goddammit.

    Lance''s touch raked across his forearm, nails digging into flesh that refused to yield. The itch was maddening, an invisible army of ants marching beneath his skin. He glanced down, expecting to see angry red welts from his frantic scratching.

    Nothing there.

    His skin remained smooth, unblemished. Unnaturally so. Lance ran his palm over his arm, marveling at the firmness. It was like touching polished marble, warm and unyielding. Almost¡­

    Impervious.

    The word floated to the surface of his mind, a system message he''d dismissed earlier in his haste to help Zack. This new ability, stolen¡ªno, appropriated¡ªfrom the troubled man, had transformed his skin into living armor, and only one word came to mind, but he felt bad thinking it. Ah fuck it. It feels awesome.

    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    And he wondered just how impervious he was. Would knives pierce him? Bulletproof? What caliber?

    Lance pressed his thumb into his bicep, hard. The flesh barely dimpled. He''d become a walking, talking action figure, all smooth planes and rigid surfaces.

    Great. I''m basically Ken now.

    "Hey."

    Vicky''s voice snapped Lance out of his dermal fascination. She stood a few feet away, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised in a perfect arch.

    "You good?" she asked. "You look like you''re trying to peel your own skin off. And it¡¯s weird. You promised you wouldn¡¯t be weird, boludo."

    Lance dropped his hands to his sides, suddenly self-conscious. "Yeah, just an itch. New ability side effect, I think."

    Vicky''s eyes narrowed. "Right. The whole power-stealing thing your gym bro over there wouldn¡¯t shut up about."

    "Appropriation," Lance corrected automatically, wincing at how pretentious it sounded. "Look, about that¡ª"

    "Save it," Vicky cut him off. "You still want to talk about my sister?"

    ¡®Snap.¡¯ The abrupt change of subject caught Lance off-guard. He blinked, his psyche fighting to catch up. "Uh, yeah. Yes. Definitely."

    Vicky jerked her head towards the exit. "Let''s walk. This place is starting to feel claustrophobic."

    Lance grunted an affirmative, falling into step beside her as they left the community center. The crisp evening breeze seemed to reset his senses as it hit his newly impenetrable skin.

    "So," Vicky began with a clipped tone. "You met Val. When?"

    "At a company happy hour," Lance replied. "The night before... well, everything went to hell."

    Vicky narrowed her eyes. "And you''re sure it was her?"

    "Yeah, one hundred percent. She looked just like you. We talked for hours. She was smart, funny¡ªShe even changed how I look at things, you know?"

    "Sounds like Val." A smile crept up Vicky''s face, there and gone in an instant. ¡°And do you think she would have enjoyed the job?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know. I think so. All our coworkers seemed to like her, too. She would¡¯ve fit right in.¡±

    They walked with small talk for a moment, the rhythmic tap of their footsteps filling the small pockets of silence. Meanwhile, Lance''s skull buzzed, piecing together the puzzle of the Contreras Sabatini twins.

    "I don''t understand," he finally said. "If Val was here that night, how did she...?"

    "Die?" Vicky finished, her voice hard. "NARS hit fast. Really fast. By the time I got to our hotel room the next morning, she was already gone."

    Lance''s gut lurched. He remembered waking up with that brutal hangover, thinking it was just the alcohol. How close had he come to sharing Valentina''s fate?

    "I''m so sorry," his tone was softer than a butterfly¡¯s wings.

    Vicky shrugged, but Lance could see the tension in her shoulders. "Yeah, well. Shit happens, right? One minute you''re celebrating your big break in a new country, the next..."

    She trailed off, not wanting to say the rest.

    Lance''s skin prickled with affirmation. He''d been so caught up in his new powers, he''d almost forgotten why he started this journey - to help those affected by NARS. That¡¯s what mattered.

    "Listen," Vicky said, coming to an abrupt halt. "I appreciate you telling me about that night. It''s nice to know she had a good time before..."

    She swallowed hard, blinking rapidly. Lance pretended not to notice the sheen in her eyes.

    "But," she continued, her voice steadying, "I need you to understand something. Val''s gone. And I''m not her replacement. We might look alike, but we''re different people. Got it?"

    Lance nodded solemnly. "Of course. I never meant to¡ª"

    "I know," Vicky cut him off. "Just remember that. Okay?"

    "Okay."

    They stood there for a moment, both quiet and upset. Lance resisted the urge to reach out, to offer some gesture of comfort. His new impervious skin suddenly seemed a barrier, keeping him separate from the raw emotion of the moment.

    Vicky cleared her throat. "Well, this has been sufficiently awkward. I''m gonna head home."

    "Right," Lance said. "Thanks for talking to me. And again, I''m really sorry about Val."

    Vicky gave him a tight smile. "Yeah. Me too."

    "Oh, and don¡¯t steal anyone else''s powers, okay? It''s kinda creepy. See ya at the nut house tomorrow."

    ¡°Sleep tight.¡±

    Sleep tight¡­ what the fuck was that, Lance sighed internally.

    After giving him a where-the-hell-did-I-meet-this-guy face, she took a step and scanned the empty streets, checking each corner and craning her neck to peer over shadows.

    ¡°Shit, I wish there was something open,¡± she said. ¡°I¡¯m starving. Oh well.¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s a Chinese place close by that¡¯s always open,¡± Lance suggested.

    Lance led the way through the cool autumn night for eight brisk minutes until they reached a small restaurant with a faded red sign above its entrance that seemed to beckon them back to a world of normalcy. Its glowing windows stood out as the only beacon in the pitch-black street.

    "This is it," he said, gesturing to the unassuming storefront wedged between a convenience store and a laundromat.

    Vicky''s nose wrinkled. "Looks... cozy."

    The restaurant stood empty with mismatched tables and chairs filling the space while the rich smell of fried garlic and ginger overpowered the lack of diners. Lance''s stomach bellowed, signaling it was time to eat, yet it didn''t want another protein bar despite Dr. Patel saying they were crucial for his evolving body.

    Louie, the owner, greeted them with his lopsided grin, but not before Lanced used his energy classification skill.

    [Human (Unawakened)]

    Just like Elena, he thought as he smiled at Louie.

    "Ah, Lance! Good to see you. And you bring a friend, yes?"

    "This is Vicky," he introduced. "Vicky, meet Louie. He makes the best noodles in Durham."

    Louie chuckled, waving them to a table. "You flatter me. But yes, noodle very good. You try something new tonight?"

    As they settled into their seats, Lance observed Vicky''s eyes whizzed around the room, taking in every detail. Her gaze lingered on the dusty fish tank in the corner, where a lone goldfish swam lazy circles.

    "So," Vicky said, turning her attention to the menu. "What''s good here?"

    Lance leaned back, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Everything. But the Dragon''s Breath Noodles are my favorite. If you can handle the heat."

    Vicky snorted. "What you gringos call heat is what we use back home to warm season mate." Her gaze moved across the laminated sheet, pupils contracting as if zeroing in on prey. "What''s... ''Ants Climbing a Tree''?"

    "Oh, that''s good," Lance said, his enthusiasm bubbling over. "It''s actually vermicelli noodles with ground pork. No real ants involved."

    "Uh-huh." Vicky''s skepticism dripped. "And ''Lion''s Head''?"

    "Meatballs. Big ones. They''re supposed to look like lion heads, I guess."

    "Right." Vicky set the menu down, looking slightly overwhelmed. "Maybe you should just order for us both."

    Lance nodded, feeling a surge of pride at being able to navigate this small piece of normalcy. He rattled off an order to Louie in his best attempt at Mandarin, earning an approving nod from the owner.

    As Louie shuffled off to the kitchen, Vicky leaned forward. "So, you come here often?"

    "Yeah," Lance said. "It''s been a constant, you know? Even after everything changed. Louie never closed, not even during the worst of NARS. Said people needed to eat, pandemic or no pandemic."

    "That''s... actually pretty cool."

    Lance nodded, feeling a lump form in his throat. "Yeah. It''s not just about the food, you know? It''s like... this place is still normal. Makes you feel like maybe not everything''s gone crazy."

    "So," she said, clearing her throat. "Tell me about these Dragon''s Breath Noodles. They better live up to the hype."

    Lance grinned. "Oh, they will. First time I had them, I thought my tongue was going to melt. But in a good way, you know?"

    "So, you said you live close by?" Vicky asked.

    "Yeah, just around the corner of Maple Grove. Got a decent-sized place in the Sycamore Apartments. Even scored a garage, if you can believe it."

    ¡°Nice.¡±

    His fingers started a staccato beat on the table as his heart picked up pace. She''d arrived just as everything went to hell, probably stuck in limbo like so many others. Hotel rooms weren''t exactly built for long-term living. Through the guilt, he asked: "How about you? Where have you been staying?"

    "Me?¡± She tucked a pink-tipped strand behind her ear. ¡°I''m still at the Sunview Hotel with the other NARS refugees.¡±

    ¡°Oh right, that¡¯s next to the Rusty Nail.¡±

    ¡°Yeeeeah, I wish that was open. It''s weird, you know? Living in a hotel sounds cool, but food''s a pain. Pretty sure we''ve cleaned out every snickers bar on site. And these new... abilities? They demand so much food¡­ never been so hungry in my life."

    Lance reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out two protein bars in bright red and yellow wrappers. "Here," he said, holding them out to Vicky. "I keep these for emergencies, you can have them. My doctor says protein''s important for people with arma." He shrugged, trying to seem casual.

    ¡°Arma? I have no idea what that is.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s um, our enhancements¡ªpowers.¡±

    ¡°I see, I heard someone say that at our meetings, but didn¡¯t know what it was.¡± Vicky grabbed one of the bars, ready to tear it open. Lance''s hand shot out, landing on top of hers.

    "Save it for later, food''s here." She flinched, yanking her hand back. A flash of revulsion crossed her face, as if his touch had left an invisible stain. She rubbed her hand against her jeans, trying to mask her unease.

    Lance''s nostrils flared as Louie approached, carrying two steaming bowls of Dragon''s Breath Noodles. The aroma teased his senses, a potent mix of chili oil, garlic, and something indefinably other that made his mouth water.

    "Here we go," Louie said, setting the bowls down in front of each of them. "Enjoy, yes?"

    The dish was a sea of glistening noodles where red chili peppers floated in a pool of fiery orange broth, with droplets of chili oil bubbling slowly on the surface.

    Lance grasped for the chopsticks, tearing open the white paper sleeve. ¡®Snap!¡¯ The sound was satisfying, but as he held the utensil, it felt heavy in his hand, so he set them down beside his bowl with a quiet sigh.

    He smiled, his eyes fixed on Vicky. She leaned in, hovering over the steaming noodles. Her nose inched closer as she took an experimental sniff, then quickly pulled back, her lips pursed in a tight line. Lance witnessed the war raging inside her¡ªravenous appetite versus pride.

    Pride won. For about three seconds.

    Vicky seized her chopsticks and dove in, scooping up a massive tangle of noodles. Lance watched, fascinated, as she shoved them into her mouth.

    ''Slurrrrrrrrp.''

    The long, drawn-out slurp reverberated through the quiet restaurant. Vicky''s expression froze mid-slurp, then transformed as the heat hit, and her eyes bulged out, and Lance braced himself for the inevitable.

    You know that moment in movies when everything slows down, the camera zooms in on the hero''s face, and you can see the exact second they realize they''ve made a terrible mistake, right before the fireworks start? That was Vicky.

    Her face flushed, a vibrant red creeping up her neck and spreading across her cheeks. Her eyes watered, and he could see the muscles in her jaw working overtime as she fought to keep chewing.

    He wanted to say something, to offer her a glass of water or a way out. But he knew better. This was a test, self-imposed perhaps, but a test nonetheless. And Vicky wasn''t about to fail.

    She swallowed hard, her throat working visibly. A single tear escaped, trailing down her cheek. Vicky swiped at it furiously, as if angry at her own body''s betrayal.

    Lance pretended not to notice, focusing instead on his own plate. He twirled his chopsticks, gathering a more modest portion. The first bite sent a delicious fire racing across his tongue, but it was different now. Muted. His new impervious skin seemed to extend to his taste buds, dulling the intensity he remembered.

    Another small pleasure lost to whatever I''ve become, he thought, shoving another portion into his mouth.

    He glanced up, catching Vicky mid-bite. She was powering through, each mouthful a battle between desire and discomfort. Another tear slipped free, and this time she let it fall, too focused on her meal to care.

    ¡®Plick.¡¯

    The next one landed squarely in the center of her bowl while sending soft ripples across the broth that gently rocked the chilis.

    Lance felt an ounce of guilt drop to his heart. He should have warned her, should have insisted on something milder. But there was something captivating about watching her push through, refusing to back down from the challenge. Plus, he got the feeling she wasn¡¯t going to let him coddle her.

    "Good?" he asked, keeping his tone casual.

    Vicky nodded, her mouth too full to speak. She swallowed again, gasping slightly. "Delicious," she managed, her voice rough.

    Before he knew it, all Lance could do was admire her determination.

    He watched as she paused, taking a deep breath. Her hand trembled slightly as she reached for her water glass, but she pulled back at the last second. Instead, she grabbed another forkful of noodles, shoving them into her mouth with renewed vigor.

    "Thish ish sho good!" she said.

    Vicky soldiered on, her chopsticks a blur as she shoveled noodles into her mouth. Her eyes were red-rimmed now, tears flowing freely. But there was a set to her visage, a determination that seemed to say, "I will not be beaten by a plate of noodles."

    Lance flinched each time Vicky took a bite, but his chest puffed out a bit after she swallowed. She''d struggle, he''d tense. She''d keep eating, he''d ease up. This back-and-forth continued with each bite. Throughout it all, one word kept popping into his head.

    Respect.

    Lance ate slower, less hungry as he watched Vicky''s micro reactions. She battled her way through the dish, each bite a small victory in a war against her own limits.

    And then, suddenly, it was over.

    Vicky set down her chopsticks with a clatter, her plate empty save for a few stray flecks of chili oil. She looked up at Lance, her face flushed and tear-stained, but triumphant.

    "Told you," she said, her voice hoarse but steady. "What you call heat, we use to warm mate."

    "I stand corrected," he chortled, raising his water glass in a mock toast.

    Vicky grinned, reaching for her own glass at last. As she gulped down the water, Lance found himself staring at the curve of her throat, the way her pink-tipped hair clung to her damp forehead.

    ¡°So, I never got a chance to see your superpower. What is it?¡±

    "I didn''t see your power either. Yesterday you gave us a ''my ability is internal¡¯ bullshit, but tonight, you can apparently steal powers?¡± she said, giving him a suspicious look.

    Lance shrugged with a half-grin.

    ¡°Fine. I¡¯ve already shown you mine, but if you really must know..." She held out her palms, and a small flame sparked to life above them. The flame hovered an inch above her skin, its edges rippling like a tiny, fiery pond.

    Beautiful. Lance reached out to touch it, but Vicky snapped her hands shut, extinguishing the fire. "It stings if I keep them going too long, though," she added, flexing her fingers.

    Suddenly, their attention snapped to the front door

    It burst open. The bell above it jangled violently. Two men stumbled in, their eyes wild and seeking.

    The shorter guy was built like a tank under his hoodie - wide, burly, and all muscle. His taller buddy wore a similar hoodie, but with the sleeves torn off. A snake tattoo wrapped around both his arms from wrist to shoulder, its scales dark against his skin. Both looked twitchy and on edge

    When they walked past their table, he used identify, which came naturally now.

    [Human (Unawakened)]

    [Human (Unawakened)]

    Unawakened he repeated in his mind¡ªnot in his system message ¡®mind¡¯, but in his mind, mind¡­ nevermind.

    His heart thundered. He wanted to help, he really did, but fear choked him. He had all these powers; Appropriation, Adaptive Limbs, Impervious, and on top of that, his stats had skyrocketed. He wasn¡¯t the same Lance who could only lift the front end of his NeoTech Phantom a few inches off the ground a few days ago. Tonight, this Lance was certain he could probably flip the car over if he gave it his all.

    But What if he hurt someone again? He sealed off his vision for a second and inhaled. In for four, hold for four, out for four, he repeated the breathing exercise¡ªthis one was supposed to center him.

    I can do this, they¡¯re normal, he told himself. Just restrain them. No nullifying. It''ll be fine. Another breath. It has to be.

    ¡°Stay low, I¡¯m gonna try to help Louie.¡±

    Vicky rolled her eyes in reply.

    Lance jolted upright, chair clattering backwards, nearly knocked over his empty bowl of dragon¡¯s breath noodles, stood there almost trembling, analyzing his surroundings¡ªthe eighth principle of Krav Maga.

    He lurched through the tables, polished shoes squeaking and sliding on the greasy floor, the spills, the scattered chopsticks, breath hitching in his throat, adrenaline surging in his veins.

    The taller attacker had rushed to the cash register, brandishing a knife. "Empty it!" As for the shorter one, he was out of view. Some hero, losing track of the criminals like that. He needed to have a clear picture of the situation before intervening. It was the only way he would maintain control and not accidentally hurt someone. Luckily, after appropriating Diego¡¯s and Zack¡¯s abilities, even his hearing received a slight upgrade. One that he focused on right about now.

    Sounded as if there was some whimpering somewhere near the kitchen, struggling maybe. Lance edged slowly forward, trying to stay unnoticed. His knee scraped a chair and necks turned.

    "Nicols, get over here," the taller one called out loud enough to be heard in the kitchen.

    ¡°Fuck, Ral! Register still locked?¡±

    Lance inched forward¡ª

    ¡°STAY BACK!¡± commanded Ral. ¡°I¡¯ll deal with this guy. You get the money.¡±

    There was a knife coming at him. An impressive knife, a cross between a tactical knife and a Bowie knife coming fast.

    ¡°Shit,¡± said Lance. He lurched to one side, stumbled and crashed onto a table, rolled away flailing through the chairs, anticipating the blade being directed towards the small of his back any second. He shifted slightly, easily avoiding the attack without looking. Ral''s sounds, smell, breathing, and initial trajectory made it too easy to anticipate. It was as if he were observing the scene from the ceiling.

    "Hurry up, old man!" Nicols hissed, pressing his own knife against Louie''s back, and Lance sprang to his feet with shocking speed, his enhanced legs propelling him upright in an instant.

    Another attack arced down. Lance sidestepped the blade, glided through the cramped space, anticipating another strike at any second. He stood tall, breathing steady. He saw the shiny tip slashing at him again, maneuvered out of reach, positioned himself behind a large fish tank. He glanced around, and Ral growled and lunged at him.

    "Stop fucking dancing around!"

    He revealed himself on the opposite side, just for an instant, then vanished, circled the tank and when the knife dared get close again, Lance grabbed Ral''s wrist with perfect precision and squeezed. Not too much, the pressure was just right not to break the man¡¯s hand, but enough to hear the knife clatter to the ground.

    Ral stood there, attempting to yank himself free with his other hand. It took him but a handful of seconds to realize Lance''s fingers might as well have been cast from stainless steel.

    "FUCK! NICOLS, HEL¡ª¡±

    Lance''s fist connected with the robber''s jaw, and the man dropped like a stone.

    Lance guided Ral''s fall away from the dropped knife, preventing any accidental injuries. A fleeting sense of pride sparked through him¡ªhe''d survived, subdued the threat, and avoided causing lasting harm. Right?

    ¡°Wah!¡± yapped Lance as his vision caught action near the register. He sensed a shift in the atmosphere. Nicols¡¯s hand disappeared under his hoodie. A gun. A damn fucking revolver pointed at his chest. No time to take cover. No way Diego¡¯s legs could outrun a bullet. Could they?

    "Whoa, I¡¯m sorry, man!" Lance raised his hands, palms out. "Let¡¯s just dial back."

    "You shoulda minded your own fucking business, asshole."

    In slow motion, Lance saw the man squeeze the trigger. Maybe his legs would be fast enough to deal with this.

    He dove behind some lacquered chairs, crawled across the tiles and the napkins and the scattered chopsticks, ducking and scrambling and panting. After another second of this, he was behind the fish tank again.

    Diego''s legs, for all their power, couldn''t outrun a bullet.

    Agony struck. His ankle screamed. Fire raced up his leg. Lance''s eyes watered, the world distorting. It seemed as if flesh had been ripped away. It was searing, brutal pain. Each heartbeat pulsed torment. His jaw locked so hard he thought his teeth might shatter. Tried to focus. Everything tilted. Lance clutched his leg. His enhanced body, overwhelmed by a tiny piece of metal.

    However, his leg felt whole under his hands. When the pain became manageable, Lance uncovered his calf and it was fine. He looked around it and twisted it, but there was no blood, no bullet wound, only skin. Well, a massive bruise bloomed, purple and ugly. The bullet had kissed him, hard, but not broken through.

    It¡¯s already healing, he concluded, realizing his body''s natural healing had also evolved when he appropriated Diego''s and Zack''s essences.

    ¡°Hah!¡± Nicols shouted. ¡°Asshole¡¯s still alive.¡±

    ¡®Bang¡¯

    A bullet flew out of the muzzle.

    Fucking hell. ''Aaaargh!'' Lance bellowed, and groaned and stumbled as forcefully as he could with his armored chest, absorbing a stinging impact from the robber''s bullet, but it wouldn''t penetrate, and he was able to cry through the unendurable torment of what should have been a fatal injury

    This had been a great discovery. A rather dumb and irresponsible discovery, but a fantastic one nonetheless. This was the second projectile that had hit, or more accurately, bounced off his skin. Once again, it hurt like hell, but didn''t pierce. And it didn''t have to hurt.

    [Pain Nullification: On]

    Lance calmly got up, dusted himself off, and smiled at Nicols.

    There weren''t many tables left to navigate around now, and what remained looked like toppling over any second. Now he could focus through the ache in his torso, the throbbing in his limbs, the gunman''s panic in his face. He was going to confront him. The only decision was between disarming swiftly or intimidating slowly, and that was a choice that essentially made itself.

    In desperation, Nicols emptied his revolver¡ªfour shots in rapid succession. They found their marks: arm, shoulder, leg, stomach. But with pain nullification engaged, the impacts registered as little more than dull thuds against Lance''s body. He continued his approach, unfazed.

    "You really shouldn''t have bothered Louie. He''s a nice man."

    Nicols stumbled backward. The empty revolver clattered to the floor, useless.

    "This place?" Lance gestured around the ransacked restaurant. "It''s my favorite. Been coming here for years."

    He stepped over a broken chair, his gaze never leaving Nicols'' face. The man was trembling now, backed against the counter, nowhere left to run.

    "You know what I love about it?" Lance asked, as if they were having a casual conversation. "The consistency. No matter what''s happening in the world, Louie''s always here, always cooking."

    Nicols opened his mouth, but no words came out. Lance was close enough now to see the sweat forming on the man''s forehead, to smell the fear rolling off him in waves.

    "Even during NARS," Lance continued, his voice taking on a harder edge. "When everything was falling apart, Louie kept this place open. Fed people who had nowhere else to go."

    Lance''s fists clenched at his sides, the memory of the past two weeks flooding back. The loss, the fear, the uncertainty. And through it all, this little restaurant had been a beacon of normalcy.

    "And you. You thought you could just waltz in here and¡ª"

    ¡®Thwack.¡¯

    The sound was sudden, sharp. Nicols'' eyes rolled back in his head, and a very confused Lance watched the body''s trajectory as it made its way to the floor.

    Behind where Nicols had been standing stood Vicky, her fist still raised, a grim satisfaction on her face.

    "What?" she said, lowering her hand. "You were cringing hard. Someone had to do something."

    Lance stared at her, then at Nicols'' unconscious form, then back at Vicky. A laugh bubbled up from his chest, unexpected and slightly hysterical.

    "I was not cringing hard," he protested weakly.

    "Sure, tough guy," Vicky smirked. "Keep telling yourself that."

    Lance exhaled slowly, the adrenaline slowly ebbing from his system. He inspected the devastated restaurant, guilt settling heavy in his gut. Chairs overturned, tables splintered, the fish tank miraculously intact but with very confused fish.

    "Louie," he called out. "You okay?"

    The old man emerged from behind the counter, shaken but unharmed. He surveyed the damage with a resigned sigh.

    "Ai ya," Louie muttered. "Big mess."

    "I''m so sorry," Lance started, but Louie waved him off.

    "No, no. You help. Very brave." The old man lowered himself to the floor and bowed deeply. "This Wei Shi-lou is forever in your debt¡±

    Oh shit, I am cringing hard. Lance felt his face flush. "I''ll help clean up," he offered.

    "And pay for damages," Vicky added, elbowing him in the ribs.

    "Ow," Lance muttered, more out of habit than actual pain. He looked at Vicky, really looked at her. Her hair was disheveled, pink tips sticking out at odd angles. There was a smear of chili oil on her cheek, and her knuckles were red from the impact with Nicols'' skull. But her eyes were bright, alive with a fire that had nothing to do with her powers.

    "What?" she asked, catching his stare.

    "Nothing," Lance said quickly. "Just... thanks. For the assist."

    Vicky shrugged, but he could see the pleased quirk of her lips. "Couldn''t let you have all the fun, could I?"

    As they began to straighten up the restaurant, Lance was haunted by the idea that something had shifted. He''d acted without thinking, without hesitation. He''d put himself in harm''s way to protect others. And for the first time since this whole NARS nightmare began, he felt... right. Like maybe, just maybe, these powers could be used for something good.

    Sirens.

 Fourteen: Sidekick

    "Run!"

    Lance''s chest beat rapidly as he and Vicky burst through Sacred Valley''s back door into the crisp autumn stillness. His body buzzed with nervous energy. He couldn''t believe what had just happened. One minute they were eating noodles, the next they were taking down armed robbers.

    Part of him couldn''t explain his actions. An itch had crawled under his skin¡ªnot from his newly impervious skill, but a primal urge to test his abilities. Before he knew it, he was on his feet, striding towards the robbers. It all happened so fast. He''d been so focused on maintaining perfect control of his strength that he hadn''t stopped to consider how monumentally stupid his decision was. What was I thinking? he berated himself. I could''ve gotten us killed. I could have gotten Louie killed. Just because I can take a bullet doesn''t mean I should go looking for one. Those bullets can bounce off stuff, fuck, why did I do that?

    But the answer wasn¡¯t apparent.

    The wail grew louder behind them. Lance grabbed Vicky''s hand, pulling her along as they sprinted down the alley behind the restaurant. His saltatorial legs propelled him forward with startling speed, and he had to consciously slow down to keep pace with Vicky. She was quick though, nearly ¡®five in speed¡¯ quick.

    "Holy shit," Vicky gasped between breaths, a wild grin growing on her face. "That was intense!"

    Lance couldn''t help but laugh, the sound bubbling up from deep in his gut. It was absurd, really. Here they were, two arma users, running from the cops like common criminals. But the rush, the thrill of using his powers for something good ¨C it was intoxicating.

    They rounded a corner, ducking behind a dumpster as the police car parked in front of the restaurant. Lance held his breath. Listening. His senses picked up the crackle of radio chatter, the squeal of tires as more units arrived at Sacred Valley.

    "Think they bought Louie''s story?" Vicky whispered, her eyes big and bright with more mischief than a hacker at a cybersecurity convention.

    Lance nodded, remembering the old man''s solemn promise to keep their names out of it. "He seemed pretty grateful. I just hope we didn''t cause him too much trouble."

    As the immediate danger passed, Lance became acutely aware of Vicky''s proximity. Her hand was still in his, warm and slightly calloused. He could smell the lingering scent of chili oil on her breath, see the faint sheen of sweat on her forehead¡ª

    ¡°Hey, Lance.¡±

    ¡°Yeah?¡± he asked.

    "That was... kinda awesome." She punched his arm lightly, her touch hardly registering against his newly toughened skin.

    "Yeah, it was. We make a pretty good team."

    "Don''t get cocky, tough guy," Vicky smirked. "I still had to save your ass in there."

    ¡°I mean, not really¡­¡±

    "You don''t say? Guess you''re right, Mr. Bulletproof. I''m sure those shots would''ve just tickled." She poked her finger through a bullet hole in Lance''s Titan''s Den hoodie. "So what, you stole someone''s ability to play invincible hero or something? That''s wild."

    Before Lance could respond, another siren wailed in the distance. They both tensed, looked at each other, then marched down the alley away from the Sacred Valley Chinese restaurant.

    "So, his name''s not Louie? He called himself Wey Shi-something... Lan or Lun or whatever."

    "Oh yeah, Louie must be his American name, I guess."

    They shared a chuckle. She opened her mouth, likely with another snarky comment, when¡ª

    The world tilted. The edges of his sight went dark and blurry, and it felt as if he was looking through the wrong end of a telescope. Everything but what was directly in front of him felt far away, trapped behind an invisible bubble.

    He turned to Vicky to see if she was still with him, but he couldn''t focus on her because the moment beyond his tunnel of vision seemed distant, and because floating in his field of view, impossible yet undeniably there, were words he couldn¡¯t dismiss like before:

    [Arma Integration Protocol Initiated]

    Subject: Lance Lawthorn

    Classification: Path of the Hero

    Observational Directive #1: "Inferno Rescue"

    Primary Objective: Evaluate arma energy utilization in high-stress, time-sensitive scenarios.

    Secondary Objective: Assess subject''s decision-making process and moral framework.

    Parameters:

    - Location: Oakwood Apartments, 1420 Elm Street

    - Situation: Structure fire with trapped civilians

    - Time Constraint: Estimated 15 minutes before structural collapse

    Data Collection Priorities:

    1. Arma energy fluctuations during physical exertion

    2. Adaptive response to environmental hazards

    3. Interaction between subject''s abilities and non-arma individuals

    Note: This directive is part of an ongoing study on arma-human symbiosis. Your participation contributes to vital research on the future of human evolution.

    Proceed with caution. Your actions will be monitored and analyzed.

    As Lance read through the surreal mission parameters, his heart hammered against his ribs.

    What. The. Actual. Fuck.

    These words looked exactly like the dreaded notifications he had gotten used to, but they weren''t. They were definitely, utterly different. This wasn''t his usual interface. He didn''t know how to explain it, and he was just guessing, but it was as if his regular alerts were created from his own nullifier arma, while this latest set of messages was foreign.

    He wondered if it was a side effect of his powers. His appropriated powers. Yes, that has to be it. It made sense.

    ¡°Fucking Path of the Sidekick. Ay, no me jodas. What kind of bullshit is that supposed to be?"

    Path of the Sidekick¡­

    Lance''s neck swiveled around to face Vicky, his head angling. "Wait, you got a message too?"

    Vicky''s face pinched, her mouth a thin slash. "Yeah, some weird-ass directive about a fire or something. You''re telling me you¡ª"

    "Oakwood Apartments?" Lance interrupted, his heart rate picking up.

    "Shit," Vicky breathed. "You too, huh?"

    ¡°What NARS treatment did you get? How long have you been seeing these messages?¡±

    ¡°Whoa, boludo. Did you do this? It¡¯s super creepy,¡± Vicky shot back, eyebrow raised. Then, seeing the intensity in Lance''s expression, sighed. "Look, this message thing? Twenty seconds ago. And the vaccine? No clue. I just camped out at some random pharmacy near my hotel for two days straight. Wasn''t exactly picky about which flavor of not-dying I got."

    Lance nodded, while internally blasting through ideas. ¡°No, it wasn¡¯t my power.¡±

    I think. That part, he didn''t say out loud. If she saw the same message, then it wasn''t one of my new abilities. No, I can''t throw away that possibility yet.

    This was no coincidence. Whatever was happening, it was affecting both of them.

    But why? And how?

    "What exactly did yours say?" he asked, forcing his tone to remain level

    Vicky rolled her eyes. "Some crap about being a sidekick. Evaluating ''arma energy utilization'' or whatever. Like I''m some lab rat."

    Lance''s insides clenched. The similarities were uncanny. "Mine said ''Path of the Hero,''" he admitted, feeling a twinge of guilt at Vicky''s scowl.

    "Of course it did," she muttered. "So what, we''re supposed to just run off and play superhero because some creepy message told us to?"

    Lance hesitated. The rational part of his brain screamed that this was insane. They should ignore it, call the police, do anything except follow mysterious instructions from an unknown source.

    But.

    The image of a burning building, of trapped civilians, wouldn''t leave his mind. If this was real, if there were people in danger...

    "What if it''s true?" he asked quietly. "What if an actual fire breaks out?"

    "Lance, come on. This is crazy. We can''t just¡ª"

    "I know," he cut her off. "But what if we''re wrong? What if we could help and we didn''t?"

    He showed her his watch.

    It displayed [9:45 PM] in large, bright white print.

    "It''s not that late," he said.

    A beat later, Vicky sighed. "Bueno, dale. It''s kind of exciting, I guess. But if this turns out to be some elaborate prank, I''m kicking your ass."

    Lance managed a weak smile. "Deal."

    They took off running. Their destination: fourteen blocks away. The city streaked past. Streetlights flickered by in rapid succession. Empty sidewalks. Abandoned storefronts. Lance''s awareness condensed to a racing ribbon of motion, details lost in the rush.

    As they ran, questions peppered Lance¡¯s brain faster than his feet. Who was behind these messages? How did they know about their abilities? And why choose them for this... mission?

    The smell hit them first. Acrid smoke, thick and choking, even from blocks away. Then came the distant wail of sirens, growing louder with each passing second.

    Four blocks away, they rounded a corner. The night sky burned orange. Oakwood Apartments stood engulfed in flames. Heat hit them in waves. Lance squinted at the painful brightness. The fire thundered. Glass broke. Sparks flew up. Hot air made breathing difficult. They slowed as the fire''s size and intensity sank in, leaving them stunned by its raw destructive power and the realization of how many lives it threatened.

    And just like in Sacred Valley, it happened again. Lance acted without thinking.

    He grabbed Vicky, lifting her and catching her in his arms. Arma cycled through his legs. He sprang forward. Streets flew by. Wind roared in their ears. Three blocks disappeared in seconds. They shot towards the inferno, Lance''s feet barely touching the ground.

    "Madre de¡ª" Vicky''s curse cut off as the wind whipped her words away. She clung tighter, her bravado momentarily forgotten.

    The blazing building grew massive with each superhuman stride.

    Lance skidded to a stop, setting Vicky down gently. He noticed how he managed the movement smoothly, his newfound control kicking in. It felt like mastering an overpowered body, probably how kids feel during growth spurts.

    The heat was intense, even from across the street. Lance wondered why it didn''t bother him, then remembered his pain nullification was still active.

    Best to leave it on for now.

    Come to think of it, it was probably forty degrees out, and even at the speed he''d been running, he hadn''t felt cold.

    Lance studied Vicky closely, realizing she wasn''t shivering from the cold run or sweating from the nearby inferno, either.

    Does every arma user have pain nullification? Questions for later, he admonished.

    People streamed out of the building, coughing and disoriented. Firefighters were already on the scene, battling the inferno with seemingly little effect.

    "?La puta madre!" Vicky whispered beside him. "It''s real."

    Lance nodded, unable to form words. The magnitude of what they were facing crashed over him like a tidal wave. This wasn''t a game or a test. This was life and death.

    A woman''s scream pierced the air, rising above the chaos. "My grandpa has NARS. He can¡¯t walk!"

    His attention ricocheted between the fire, the police, the firefighters, the woman, and the chunks of burning debris plummeting from the building like meteors crashing onto the street, to Vicky¡­

    ¡°Don¡¯t look at me like that, boludo.¡±

    Her rough Spanish accent, tinged with Argentine inflections, somehow soothed him. So different from Valentina''s gentle, precise tone.

    Lance''s body moved before his brain could catch up. He was sprinting towards the building, ignoring Vicky''s shout behind him. People stumbled out, coughing. Others screamed for help from windows. Firefighters rushed back and forth, outnumbered. A police officer halfheartedly extended an arm towards Lance, then dropped it as Lance blew past.

    Heat slammed into his face. Pain Nullification made it feel nice, which meant it was burning his skin. Behind him, Vicky''s footsteps pounded the pavement.

    Lance honestly didn''t think she''d run behind him into a burning building.

    He paused at the entrance, heat waves distorting the surrounding air. His new body remained unaffected by the intense temperature. With his legs, he could dash in, scoop up a couple of people, and be out in seconds - no harder than grabbing milk from the corner store. Heck, with his Impervious skin, he could probably take a nap in there and walk out tomorrow without a scratch.

    So Lance gritted his teeth and plunged into the inferno. Not helping would make him the world''s biggest asshole while at the same time¡­

    What am I doing? He grappled with the question as he reached the entrance. But he knew the answer. He had power now. He had responsibility, duty, purpose and a grin on his face.

    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

    "Vicky, stay here. I''ll be back in a minute."

    "Like hell I will."

    "I''m not kidding. I''ll be fine."

    "And I''ve got mild fire resistance. I''m coming."

    A vein pulsed at Lance''s temple, his knuckles whitening.

    "It''s too dangerous."

    "Tough shit. Let''s go, hero."

    Vicky brushed past him, marching towards the inferno.

    He gulped down air and trailed after her.

    Lance and Vicky ascended the smoke-filled stairwell. The higher they climbed, the more treacherous their footing became. The heat pressed against them, making even Lance uncomfortable despite Pain Nullification and Impervious, as he strained to detect any survivors in the hellscape around them.

    ¡®Crackle. Hiss. Pop.¡¯

    The sound of burning wood and melting plastic surrounded them, but Lance focused beyond that. He listened for something else, something human.

    "Hear anything?" Vicky''s speech faded beneath the fire¡¯s roar.

    ¡®Crackle. Hiss. Pop.¡¯

    Pressure built behind Lance''s eyes as his mood darkened. They''d already cleared two floors, finding nothing but empty apartments and choking smoke. Time was running out.

    Then, faint but unmistakable ¨C a cry.

    "This way!" Lance shouted, propelling himself upward. Each powerful stride cleared half a flight of stairs and pumped euphoria through his veins.

    Vicky and her labored breaths trailed him. She was keeping pace¡ªbarely¡ªbut her movements were growing sluggish.

    Fourth floor. Chaos.

    Shadows danced. Smoke swirled.

    Lance blinked. Eyes stung.

    A sound. Faint at first.

    He moved. It grew.

    Louder now. Desperate.

    Human?

    "Hello?" he called out, his voice hoarse. Pain Nullification masked the burning in his throat, but it was obvious the acrid air had started to accumulate damage. "We''re here to help!"

    A muffled response came from behind a door at the end of the hall. No hesitation. He charged forward, foot slamming into the wood. The door splintered instantly as if it weren¡¯t stronger than cotton.

    Inside, in the far corner, an old man with a bushy white mustache sat in his wheelchair. Two children, a boy and a girl, no older than six¡ªthey could be twins¡ªclung to him. Their faces were streaked with tears and soot, and the girl clutched a ragged stuffed rabbit.

    Lance''s racing heartbeat steadied, then quickened anew as he focused on the task ahead. They''d found them. Now came the hard part.

    "We''ve got to move fast," he said to Vicky, already striding towards the group.

    Vicky crouched by the children. Their eyes were wide, faces streaked with grime. The younger one coughed violently, while the older child latched onto the old man''s arm.

    "Let¡¯s go. Now," Vicky commanded.

    She pried the children''s fingers loose and hoisted them up, one under each arm. The kids didn''t resist, too dazed by smoke and fear to do more than whimper.

    Lance focused on the immobile senior in the wheelchair. "I¡¯ll get you out."

    He lifted the man. The wheelchair came up with him. Lance paused. The straps. The old man was securely fastened to the chair, likely a safety precaution that now threatened to slow them down. "Hold on tight, sir."

    Fumbling with the buckles, Lance''s fingers slipped and caught. Damn it, no time! He yanked at a strap to rip it off, but the chair''s frame groaned. Lance froze. Not again. Images of crushed metal going through flesh ambushed him.

    He tried the first clasp. Stuck. The second. Jammed. His impervious skin faltered. Sweat broke through, dripping into his eyes. Smoke pressed closer. The old man wheezed. Lance''s hands shook. Another clasp. Another failure. Precious seconds ticked by.

    "Lance, we gotta go!" Vicky''s voice reached him from down the hall alongside the children''s whimpers.

    "I know, I know!" He growled, frustration mounting. Why couldn''t he get these damn straps undone?

    A beam creaked ominously overhead. The old man''s eyes bulged out, then shut tight.

    Screw it.

    Lance made a split-second decision. He gripped the entire wheelchair, old man and all, and hoisted it into the air. The weight was substantial, but manageable with his 6.7 in Muscle Density.

    "Let''s move!" he shouted to Vicky, already heading for the door.

    He hurried back into the hallway, wheelchair held aloft. He caught the mirage of Vicky entering the stairwell. The smoke was thicker now, visibility dropping by the second. Heat pressed in from all sides, and Lance silently thanked whatever cosmic force had gifted him with pain suppression.

    Stairs. Finally, Lance thought while tightening his grip on his cargo. Lance repositioned his hands on the wheelchair. One step at a time. I can do it.

    The man in the chair coughed or barked, Lance couldn¡¯t tell.

    One set of stairs below, Vicky murmured to the children in rapid Spanish. Lance caught snippets: promises of safety, gentle encouragement, reassurances about their parents, praise for their bravery. It steadied him, reminding him of the lives at stake.

    They descended, the wheelchair bumping against Lance''s legs with each step. His arms burned. The old man clung to the armrests, eyes squeezed shut in silent prayer.

    Smoke billowed up from below, thicker and blacker than he had ever seen. Lance''s powerful vision struggled to penetrate the murk, his sight constricting¡ªa telltale sign of hypoxia he recalled from ROTC high-altitude training. He strained to see the steps in front of him.

    "Vicky?" he called out, suddenly unsure of her position.

    "Right here," came her strained reply. "Last floor!"

    Lance felt his pulse slow a notch. They were still together. Still alive.

    The ground floor materialized through the haze. Lance''s legs trembled with exertion, but the exit was so close now. Just a few more strides.

    Final step.

    Foot hit pavement.

    Wheelchair down. Breathe. Cold air in lungs. Sharp. Clean. Head spinning. No. Slowing. Spots dancing. Fading. Colors sharpening. Sounds clearer. Sirens. Shouts. Crackling fire behind. Muscles shaking. But holding. Stand straight. Focus returning. World steadying. Oxygen. Sweet oxygen.

    Sweet, sweet oxygen.

    Paramedics swarmed around them, their voices a salad of urgent commands and reassurances. Lance couldn''t register their words as he carefully pushed the wheelchair towards a clear area, solely focused on ensuring the old man''s safety.

    A red-haired woman rushed to the wheelchair. She pressed a button. All the straps snapped open with a soft click.

    Lance blinked. He stared at the now-loose straps, then at the woman.

    "Thank you so much for saving my father," she said, eyes brimming with tears.

    A paramedic gently lifted the gray-haired man onto a stretcher.

    Seriously? There was a button?

    Lance imagined an alternate reality: He spots the button immediately. Presses it without hesitation. Saves the old man in record time. Emerges unscathed, a perfect hero¡ª

    "Sir, are you alright?" A paramedic swooped in next to Lance, her gloved hands already reaching for the elderly man.

    An unconscious step back allowed the professionals to take over. His chest heaved while gulping lungfuls of clean air as the post-rescue jitters subsided and Lance pivoted to search for Vicky and the children.

    There she was, handing the kids off to another set of first responders. He rubbed his nose against his shoulder, leaving a black smudge on his exposed skin. They''d done it. They''d actually saved lives.

    But as Vicky approached him, her expression shifted from exhaustion to shock. Eyes big, mouth falling open in a silent ''O''.

    "Dude, what happened to your clothes?" she asked matter-of-factly.

    Confused, Lance glanced down at himself. His demeanor shifted subtly.

    The Titan¡¯s Den tank top hung in tatters, exposing most of his upper body. His sweatpants were burnt and full of holes. Beneath the ruined fabric, his skin was a bright red, with patches of blistering burns scattered across his chest and arms. These new injuries covered some bruises from his earlier gunfight - each about the size of a fist, some purple, others fading to a sickly yellow. The older marks dotted his ribs and stomach in various spots, showing where Impervious had blocked the bullets.

    The paramedic tending to the old man looked at Lance. Her eyes widened. "Sir, we need to get you treated immediately. Those burns are severe." She turned and shouted, "I need a stretcher over here!"

    Lance looked at his ruined clothes and burnt skin with mild interest, as if observing someone else''s body. The destruction didn''t bother him. ¡°I¡¯m okay, thanks.¡±

    This shit''s gonna hurt like hell. Guess pain nullification''s staying up until tomorrow, he mused with a mental shrug. I hope Marcus has more sweaters in stock.

    A medic parked a stretcher behind him. "Sir, lie down, we¡¯ll get you to the hospital."

    Lance raised his hands, palms out, in a placating gesture. "Really, I''m fine. Just some minor burns. Nothing to worry about."

    The paramedic''s brow furrowed, her eyes darting between Lance''s face and his blistered skin. "Sir, those are second-degree burns, at least. You need immediate medical attention."

    "Trust me," Lance insisted, forcing a smile. "I''ve got a... unique condition. It looks worse than it is."

    Vicky snorted beside him. "Yeah, a condition called ''walking disaster''."

    Lance¡¯s retort died on his lips as a commotion near the building''s entrance claimed his attention. A figure dressed entirely in black burst through the front door, thick gray smoke billowing out around them. They carried a small girl in one arm and a dog tucked under the other.

    With a few blinks, Lance zeroed in on the rescuer''s face, and his blood ran cold. Even through the soot and grime, there was no mistaking that arrogant prick.

    Preston from BioNova.

    Intruder, gun, chopstick. Lance''s brain fired off the memories of the apartment shooting like a broken jukebox cycling through songs. Memories which made his fingers drum on his thigh, his tongue run over his teeth, and arma cycle through his legs. Rage.

    Something took over and Lance shoved past the protesting paramedic and strode towards the entitled brat. Hands balled into hammers, body tensing from head to toe.

    "You," Lance growled, closing the distance between them with one explosive stride.

    Preston''s head cocked up just perfectly to have its nose crushed by Lance¡¯s fist.

    ¡°What''s your deal, asshole?¡±

    Preston rose, firing a fist that Lance caught and clamped.

    ¡°Shit, shit, shit,¡± said Preston. He struggled, trying to yank his fist free, but Lance''s grip held firm.

    "What the hell, man? Let go!"

    "Why''d you do it?" Lance asked.

    ¡°Crazy asshole, what are you talking about?¡±

    Lance''s grip loosened slightly. "You...don''t remember me?"

    "N-no... I swear I''ve never seen you."

    His eyes narrowed. Lance yanked Preston closer, his grip tightening again. "Cut the crap, Preston. Why''d you send that hitman to my apartment?"

    "Wait, you''re that guy? You killed Mark?"

    "So you do remember."

    "That¡¯s in the past, man, look around, we''re on the same side now."

    "You stupid, little boy.¡± Lance squeezed harder, veins bulging on his forearms. ¡°I¡¯m going to crush you right here.¡±

    Preston pushed against Lance''s chest with his free hand. His feet scraped the ground as he tried to back away. "H-hey, come on, man. Frank only went to roughen you up. And you killed him. You¡¯re the psycho!¡±

    Vicky appeared at Lance''s side, her eyes fixed on Preston.

    "Whatever happened, it¡¯s not worth it," she murmured, her eyes never leaving Preston. "Let''s go. We''ve done what we came here to do."

    Reluctantly, Lance succumbed to Vicky¡¯s words.

    A hush fell as more and more people noticed them. Firefighters paused in their work, civilians craned their necks to get a better look. The air crackled with tension and disbelief. With a growl of frustration, he hurled Preston to the ground. The impact knocked the wind out of Preston, leaving him gasping.

    "Next time, I won''t hold back.¡±

    As they turned to leave, Preston''s voice called out behind them.

    "Oh, and Lance? You might want to invest in some better home security. I hear break-ins are on the rise these days."

    The rage returned. But before he could spin around and confront Preston again, Vicky grabbed his arm.

    "Don''t," she warned. "He''s trying to get a rise out of you. Don''t give him the satisfaction."

    Lance breathed in as deep as he could, forcing himself to relax. She was right. Getting into a fistfight with Preston in front of a fire-ravaged structure surrounded by first responders and news cameras wouldn''t solve anything.

    Part of him still seethed with anger, wanting nothing more than to go back and finish what he started.

    But that was exactly the part of him he needed to rein in. He''d almost lost it back there, nearly hurting someone again. Despite his best intentions, it felt like something else had taken control, a darker part of himself he thought he''d left behind.

    If Vicky hadn''t been there...

    He shuddered. Had nothing changed at all? After everything he''d been through, was he still that same person, always on the edge of violence?

    No. He was different now. He''d stopped himself¡ªwith help, sure, but he''d stopped. That was progress. Small, maybe, but real.

    Vicky stepped closer, her voice low and urgent. "Let¡¯s bounce."

    ¡°You¡¯re right.¡± He glanced back at the engulfed edifice. The firefighters'' efforts were at last making headway, with streams of water pushing back the flames. ¡°Do you think there were others?¡±

    Sirens wailed in the distance. More emergency vehicles approached.

    "Come on," Vicky hissed, tugging at Lance''s arm. ¡°We¡¯ve done all we could. Look at us.¡±

    She was draped in a gray rescue blanket snatched from the fire marshal''s station moments after stumbling out of the building. Her exposed skin showed only mild redness.

    I guess minor fire resistance beats impervious in this situation, he thought, allowing himself to be pulled away.

    As they retreated from the burning building, the gawking crowd, the busy first responders, a small voice stopped them.

    "Wait!"

    Lance looked back. One of the twins they''d rescued stood there, face full of wonder and expectation.

    "Are you... are you superheroes?"

    Superheroes? Is that what arma users are? He frowned, mulling it over. The idea felt both right and wrong at the same time. Sure, they had powers, but...

    Vicky beat him to it. "No, kid. We''re just people who were in the right place at the right time."

    With that, she grabbed Lance''s hand and continued guiding him away from everyone else. They jogged down the street, putting distance between themselves and the scene of their daring rescue.

    The adrenaline rush was gone and the world gradually slowed down. His body felt heavy and slow while his mind struggled to stay alert despite the overwhelming exhaustion that made him want to collapse right there on the street.

    But he felt a bite in the back of his mind and knew what was coming¡­

    [Arma Integration Protocol - Observational Directive #1 Complete]

    Subject: Lance Lawthorn

    Updated Classification: Path of the Antihero

    Analysis:

    - Successful rescue operation

    - Efficient use of multiple appropriated abilities

    - Displayed aggression towards non-targets

    - Moral ambiguity in decision-making process

    Based on your performance, the following potential ability augmentations have been mapped:

    <ol>

    <li> [Redistribution (Emergent)] - Allows reallocation of appropriated Essence Powers between active slots. </li>

    <li> [Essence Fusion (Emergent)] - Enables temporary combination of two appropriated Essence Powers. </li>

    <li> [Adaptive Assimilation (Emergent)] - Increases efficiency of appropriation process for frequently used ability types. </li>

    </ol>

    Note: Accumulated arma energy from this directive is ephemeral. You have 24 hours to crystallize one augmentation before the accumulated arma energy dissipates.

    Select wisely. Your choice will influence future arma-human integration protocols.

    Continued observation and analysis of your actions will refine the understanding of arma-human symbiosis.

    Antihero? Seriously? His head shook left to right, torn between disbelief and a drop of... pride? No, that wasn''t right. He waved the thought away.

    Essence Fusion caught his eye. Combining powers? That could be insane. But his brain felt like mush, and weariness seeped into his bones, making every movement a chore.

    "Twenty-four hours," he said. "Deal with it tomorrow."

    Vicky''s excited voice interrupted his thinking.

    "Holy shit, Lance! I got ''Path of the Heroine.'' No more sidekick bullshit!"

    Lance''s forehead creased. "Congrats?"

    "And check this out - I unlocked some kind of broken regeneration ability."

    "Nice. What else?"

    "Wait, what did you get?"

    Lance hesitated. "Uh, nothing special. Just some... options."

    Vicky was about to press further, but her eyes jumped past Lance''s shoulder.

    "Cop car. Two o''clock."

    Lance tensed. "Time to move."

    They ducked into an alley, slowing to catch their breath. Lance leaned against a brick wall, the rough texture grounding him in the moment.

    "That was close," Vicky muttered as she gingerly touched the singed patch on her scalp where a chunk of hair had burned away.

    Lance''s hand jerked up reflexively, hovering near Vicky''s head without touching. "Shit, your hair. You okay?"

    "It''s fine. Burns heal quick on me," Vicky said, shrugging. She glanced at Lance''s injuries. "You though? Damn. Looks like you went ten rounds with a flamethrower."

    He stared at Vicky for one, two, three awkward seconds and then¡­

    Uncontrollable laughter.

    He had no idea why he found it so funny. Maybe it was the absurdity of worrying about hair after nearly dying. Or how his whole body was charred while she just had a bad haircut. Perhaps it was the fact that he had twenty-four hours to decide how to upgrade his superpowers. Could be his brain''s weird way of dealing with stress. Whatever it was, he couldn''t stop.

    "Are you fucking laughing at me, crispy boy?" Vicky asked, face scrunching. "I''ll just shave this side. It''ll look badass, unlike your deep-fried look."

    When his laughter finally subsided, he said: "Thanks, Vicky. I needed this."

    "What, getting barbecued?"

    "No, the rush. Using our powers. Helping people."

    Vicky stared at him for a moment, then huffed out a short breath.

    "You''re messed up in the head, Lance. And weird as hell."

    A flash of something - maybe fondness - crossed her face, gone in a blink.

    "But you''re alright."

    Lance grinned. The skin on his cheeks felt tight, but no pain registered.

    "I''m beat. See you tomorrow?" he asked.

    Vicky nodded, already turning to leave. She stopped.

    "Oh, and thanks for the protein bars. Bring more tomorrow."

 Fifteen: Interlude I

    16 Dec 2051

    MEMORANDUM FOR JOINT CHIEFS OF STAFF

    FROM: USSTRATCOM/CC

    SUBJECT: Arma Energy Crisis: Current Status and Immediate Concerns

    <ol>

    <li> PURPOSE: To provide an update on the global Arma Energy situation and outline immediate national security concerns.</li>

    </ol>

    <ol start="2">

    <li> BACKGROUND: On 04 Dec 2051, astronomers detected an energy barrier breach in our solar system, allowing Arma Energy to penetrate Earth''s atmosphere. This resulted in the global Novel Acute Radiation Syndrome (NARS) pandemic and the subsequent development of human enhancements in some individuals who received Arma Energy gene therapies.</li>

    </ol>

    <ol start="3">

    <li> DISCUSSION:</li>

    </ol>

    <ol start="2052">

    <li> Global Impact: As of 16 Dec 2051, it is confirmed that the entire global population has been infected with NARS. There are 283 million confirmed deaths worldwide. Economic disruption is severe, with global GDP projected to decrease by 15% in Q1 2052.</li>

    </ol>

    <ol>

    <li> Enhanced Individuals: Approximately 19% of the global population has received Arma Energy gene therapies, resulting in various enhanced abilities in a small percentage of this group. These enhancements range from improved physical attributes to more extreme physiological changes. Observed manifestations include:</li>

    </ol>

    (1) Heightened sensory perception

    (2) Increased strength and endurance

    (3) Accelerated healing

    (4) Electromagnetic field manipulation

    (5) Telepathic communication

    The long-term stability and potential of these enhancements remain unknown.

    <ol>

    <li> National Security Implications: The emergence of enhanced individuals poses unprecedented challenges to national security. Concerns include:</li>

    </ol>

    (1) Potential weaponization of enhanced abilities

    (2) Shift in global power dynamics

    (3) Domestic unrest due to societal inequalities between enhanced and non-enhanced populations

    <ol start="4">

    <li> RECOMMENDATION: Immediate establishment of a joint task force to develop strategies for managing enhanced individuals and mitigating potential threats to national security.</li>

    </ol>

    //SIGNED//

    JONATHAN D. SHERMAN, Gen, USAF

    Commander, USSTRATCOM

    He crushed the memo in his fist and hurled it. The paper ball arced across the room, bouncing off a wall with a world map showing NARS outbreaks, marked by red strings crisscrossing without any clear pattern or origin.

    Three-pointer! Yes!

    Brigadier General Shannon Washington entered his office. She stood at attention briefly next to the crumpled paper ball before relaxing into a more casual stance.

    That uniform''s as crisp as ever, General Bob Stroebel thought upon seeing his executive officer.

    "Morning, Chaps. How''s that granddaughter of yours doing?"

    "Growing like a weed, Badger,¡± Bob said, gesturing to the chair. ¡°Wants to be a pro soccer player now."

    Shannon pulled back the sturdy leather armchair and sat down in front of Stroebel''s executive oak desk.

    "Soccer? What happened to ballet?" she asked.

    "That was last week. Now it''s all cleats and shin guards."

    "Kids, right?¡± asked Shannon. ¡°One minute it''s this, next it''s that."

    "Tell me about it. At least the rain''s good for something - keeps her inside so my daughter can get a break."

    "Yeah, been coming down hard lately," said Shannon.

    "Sure has. Though seems like arma''s all that''s raining these days."

    "Speaking of which, sir, have you read the memo?"

    General Stroebel leaned back in his leather chair, his salt-and-pepper mustache twitching. "Yes. The numbers are staggering."

    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

    "Two hundred and eighty-three million deaths." Washington shook her head. "And that''s just twelve days."

    Stroebel''s pen tapped against his desk, a rhythmic counterpoint to the tension in the room. "The economic impact alone..."

    ¡°Are you worried about an economic depression, sir?¡± Shannon asked.

    Stroebel''s blue eyes turned hard. ¡°I¡¯m worried about these arma users with God knows what kind of abilities."

    "You¡¯re right, sir. We''re looking at a complete paradigm shift, Bob. Everything we know about warfare, about national security¡ªit''s all out the window."

    "The potential for weaponization is... concerning."

    "Concerning?" Washington arched an eyebrow. "That''s generous. We''re talking about individuals who could potentially level cities with a thought."

    "Or infiltrate our most secure facilities without breaking a sweat," Stroebel added. ¡°That¡¯s why we can¡¯t lose the new arms race.¡±

    "And let''s not forget the domestic implications,¡± she said. ¡°We''re looking at a powder keg of social unrest. Enhanced versus non-enhanced. It''s a recipe for chaos."

    General Stroebel''s pen stilled. "The question is, how do we handle it?"

    "That''s what was asked in the meeting this morning." Washington stood, pacing the length of the office. Her footsteps echoed in the silence. "We can''t just round them up. They''re citizens, not criminals."

    "Yet," he said.

    "We can''t assume they''ll all turn against us, Bob. That kind of thinking is dangerous."

    Stroebel raised his hands in surrender. "I''m just saying we need to be prepared for all possibilities."

    "Agreed." Washington stopped at the window, gazing out at the Pentagon courtyard below. "But we also need to consider integration. These people could be our greatest asset."

    "And our greatest threat," Stroebel countered.

    Washington turned, her expression thoughtful. "That¡¯s right. We have to assume other countries will weaponize them¡ªcorrection, they are weaponizing them."

    Stroebel nodded slowly. "Let¡¯s get in front of this joint task force. Gather support from all the agencies."

    "Yes, sir," Washington said. "I¡¯ll start coordinating IPTs for Military, scientific, ethical¡ª"

    "Political," Stroebel interjected.

    Washington grimaced. "Unfortunately, yes. This is going to be a PR nightmare."

    "That¡¯s an Understatement.¡±

    Washington returned to her seat, her posture straight, shoulders squared. "We need to move fast, Bob. Every day we delay is a day someone else could be figuring out how to exploit this situation."

    "I''ll start making calls while you prepare a proposal for congress."

    "What are you thinking, sir: new legislation, new protocols?"

    "New everything.¡±

    Washington''s lips quirked in a humorless smile. "Welcome to the brave new world, Bob."

    ¡°Yeah, right.¡± Bob picked up the next report and slipped on his reading glasses. "What have you learned about this Dr. Li Armakov?"

    "We¡¯ve found some information, sir, but there are still more questions than answers."

    "Give me the rundown, Badger."

    "Dr. Li Armakov, 42 years old, Chinese national, with mixed Chinese and Russian heritage. He''s a radio astronomer at FAST in Guizhou. Made the first verifiable detection of arma radiation back in 2050."

    "I¡¯ve read the executive summary, what¡¯s new?"

    "That''s the rub. Guy''s vanished into thin air. We''ve got confirmation on the detection - doc monitored it for nearly a year. Then NARS hits and... nothing."

    "Vanished? In this day and age? That''s a neat trick."

    "You''re telling me? We''ve got NASIC, NSA, our diplomats - everyone''s searching. And what do we have to show for it? Puff." Badger spread her fingers and expanded her hands outward, as if miming a small explosion.

    "Have we reached out through official channels?"

    "We''re exploring those options, but you know how it is with China. They''re not exactly forthcoming."

    "Typical. Any luck with our contacts in the scientific community?"

    "A few nibbles, but nothing solid. They all say humanity got a second chance thanks to him. But his colleagues seem just as confused as we are."

    "Well, that''s just peachy. We''ve got powered individuals popping up left and right, and our best lead on understanding why has gone AWOL."

    "Without his discovery, we would not be having this conversation. But I¡¯m with you, sir. Something doesn''t add up."

    "You think there''s more to this than a simple disappearance?"

    "Call it a gut feeling. The timing''s too convenient."

    ¡°Yes, it is.¡± Bob¡¯s chair creaked under his weight. ¡°Switch gears¡ªWhat¡¯s the latest public opinion?¡±

    "Public opinion? Well, sir, the prevailing theory is that the government caused NARS on purpose."

    Dry chuckles took over the room for three entire seconds. "Of course it is. Why am I not surprised?"

    "It''s not just fringe groups this time. The idea''s gaining traction in mainstream circles."

    "If they only knew. Half our time is spent planning wingman days and retirement ceremonies. The highlight of my day? Lunch."

    "With all due respect, sir, our work is important."

    "Didn''t say it wasn''t, Badger. But let''s be real - we''re basically the DMV with guns."

    "A heavily armed DMV that''s dealing with a global crisis and superpowered individuals."

    "True. But try explaining that to Joe Public, who thinks we''re running some shadow government."

    "Speaking of, the latest polls show a significant drop in trust for military leadership."

    "Fantastic. As if we didn''t have enough on our plate."

    "It''s not all bad. Some see us as the last line of defense against powered threats," Shannon said.

    "Small comfort. Any bright ideas on how to turn this ship around?"

    "Transparency might help. Within reason, of course."

    "Transparency? In the Pentagon? Now that''s a conspiracy theory," said Bob. ¡°Is there anything else, general?¡±

    "One more thing, sir. We''ve been getting reports that many arma users are receiving system messages."

    "System messages? Like the ones from the clinical trials?"

    "Not just the trials. Everyone. Powered individuals across the board are reporting them."

    "Everyone? What kind of messages are we talking about?"

    "Varied. Some report status updates, others mention ''new features,¡¯ ¡®missions,¡¯ and ¡®directives.¡¯ We''re still collating the data."

    "Hm."

    The conversation lulled, giving way to the gentle hum of electronics. Chaps toyed with his wedding band, spinning it slowly around his finger. His gaze seemed to look through the far wall, focused on something beyond.

    "Alright, Badger. I need you to prepare TDY orders."

    "Sir?"

    "For me. I want to visit our friends in Big Pharma. Let''s see what they have to say about these... system messages. Put it under 2052Pentravel LOA. Use the arma energy crisis as the justification."

    "Right away, sir. Any specific destinations in mind?"

    Bob studied the report for a short moment, then, "Start with the major players. Synergy, BioNova, GlobeMed Solutions. We''ll expand the list if needed."

    "Understood. I''ll get the orders ready right away."

    Badger stood, saluted crisply, and exited the office, closing the door behind her.

    Lunch at the airport. I¡¯m stoked¡­

 Sixteen: Whatever

    Darkness. Then came the smell of sweat and rubber before he saw the stained ceiling with its peeling paint patches that were concealing old water damage and the cobwebs in the corners.

    He felt fresh. He felt new. He felt¡­

    Fantastic.

    Fantastic despite the cluttered space filled with boxes of protein powder and spare equipment.

    Lance swung his legs over the edge of the dirty cot. He stood naked. He saw tattered clothes lying in a heap on the floor, but reached for a fresh tank top and sweatpants neatly folded on a wooden bar-style stool.

    He made his way out of the back room. The gym bustled with early morning regulars. More people had been getting their gene therapy treatments lately, and though full recovery was still a long way off, life was starting to feel almost normal again. Almost.

    The clanking of weights and whir of treadmills provided a comforting white noise. He crossed the short hallway and found himself in the free weights area face to face with two colorful meatheads.

    One of them, mid-bicep curl, caught sight of Lance and whistled. ¡°Damn, bro! Did you put your face inside a BBQ?¡±

    ¡°Come on, Brad, don¡¯t be mean,¡± said the nerdy hipster spotting him on the bench press.

    ¡°Ethan, chill. We¡¯re just messing around,¡± said Brad.

    The nerd tilted his head back, his gaze drifting to the ceiling for a moment before returning to Brad. ¡°Fine,¡± he said, then eyed Lance critically. ¡°Seriously though, you okay? Those burns look nasty.¡±

    Lance forced a casual shrug, head searching for plausible explanations. ¡°It¡¯s not as bad as it looks. Just a... cooking accident.¡±

    Brad snorted. ¡°What were you cooking, napalm?¡±

    ¡°Something like that,¡± Lance muttered, regretting having engaged these eccentric gym-goers.

    He took a step towards the exit, but Ethan¡¯s hand on his arm stopped him. The touch sent a jolt through Lance¡¯s system, his body instinctively tensing for a fight.

    ¡°Hey,¡± Ethan said, voice low and serious. ¡°You sure you¡¯re alright? I¡¯ve got some burn cream in my locker if you need it.¡±

    The genuine concern in Ethan¡¯s eyes caught Lance off guard. For a moment, he was tempted to take up his offer, but his obvious injuries didn¡¯t hurt at all, so instead he glanced at the exit and pointed his toes towards it.

    Why don¡¯t they hurt? he asked himself before responding, ¡°thanks, but I¡¯m good. Just need to work up a sweat, you know? Burn off some... energy.¡±

    Brad¡¯s eyebrows shot up. ¡°With those burns? You¡¯re crazier than I thought, bro.¡±

    Lance shrugged again, the motion pulling at his healing skin. ¡°What can I say? No pain, no gain, right?¡±

    The words felt off. Pain was becoming an increasingly abstract concept, a distant memory overshadowed by the constant hum of his abilities. This new body¡¯s crazy. But something feels off¡­

    Ethan opened his mouth, likely to protest, but Lance was already moving past them. ¡°Gotta scram. Try not to miss me too much.¡±

    He could sensed their eyes on his back as he walked away, concern and curiosity radiating off them in waves. Lance quickened his pace, eager to put distance between himself and their questions.

    As he wove through the maze of equipment, Lance immersed himself in the possibilities.

    I need to test something, but first things first: gotta get out of here.

    Lance made it to the lobby, where a grizzly bear chatted with a go-kart.

    ¡°...but Beast, you gotta admit, some of these new arma users are pushing the limits.¡±

    ¡°Come on Marcus, that¡¯s what they said about us back in the day. Times change¡ª¡±

    Their animated conversation died as Lance approached.

    Marcus and¡­ Beast?

    ¡°Hey, champ,¡± Marcus called out, his deep voice carrying a hint of concern. ¡°You slept all day, and those burns¡­ are you feeling okay?¡±

    Lance¡¯s face tightened. What¡¯s it to you? The thought flashed through his mind, sharp and natural. But he nodded instead.

    ¡°Well, just wanted to let you know Jiro¡¯s all fed and walked,¡± the big guy continued. ¡°But I gotta say, your dog¡¯s looking... different. Bigger, maybe? You changing his diet or something?¡±

    Jiro? My... dog?

    ¡°Yeah, uh, thanks,¡± he said, desperately searching for context. ¡°New... protein blend.¡±

    The man in the wheelchair chuckled. ¡°Careful, Marcus. Lance might start feeding you that stuff next.¡±

    ¡°You offering to try it out, wheels?¡±

    The wheelchair guy¡¯s smile faltered. ¡°Hey, man. You okay? You seem... off.¡±

    This cripple¡¯s so annoying, Lance thought, irritation spiking. I better ditch these guys too.

    ¡°I¡¯m fine. Just peachy. Now if you¡¯ll excuse me, I¡¯ve got better things to do than stand around chatting.¡±

    Marcus knitted his brows. ¡°Lance, what¡¯s gotten into you? This isn¡¯t like you at all.¡±

    Irritation turned to anger. Hot and fierce. Who were they to question him?

    ¡°You people always¡ª¡± Lance began, his countenance twisting with contempt, and he could tell that Ethan¡¯s mouth went dry as he calmly continued spouting deliberate slurs and insults that left the room in stunned silence.

    ¡°Lance, that¡¯s enough,¡± Marcus said.

    ¡°You¡¯re right, I¡¯ve wasted enough time.¡±

    The wheelchair guy ¨C Beast ¨C recoiled as if slapped. ¡°Whoa, Lance. We¡¯re just worried about you, man.¡±

    ¡°Well, don¡¯t be,¡± Lance spat. ¡°I don¡¯t need your concern, and I sure as hell don¡¯t need your pity.¡±

    He turned on his heel, ready to storm out, but Marcus¡¯s hand clamped down on his shoulder. It was meant to be comforting, Lance knew, but it felt like a threat. His body tensed, ready for a fight.

    ¡°Lance,¡± Marcus said in a low, no-nonsense tone. ¡°Something¡¯s clearly wrong. Talk to us. We¡¯re your friends.¡±

    Friends. The word tasted like ash in Lance¡¯s tongue. He didn¡¯t have friends. Didn¡¯t need them. All he needed was himself and his power.

    He shrugged off Marcus¡¯s hand, lip curling in disgust. ¡°Friends? Please. What can a meathead and a cripple possibly offer me?¡±

    The sharp and venomous words might as well have stopped time. Diego¡¯s face crumpled, hurt evident in his eyes. Marcus, on the other hand, looked thunderous.

    ¡°That¡¯s enough,¡± he growled. ¡°I don¡¯t know what¡¯s going on with you, but this stops now. You need to¡ª¡±

    Lance cut him off with a harsh laugh. ¡°I don¡¯t need to do anything. Except leave this dump.¡±

    The person they knew was gone, replaced by something... else.

    Evolution, he told himself. This is what progress looks like.

    ¡°What¡¯s gotten into him?¡± asked the crippled.

    He turned again, striding towards the exit. Power, Lance thought. That¡¯s what¡¯s gotten into me. Behind him, he heard Marcus calling his name, heard the squeak of Beast¡¯s wheelchair as he tried to follow. But Lance didn¡¯t look back. He pushed through the doors and out into the sunlight.

    Free. Lance Lawthorn was gone. And whoever ¨C whatever ¨C he was now, he was just getting started.

    The city felt off-kilter, like someone had cranked up the contrast on a TV. His senses were overclocked¡ªthe gritty cement under his shoes, the urban racket bombarding him from all sides. He flexed his hand, surprised by the effort it took.

    Lance breathed, and breathed, and breathed, filling his lungs with dry December air and ridding his nostrils of the stench of sweat and ass that oozed from every corner of that seedy gym.

    Weak.

    The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    That¡¯s what the people around him were: scurrying about like ants, oblivious to the power that he would one day unleash.

    Lance eyed the building next to Titan¡¯s Den. A concrete column caught his eye. Sturdy. Unyielding. This will do.

    He sidled up to it, his fingers skimming the surface. The cold, rough texture made his arm hair stand on end.

    Something felt off. Something has been feeling off since he woke up. This body didn¡¯t hum with the raw strength he¡¯d expected, yet facing down the reinforced concrete, no alarm bells rang in his mind. No voice whispered that this was a bad idea. This is fuckign weird. He flexed his hand, puzzled by the disconnect between what his eyes saw and what his instincts¡ªor lack thereof¡ªtold him.

    He drew back his fist, arm tightening as he tuned into his inner self, willing the strange energy he¡¯d come to know as arma¡ªall of it¡ªto flow through his body and concentrate in his fist.

    The sensation was unlike anything he¡¯d felt before. Instead of the jagged, painful pulses he expected, the arma flowed through him in a smooth current, painless and easy. His fist began to shake, not from strain, but from the sheer amount of energy packed into it. The skin got tight, veins sticking out weirdly. This isn¡¯t right, he thought, clenching his jaw. It didn¡¯t feel like his hand was about to burst¡ª

    Suddenly, a translucent blue rectangle materialized in his field of vision, throwing him off balance. Alien text hovered before his eyes:

    New skill unlocked: [Arma Cycling]

    ©¸©¤Arma Cycling: Ability to circulate and refine energy within the body, enhancing physical attributes

    The fuck? Before he could further examine the sorcery that impaired his vision, another completely different message materialized.

    [Arma Energy Alert]

    Accumulated energy from Directive #1 dissipating. Time remaining to crystallize augmentation:

    [06:49:37]

    Select ability augmentation to preserve arma energy.

    Failure to choose will result in energy loss.

    Lance squinted, a hazy recollection lurked somewhere in his brain. He¡¯d seen words like this before, hadn¡¯t he? Floating text, blue boxes... The memories were there, but just out of reach. Then again, his grip on consciousness had been pretty damn weak last night.

    Huh. Maybe this meat suit had some tricks up its sleeve after all. Lance poked at the air, surprised when the system responded to his touch. A smirk crossed his face as he scrolled through a shit-ton of data about his arma abilities. It was impressive how much info was crammed in there. Too bad the numbers meant jack squat to him. Without knowing where his old body stood, these stats were about as useful as a screen door on a submarine.

    Another menu popped up, looking totally different from the first one. Lance snorted. Two systems? Why the hell would anyone need two systems? And why did they use different terminology for everything? But quite frankly. He didn¡¯t give a fuck.

    He skimmed through a list of new abilities, most of them sounding like nonsense. After a minute of this crap, he picked ¡°Redistribution.¡± Seemed like it might come in handy if he needed to bail. With that sorted, Lance closed the menus and got back to what really mattered - testing out this body¡¯s limits.

    The world, all his arma, he focused everything into this single moment. Then, with a primal growl, he unleashed his punch.

    ¡®Crack.¡¯

    The sound was deafening. Dust and debris exploded outward as his fist connected with the column. There was a slight indentation where his fist hit. The concrete had buckled slightly, but so did his hand.

    Lance withdrew his fist, marveling at the lack of pain. Not even a scratch marred his knuckles. A result of his¡­ what did it call it? Impervious skill? Whatever.

    Guess I was right. Lance huffed in disappointment.

    He tried to flex his fingers, but couldn¡¯t. His wrist gave way, and his hand bent inward at an unnatural angle, like it had folded into itself.

    He stared at his broken hand. You¡¯ve gotta be kidding me. What a let down. This was a downgrade after all.

    [Alert: Arma Failure Imminent. Energy Reserves Critically Low.]

    Great¡ª

    ***

    [Day 14]

    Antihero. He cringed at the term. Was that really how the universe saw him now? A guy who did the right thing, but for the wrong reasons?

    Maybe they¡¯re right, he mused, remembering the satisfaction he¡¯d felt pummeling that robber at the Chinese restaurant. The rush of power when he¡¯d confronted Preston.

    Shaking off the disquieting thoughts, Lance blinked the world to reality.

    ¡°What the hell were you thinking?¡± Marcus asked.

    He found himself perched on the cold, hard surface of Titan¡¯s Den¡¯s front counter, Marcus¡¯s concerned face looming over him.

    Did I really sleep here? he wondered.

    ¡°I... what?¡± Lance slurred, his tongue feeling thick and uncooperative.

    Disquiet frowned Marcus¡¯s brow as he gently prodded Lance¡¯s swollen hand. ¡°You don¡¯t remember punching the column outside? Christ, Lance, you¡¯ve done a number on your hand.¡±

    ¡°The last thing I remember is...¡± He trailed off, images of flames and smoke dancing at the edges of his consciousness. Vicky. ¡°A burning building. We saved people, didn¡¯t we?¡±

    Was it even real? Or did he dream it?

    Diego¡¯s voice broke through the fog. ¡°What are you saying, man? We¡¯re talking about you waking up and acting like a total asshole.¡±

    Each one of his friend¡¯s words was a knife of resentment.

    Lance¡¯s head snapped towards Diego, who sat in his wheelchair with arms crossed and accusing eyes.

    ¡°I... what?¡± Lance repeated, feeling like a broken record. ¡°No, that can¡¯t be right. I was with Vicky. We saved an old man and some kids from a fire.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know what to tell you, hermano,¡± Diego said. ¡°I have no idea where you went after the meeting the other day.¡±

    ¡°And you slept until seven o clock,¡± Marcus added. ¡°Today.¡±

    The other day? Today? Confusion screeched in his mind. That can¡¯t be right. ¡°What day is it?¡± he asked, his voice hoarse.

    ¡°It¡¯s Sunday,¡± Marcus replied, eyebrows raised.

    Lance did some quick mental math, piecing together the timeline. Holy shit. I slept for over 30 hours? The realization hit him hard. A whole day, gone. Just like that.

    [10:0¡ª

    He tried to peek at his watch, but it was difficult to turn his wrist.

    ¡°Easy there,¡± Marcus said, stabilizing Lance¡¯s hand and throwing a pack of ice on top of it. ¡°We will have to take you to the hospital for this one.¡±

    The room stopped tilting. He stretched his neck, feeling less dizzy, and with a lungful of air, cataloged flashes of memory against the blank spaces. Lance looked left, then right, then at his swollen hand and the half-melted ice pack from Marcus¡¯s minifridge.

    ¡°Marcus, can you align it?¡±

    Titan¡¯s Den¡¯s proprietor leaned back, crossing his tree-trunk arms. ¡°Align it? You mean your wrist? Lance, this isn¡¯t a simple sprain. Your hand needs proper medical attention.¡±

    Lance tried to bend his fingers. A mild ache pulsed in his hand, but it felt far away. He knew it should hurt more. Much more.

    ¡°Trust me,¡± Lance said. ¡°I heal fast. Really fast. By the time we get to a hospital, it¡¯ll be too late.¡±

    Marcus rubbed his shaved head, exhaling sharply. ¡°The pain alone¡ª¡±

    ¡°Won¡¯t be a problem.¡± Lance locked eyes with Marcus. ¡°Look, I know it sounds crazy, but I need you to do this for me. Please.¡±

    Diego wheeled closer, sharing his own sharp exhale. ¡°It¡¯ll be fine, Tank. If you can fix his wrist, do it. Otherwise it¡¯ll heal all jacked up.¡±

    ¡°Is it because of this arma thing the two of you have?¡± Marcus asked.

    Both Lance and Diego nodded.

    ¡°Fine.¡± Understanding dawned on Marcus¡¯s face. He nodded slowly, years of medical training warring with the impossible reality before him. ¡°Aight. I¡¯ll do it. But if anything feels wrong¡ª¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll let you know,¡± Lance assured him.

    Marcus retrieved a large plastic toolbox containing first aid kits and other medical items from behind the counter, and began examining Lance¡¯s hand more closely, while Diego wheeled even nearer, his earlier anger seemingly forgotten.

    ¡°Bueno, brother. Care to explain why you were acting so strange?¡±

    Good question, Lance thought. Why was he acting so strange?

    Diego said, I woke up an hour ago, that explains how I got to this point. And the broken wrist. But I can¡¯t remember that.

    ¡°Diego,¡± Lance started while drumming his finger on the counter. ¡°What exactly did I say when you saw me earlier?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not even sure. You stormed out of here like a racist asshole, spouting some real nasty shit. Then we heard this godawful crack and found you out cold next to the pillar.¡±

    Racist asshole¡­ the words reverberated in his mind for a hot second, before.

    Fucking Frank!

    His conversation with Frank¡ªZack¡ªlast night replayed in his mind. The way Zack described Frank taking over his will fit a little too well with what he was experiencing. And he¡¯d ¡°appropriated¡± Frank.

    He knew, bone-deep.

    ¡°Shit, Diego... I¡¯m sorry about before. That wasn¡¯t... I can explain.

    Diego crossed his arms in response. ¡°I¡¯m listening.¡±

    ¡°Remember how I took away your leg pain? I did something similar with Zack, and I think it went wrong.¡±

    ¡°Wh¡ªWhat do you mean, ¡®wrong¡¯?¡±

    ¡°Frank¡¯s in my head now. Like, literally.¡±

    ¡°Joder, cabron. That psycho from group? In your head?¡±

    ¡°Yeah. Turns out, my powers are more complicated than I thought.¡±

    ¡°?Qu¨¦ demonios? So you¡¯ve got, like, two personalities now?

    ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s... pretty much it,¡± said Lance, pausing for a moment. ¡°Or more like an unwanted mental roomate.¡±

    ¡°Joder. The guy mentioned something like that in group. But why¡¯d you do it, man?¡±

    Why, indeed. I guess¡­

    ¡°Two birds, one stone,¡± Lance said, his tone matter-of-fact. ¡°Figure out my powers, maybe fix a broken man. Turns out, it¡¯s not that simple.¡±

    ¡°Whoa, hold up. You¡¯ve got some psycho sharing your body now. Hermano, that¡¯s not the same as fixing my legs. What were you thinking?¡±

    Marcus saved him from having to answer that question.

    ¡°Aight,¡± grunted the gym owner, garnering their attention.

    ¡°So, Tank, ready to work your magic?¡± Lance asked.

    ¡°Already done, soldier.¡±

    ¡°Really?¡±

    Lance looked down at his wrist. The swelling had gone down, and the bones no longer jutted out randomly. It looked almost normal, just a bit red and bruised, and he could tell it didn¡¯t work properly yet.

    ¡°Ya, I just need to wrap it.¡± Marcus creased his forehead. ¡°You seriously didn¡¯t feel a thing?¡±

    ¡°Nope, nothing. Thanks, Tank. Sorry for the hassle.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t make this a habit. I run a gym, not an ER.¡±

    ¡°And next time, try not to piss off the whole gym,¡± Diego said.

    ¡°Trust me, I¡¯m not planning on making this a habit.¡±

    Diego responded with a soft exhale before Marcus cut the banter short.

    ¡°Look, that¡¯s one hell of a story, Lance. Don¡¯t know what¡¯s going on with you and this Frank guy, but you¡¯re damn lucky I¡¯ve known you so long. Otherwise, I might¡¯ve rearranged your face earlier.¡±

    A dry chuckle escaped Lance¡¯s lips.

    As Marcus wrapped, Lance filled him in on the basics ¨C his enhanced strength, speed, and healing factor. He glossed over the more complicated aspects, like his ability to appropriate others¡¯ powers. Some secrets were better kept, at least for now. But the big man had already picked up on the gist of it, primarily during their krav maga lessons. And that was when the Titan¡¯s Den phone rang.

    ¡°Yes?¡± Marcus answered. ¡°Okay. He¡¯s here.¡± Then, he pressed the phone to his chest. ¡°Lance, it¡¯s for you. It¡¯s the police.¡±

    Marcus and Diego exchanged a look that made Lance¡¯s insides revolt.

 Seventeen: Visitors

    LUMBERJACK BREAKFAST

    <ul>

    <li style="font-weight: 400">3 eggs (any style)</li>

    </ul>

    <ul>

    <li style="font-weight: 400">4 strips of bacon</li>

    </ul>

    <ul>

    <li style="font-weight: 400">2 sausage links</li>

    </ul>

    <ul>

    <li style="font-weight: 400">Hash browns</li>

    </ul>

    <ul>

    <li style="font-weight: 400">2 pancakes</li>

    </ul>

    <ul>

    <li style="font-weight: 400">Toast</li>

    </ul>

    <ul>

    <li style="font-weight: 400">Coffee</li>

    </ul>

    Lance had this. Twice.

    He knew not where it all went, and yet didn''t question it.

    His stomach had growled like it was eating itself. Lucky for him, he''d found a place while on his way to the police station that had just opened that day. An old lady ran it¡ªher wrinkled hands had trembled as she poured coffee, but a hint of steely purpose had lurked behind her frailty. Lance had been her first customer. After watching him devour two lumberjack specials, she''d known her reopening was off to a great start. Lance''s credit card, not so much.

    Then it was off to the police station. Detective Yamada met him briefly. She said they had all the evidence they needed¡ªthe assassin''s history and the obvious signs of forced entry made it an open-and-shut case of self-defense. After that he had to review some paperwork because all the crime scene cleanup companies were still on pandemic shutdown so if he signed denying the service they would release his home and he could go back there and he just wanted to get it over with already and go home even if it meant cleaning up the mess himself.

    His hand shook. Too much coffee.

    He signed it.

    And now...

    Lance trudged up the stairs, each step a Herculean effort. Exhausted. The events at the police station had drained him and the effects of caffeine were gone, leaving him feeling hollow and wrung out.

    Even though he fumbled with his keys, the familiar metal brought a smile to his face.

    ¡®Click¡¯

    Went the lock. He pushed the door open, bracing himself for the chaos that awaited him.

    Please don¡¯t be a complete disaster.

    The apartment yawned before him, a battlefield of police tape and scattered evidence markers. Lance¡¯s eyes swept the area, taking in the mess. Furniture askew, drawers pulled out, contents spilled across the floor. The stench of cleaning chemicals irritated his throat.

    At least they got rid of the body.

    He stepped inside, careful not to disturb anything. The memories of that night nagged at him, but Lance pushed them aside. He noticed the ashes of what used to be a houseplant, the thing that kicked off this whole mess. Despite it all...

    Home sweet home.

    He felt a bit pleased. His home looked different now. The place had changed. He could still sense the aftermath of the gunfight, but he was happy to be home. It wasn¡¯t great, but it belonged to him.

    Lance made his way to the kitchen, sidestepping overturned chairs and scattered papers. The fridge hummed softly, a familiar sound in the eerie silence. He yanked it open, hoping for a cold brew to wake him up.

    Empty.

    Of course.

    Sighing, he closed the fridge and leaned against the counter. His reflection stared back at him from the microwave door ¨C haggard, eyes sunken, stubble darkening his jaw. His beard had started to take shape. He barely recognized himself. The burn marks on his skin had healed a lot, but they currently looked worse than when he first got them.

    What a mess.

    The words applied to more than just his apartment and his burn marks. His life had spiraled into chaos, a whirlwind of enhanced abilities, violence, and now... Frank. The unwelcome presence in his mind stirred at the thought, like a snake coiling to strike. When would he take control again? Maybe he could nullify him. Duh. Some genius I am. That¡¯s literally my whole thing.

    Lance jerked his head sideways, trying to clear it. He needed to focus on the immediate problem: cleaning up this disaster zone. But where to start? The living room looked like a tornado had torn through it. The bedroom probably wasn¡¯t much better.

    One step at a time.

    He grabbed a trash bag from under the sink and began collecting the detritus of the police investigation. Evidence markers, shredded papers, broken glass ¨C all of it went into the bag. Cleaning up kept his hands busy and his mind off the crazy stuff. It was like his brain needed something normal to do.

    As he worked, Lance¡¯s enhanced senses picked up on details he might have missed before. A faint whiff of gunpowder. The imperceptible outline of a footprint in the carpet. Tiny splinters of wood where the intruder had forced entry.

    They really went over this place with a fine-toothed comb.

    Part of him appreciated their thoroughness. The rest just wanted to erase everything related to that night.

    An hour passed. The sun beat down outside, making the apartment feel stuffy. Lance¡¯s right wrist pulsed angrily under the makeshift cast Marcus had wrapped. Not too tight, he hoped - broken bones needed just the right pressure. His good arm felt sore from all the one-handed cleaning. But even with just one working hand, the apartment was starting to resemble something livable again.

    He collapsed onto the couch, surveying his handiwork. The place wasn¡¯t perfect, but it was better. Cleaner. Less like a crime scene and more like a home.

    Now what?

    Lance stared at the TV, wondering if it still worked, remembering the scientist collapsing on live broadcast when NARS first hit, wishing he could just sit in front of it with Jiro curled up on his lap later that day...

    His body felt heavy, the cleanup and emotional toll of the day weighing on him. He craved rest ¨C not sleep, since he''d just had that 30-hour knockout, but a chance to just sit and do nothing for a while.

    But even as exhaustion tugged at him, a nagging worry persisted. What if someone came back? What if there were more people after him?

    You''re being paranoid, he told himself. Then he remembered confronting Preston. Shit. That was a bad move. What was I thinking? The little prick will probably send more guys now. Lance grunted. He never acted so emotional before. Was it Frank''s influence somehow?

    But then he smirked. Actually, Preston''s probably not a problem. If I can trust this new nose of mine, that kid definitely shit his pants that night. His smirk grew. And if he didn''t... well, I''m bulletproof now. Nothing to worry about. Except not killing his assassins, he chuckled.

    A rush of air.

    An unfamiliar cologne.

    The creak of a floorboard.

    Lance''s spatial awareness screamed danger, but it was too late.

    ¡®Whack¡¯

    The world tilted sideways as something hard connected with his skull.

    Lance sailed through the living room, a ragdoll with no control over his limbs. Confused, his back slammed against the far wall with a thud that knocked the wind out of his lungs.

    Seriously? Another Ambush?

    Pain exploded across his spine, dulled to a manageable throb by Pain Nullification, as he slid to the floor gasping for breath, enhanced senses not quite sharp enough to warn him about the incoming assault.

    A big figure stepped out of the dark corner. Lance couldn''t see their face, but he could tell they meant trouble.

    Not like the other hitman. This is an arma user, he thought. Move!

    His Krav Maga training kicked in, muscle memory overriding the shock. Lance rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding a fist that cratered the floor where his head had been. He scrambled to his feet, hands raised in a defensive stance.

    The attacker lunged forward, faster than any human had a right to be. Faster than Lance himself. What the hell. Lance''s reflexes allowed him to dodge the first punch, but only by a hair, and the second caught him in the ribs. He felt something crack.

    Shit, he''s strong.

    Lance retaliated with a palm strike to the solar plexus, a move that should have incapacitated any normal opponent. It was like hitting a brick wall. The attacker didn''t even flinch.

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    Panic clawed at Lance''s throat. It didn''t matter that Marcus had taught him Krav Maga. This guy was so strong, Lance could have studied Krav Maga for a hundred years and it still wouldn''t have helped. He tried a leg sweep, aiming to throw the intruder off balance.

    "Give it back!" the attacker bellowed, and through the confusion and the wreckage and the dust and the attacker''s tousled blonde hair, Lance finally got a semi-good look of his face.

    Zack?

    ¡°Why are you he¡ª¡±

    Zack caught his leg mid-sweep, twisting it with inhuman strength. Lance howled as pain shot through his knee. He toppled backwards, landing hard on the coffee table. It shattered beneath him, shards of wood and glass digging into his back, but not breaking through Impervious.

    Get up. Fight.

    But his body refused to cooperate. The attacker loomed over him, a mountain of muscle and menace.

    Lance groaned, shifting on the floor to prop himself up on his elbows. Glass crunched beneath him. He squinted at his attacker.

    "Zack? What the hell are you doing here?"

    "I''m not Zack. I''m Frank."

    Lance''s head swirled. Frank? The same Frank whose personality - or so he thought - had taken over his own body this morning. A string of curses ran through Lance''s head as the pieces clicked into place.

    And that strength¡­ He''d known about Zack and Frank, but this felt different.

    Damn. Just how many assholes are crammed in that skull? Two had seemed wild enough, but three? Or more? Lance almost wanted to laugh.

    If this was Frank, then who the hell had Lance appropriated? Doesn¡¯t matter. Directive number one: Don¡¯t get pummeled.

    "Alright... Frank. What do you want?"

    Frank''s fists clenched in response, veins bulging in his forearms. "You''ve got one chance to give it back. Or you''re dead."

    Lance head cocked briefly, momentarily thrown. "Give what back?"

    The words left his mouth even as understanding dawned. Impervious. Of course. What else could Frank be after? Lance''s skin itched with the phantom sensation of bullets bouncing off, of knives failing to penetrate. A power like that - who wouldn''t want it back? He fought to keep his face neutral while pros and cons played out behind it.

    "Don''t play dumb. You know what you took. I''m counting to three."

    "One."

    Zack doesn''t want it. But Frank does. Makes sense.

    "Two."

    Guess even personalities can disagree. How can he live like that?

    "Thr-"

    Sorry, Zack. But hey, I get rid of two assholes at once.

    "Whoa, hold on. I don''t even want it, okay? I¡¯m pretty sure I can return it."

    Frank''s shoulders relaxed slightly. ¡°Go on then.¡± He sat on the couch, eyes never leaving Lance.

    Lance stood slowly, brushing debris from his clothes. ¡°What is it with people and trashing my place? Is ¡®please attack outside¡¯ too much to ask?¡± Lance grumbled.

    "Well, you didn''t show up to therapy yesterday. So here we are."

    "How''d you even find where I live?" Lance asked.

    "County website. Thank yourself for being a registered voter."

    Lance gaped at Frank as the hulking man on his couch bore no resemblance to the meek Zack he''d met at the support group.

    The Redistribution ability he''d just gotten felt like it was itching to be used, offering a potential way out. Lance expanded his chest with a breath, centering himself. He''d never attempted to transfer a power back before. Hell, he''d barely gotten used to taking them.

    Let''s go, Lan. We got this, Lance thought. He paused. Wait, ''we''? Am I talking to another personality now? He chuckled nervously, half-joking but also a bit freaked out that it might actually be true. Lance shook his head and smacked his cheek lightly. "Focus, dummy," he breathed, forcing his mind back to the problem he needed to solve.

    Lance closed his eyes and reached inward. He saw the familiar glow of his stolen abilities, each one a distinct orb of color and intensity. Impervious shone brightest, its blue light pulsing strongly. Lance hesitated, not wanting to give it up. But getting beaten to a pulp by Frank''s super-strength seemed way worse.

    Sorry, buddy. Time to go home.

    He zeroed in on Impervious, trying to pry it from his core. At first, nothing budged. Lance balled his fists, doubling his efforts. His face scrunched up as he fought against an unseen force.

    Suddenly, he felt a shift. The blue glow of Impervious began to flicker, then slowly peel away from what Lance could only describe as his core. It wasn''t his heart¡ªmore like a spot deep in his chest where his power seemed to live. He''d never really thought about it before, but now he could feel it, like some kind of energy center straight out of those martial arts movies. The glow kept separating, and Lance gasped, his eyes flying open. A faint, silvery mist seeped from his skin, forming into a cloud between him and Frank.

    Without thinking, an arm shot out towards Frank, willing the magical orb to flow through it like a conduit.

    "Holy shit," Lance breathed. "I think it''s working."

    Frank leaned forward, eyes fixed on the floating orb. His massive hands twitched, eager to reclaim what was lost. Lance hesitated, a pang of regret twisting his gut. Impervious had saved his life more than once. Giving it up felt like discarding a trusted shield.

    But it''s not mine to keep, he reminded himself.

    Still, Lance¡¯s fingers recoiled on their own, but before he could second-guess himself, Frank''s meaty fingers clamped around his wrist.

    "No backing out now, kid," Frank growled, forcing Lance''s hand into the cloud.

    With a final push of will, Lance directed the orb toward Frank. It drifted across his arm, picking up speed as it neared his fingertip. Frank''s eyes grew, a look of raw hunger replacing his earlier rage. He wanted it. He really wanted it.

    The orb slammed into Frank''s chest, disappearing in a flash of light. He jerked backward, body rigid as the power reintegrated. For a moment, the room was silent save for the sound of labored breathing.

    Then Frank''s pupils vanished behind heavy lids, and he slumped onto the couch, and Lance felt it too.

    His arms suddenly weighed a ton, like someone had strapped dumbbells to them. He stumbled, catching himself on the edge of a nearby end table. The familiar heft of the wooden surface surprised him - had it always been this heavy? Lance frowned, eyeing the lamp he''d casually lifted earlier. Now, just the thought of picking it up made his muscles protest. It was like someone had cranked up the gravity in the room, but only for him.

    And his skin tickled, as if he''d stepped out of a hot shower into cold air. Lance ran a couple of fingers over his arm, startled by the sudden sensitivity. The moment mimicked peeling off a thick rubber suit he hadn''t realized he was wearing. Oddly, a sense of lightness washed over him, reminiscent of taking that first deep breath after shedding bulky winter gear. He pressed a finger against his forearm, testing. No pain, but the pressure registered more intensely than before. His skin had lost its invincibility, becoming... ordinary. At least his old wounds remained closed ¨C small mercies.

    Guess we''re back to peak human perfor¡ª

    "Shit!" Lance exclaimed, rushing forward. Had he screwed up? Was giving back a power more dangerous than taking it? He reached out to check Frank''s pulse, then hesitated. What if this was a trick? Did I kill¡­ another man?

    Seconds ticked by. Lance''s heart hammered in his chest as he watched for any sign of movement. Just as he was about to risk checking for vital signs, Frank''s eyelids jiggled.

    Worry evaporated like water in a furnace. "You okay, man?"

    Frank blinked, confusion scrambled his features. He looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers as if seeing them for the first time. When he spoke, his voice was softer, lacking the menacing growl from earlier.

    "I... I''m not Frank."

    Lance''s face tensed. "Zack?"

    The man on the couch nodded, then winced. "Yeah, it''s me. God, my head feels like mush."

    Great, Lance thought. Now I''ve got to deal with the nice one. He sighed, rubbing his temples. "Look, Zack, I''m sorry about all this. Frank forced me to return what I had taken from you."

    Zack waved off the apology. "It''s¡­okay. Not your fault. Frank... he can be pretty forceful when he wants something." He paused, a shadow crossing his face. "Wait, did I... did he hurt you?"

    Lance glanced down at himself, taking stock. His ribs ached where Frank had landed that devastating punch, and his back smarted from his impact with the wall. But nothing felt broken, and the pain was not there thanks to his ability.

    "Nothing I can''t handle," he said with a shrug. "Though I''d appreciate it if you guys could duke it out somewhere that isn''t my living room next time."

    Zack winced again, taking in the destruction around them. "I''m so sorry. I''ll help clean up, of course." He started to stand, then swayed dangerously.

    Lance reached out to steady him. "Whoa, easy there. Maybe sit for a bit longer. That power transfer seemed to take a lot out of you."

    Gratefully, Zack sank back onto the couch. "Yeah, I guess so. It''s weird... I can feel it settling back in, but it''s like... muffled somehow. Like it''s there, but I can''t quite reach it."

    Lance stroked his beard. "That doesn''t sound right. When I took it, it was immediately available." He paused, considering. "Maybe it takes time to fully reintegrate?"

    "Maybe," Zack said, but he didn''t sound convinced.

    The quiet grew teeth, gnawing at their nerves. Lance fidgeted, unsure how to proceed. Part of him wanted to kick Zack out and forget this whole mess. Another part itched to know how Zack had bulked up so much. Lance couldn''t help wondering what it would take to get that strong himself. Maybe one day he''d have arma like that too.

    Curiosity killed the cat, he reminded himself. But the words that came out of his mouth had other plans.

    "So... how many of you are in there, anyway?"

    Zack dipped his chin, gaze dropping to his feet. After a moment, he glanced off to the side. "That''s... complicated."

    "I''ve got time," Lance said, settling into a nearby chair. "And let''s face it, after what just happened, I think I deserve some answers."

    Zack sighed and seemed to shrink. He sank into the couch cushions like he was trying to disappear. At that moment, he looked like a kid in his dad''s armchair.

    "You''re right. It''s just... not something I''m used to talking about. As far as I know, there are three of us. Me, Frank, and... someone else. We call him Mack."

    Lance''s ears perked up, and he unconsciously scooted forward, drawn in by every word. "Mack, seriously? At least it¡¯s Catchy."

    "You have no idea," Zack whispered. He opened his mouth to continue, but before he could speak, his body went rigid. His eyes rolled back, and he began to convulse.

    "Zack!" Lance shouted, jumping to his feet. He rushed to the couch, hands hovering uselessly over Zack''s seizing form. What the hell do I do?

    As quickly as it started, the convulsion stopped. Zack''s body went limp, his head lolling to the side. Lance held his breath, watching for any sign of life.

    Slowly, Zack''s eyes opened. But the gaze that met Lance''s wasn''t Zack''s¡ªit was Frank''s. He knew.

    Fuck.

    Frank stood up, a satisfied look on his face. He stretched his wrists, cracking them loudly.

    "Perfect, got it back," he muttered to himself.

    He patted Lance''s shoulder, his huge hand nearly knocking Lance off balance.

    "You did good, kid."

    Lance raised an eyebrow. "Thanks, I guess?"

    Frank''s pale blue eyes locked onto Lance''s. "I''m not gonna kill you. I like you. Think I''ll keep you around."

    "Gee, how generous of you."

    "See you at the community center later."

    Lance frowned. "Wait, what?"

    Frank headed for the door. He paused, hand on the doorknob.

    "Gotta chop a log."

    The door slammed shut, leaving Lance alone in his once again wrecked apartment.

 Eighteen: Blink

    How long am I gonna stand outside Titan''s Den? Come on, just twist the door handle. My stomach''s doing backflips, even after having two breakfasts. Again. God, I''m hungry. Focus, Lan.

    Diego''s in there, probably doing his best Verlaine impression minus the genius IQ. And here I am, walking around with his superpowered legs like I''ve got any right to them. Christ, what a mess.

    I should just go in there and give them back. Simple, right? Except... fuck, these legs are something else. The power, the speed ¨C it''s¡­ it¡¯s damn, just damn it¡¯s exhilarating. Like being drunk. And even more so that I no longer hold impervious skin.

    Lance sighed.

    But it''s not mine. I stole it. Borrowed it. Whatever. Doesn''t change the fact that Diego''s in there, unable to walk, while I''m out here contemplating how to keep Saltatorial.

    Like... Diego said the power caused him pain. Constant, agonizing pain. Am I really doing him a favor by giving it back? Maybe I''m actually helping by keeping it. Yeah, that''s it. I''m being altruistic. Selfless, even.

    And I could do so much good with them¡­

    Who am I kidding? Come on, Lan, be honest with yourself: Part of me wants to keep this, no matter what. It was bad enough losing Impervious. Now I''ll be back to what? Slightly above average? A hero wannabe without a stereotypical cape or the backstory? Pathetic.

    And let''s not forget my actual "superpower." Appropriation. What a joke. All the power of a comic book villain, none of the benefits. Unless I want to go around stealing people''s abilities like some kind of power-hungry leech. Which I don''t. I think.

    God, I sound like a whiny teenager. "But Mom, I don''t want to give back the superpowers I stole!" Grow up, grow up, grow up!

    He took a deep breath, his hand still on the door. Time to face the music. Time to do the right thing, even if it sucks. Even if it means going back to being... an ordinary superhero.

    Ordinary. Shit. Is that really so bad, though? No more worrying about controlling insane abilities. I mean, Mack or whatever the fuck his name was, had to go. That was a no brainer, but this one¡ª

    Alright, enough stalling. Let''s do this. I¡¯m not Frank. I¡¯m not Mack. I¡¯m not an asshole.

    He spotted Diego almost immediately, seated in his wheelchair near the free weights section. Marcus stood beside him, methodically rearranging dumbbells on the rack, sorting them by weight. Lance inhaled deeply, his shoulders rising and falling as he steeled himself for the encounter.

    Farewell, Saltatorial.

    Lance approached. The stolen legs carried him smoothly across the gym floor - too smoothly. Each step made him feel like a fraud.

    "Hey, guys," Lance called out, voice sounding strained even to himself.

    Marcus flashed a bright smile under the gym''s fluorescent lights.

    "Lance!"

    Diego looked up, his micro-expressions a puzzle Lance struggled to solve. Anger? Disappointment? Hope? Relief? Resentment? Was there a hint of respect buried somewhere in there? Hopefully. But more likely it was pity. Or all of the above. He took another lungful of air. Was he overthinking this whole thing? Probably.

    "Diego, can I talk to you for a second?" Lance asked, forcing a smile that didn''t quite reach his eyes, followed by a stifled laugh.

    "Sure, why not? It''s not like I can go for a jog," Diego said.

    Marcus glanced between them, his finger tapping the forty-pound dumbbell. "You two need some privacy?"

    Lance nodded, not trusting his voice. The big man gave Diego''s shoulder a squeeze before walking away, and suddenly they were alone in the corner of the gym, with the perfectly organized dumbbell rack that stood between them like a barrier Lance wished he could hide behind.

    Looking directly at Diego, Lance stood still. The power coursing through his legs - Diego''s power - made his head spin and raised even more unanswered questions. He hadn''t felt a sliver of pain since taking them, which was oddly unsettling. Not even when Pain Nullification hadn¡¯t been activated. Would Diego suffer when he got them back?

    ¡°So, what¡¯s up?¡± Diego asked.

    As if coming to a sudden decision, Lance''s expression cleared, and a genuine smile spread across his face as he said, "Let''s get you your legs back."

    "I guess you''re right. Probably for the best anyway. It¡¯s getting hard to fit through doors,¡± Diego chortled.

    Lance winced at the awkward joke.

    "Hey, about that... I was thinking,¡± Lance said. ¡°Maybe the pain won''t come back. I mean, I haven''t felt any since... you know."

    "Seriously? None at all? ?Ni un poquito?"

    ¡°Nada,¡± Lance replied.

    Diego gave his wheels a soft push.

    "So, how do we do this?" Diego asked, gesturing between them.

    The process was more intuitive this time, surprisingly simple and straightforward. Now that he''d done it once before, Lance knew what to expect. As he¡¯d done earlier, he closed his eyes, focused inward, and visualized the orbs¡ªorb of power. He knew what to expect now. The familiar tug-of-war feeling as he tried to separate the ability from his core. The silvery mist forming between them. Diego''s eager anticipation as the power drifted towards him.

    Just like that, it was over. Lance''s system pinged:

    [Redistribution] complete

    ©¸©¤[Saltatorial] removed from active slots

    ©¸©¤©¤Trace of [Saltatorial] detected in host system

    ©¸©¤©¤©¤Residual arma energy: 8%

    Lance stared at the system message, a smirk tugging at his lips. Did I keep some of it? Nooo, I was sure Diego got everything back. It wasn¡¯t like I could slice it. Was it? Maybe my arma copied it?

    Eight percent, huh? Not much, but it''s something. Could it have been because I held onto it longer?

    The satisfaction was short-lived as the wave of weakness enveloped him. Not quite as bad as before, but still like he''d suddenly put on a weighted vest. This time, his legs bore the brunt of the power loss, but he felt weaker all over. He was still strong¡ªstronger than any normal person¡ªbut the difference was jarring. Where before he could have lifted a car without breaking a sweat, now he''d probably struggle with anything heavier than a motorcycle.

    He flexed the fingers on his working arm and a few experimental squats. Up. Down. Up. Down. Up.

    "Well, this is gonna take some getting used to."

    The next second, Lance looked at Diego, searching for any sign of how he felt about getting his power back.

    But the man in the wheelchair only grinned.

    Then stood.

    "Welcome back to the world of bipeds," Lance said, forcing a smile despite the pang of regret that shot through him, only slightly softened by the knowledge that he''d kept a sliver of Saltatorial.

    Diego took a tentative step, then another. His movements were careful, measured, but there was an undeniable joy in his expression. "Man, I never thought I''d be so happy just to walk again."

    Lance smiled. For real. This had been the right choice.

    "Do they feel as strong as before?"

    "Yes¡ªno,¡± Diego said. ¡°It''s... different. The power''s there, I can feel it. But I think I¡¯m faster than I was strong, if that makes sense."

    ¡°And the pain?¡± Lance asked.

    "No, that''s just it. It''s there, but it''s... less. Way less than before. I don''t understand."

    And after hearing those words, Lance was finally able to breathe. "Maybe taking it away and giving it back reset something? Or maybe my ability did more than just borrow it?"

    Diego shrugged, a grin spreading across his face. "Who knows? All I care about is that I can walk without feeling like my legs are on fire." He paused, then added with a straight face, "I guess you could say I''m... back on my feet."

    Laughter.

    It bubbled up from Lance''s chest. It caught him off guard, but it felt real. Diego cracked up too, and soon they were both just laughing in the middle of the gym. For a second, they weren''t dealing with superpowers or any of that crap. They were just two guys having a good time.

    Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

    "Thank you, Lance. Not just for giving it back, but... for taking it in the first place. I know you didn''t mean to, but man, I needed that break."

    "I''m just glad it worked out. I was worried I''d screwed everything up."

    "Nah, you''re good," Diego said, standing straight for the first time in days. "If anything, I should be sorry for pushing you into it."

    They stopped talking for a bit. The gym''s old AC rattled away, sounding like a tired washing machine. Lance felt weird - not bad, just different. Like walking through your front door after a 20-hour flight. He hadn''t noticed how much holding on to Diego''s power had been weighing on him until now.

    "So," Diego said, breaking the silence. "You want to hit the weights? I''ve got some catching up to do."

    Lance smirked. "Sure, why not? Just go easy on me. I''m back to being a mere arma user now."

    Diego laughed, leading the way to the bench press. "Please. You were never ''mere'' anything, Lance. Arma or not."

    ***

    Mitsuki''s phone buzzed again. She groaned. She fumbled for the device, her bleary eyes struggling to focus on the screen. Captain Longly''s name glared back at her, a harbinger of yet another disrupted day off.

    "Yamada."

    ¡°I need you to head over to Oak Street.¡±

    Mitsuki squinted at her watch. [6:08 PM]. Shit.

    "Captain, I just got home¡ª"

    "I know, Detective. But we''re spread thin. You''re the only one available. I just sent you the details. Let me know that you got them.¡±

    ¡®Ding,¡¯

    She put the phone on speaker and swiped into the new notification.

    [?? SecureForce ? now

    Captain Longly

    Case Brief: Open Investigation 2051-4438 (See attachment)]

    ¡°I got it¡ªisn¡¯t this Stevie¡¯s case?¡±

    ¡°Stevie¡¯s on leave. His brother just died, who knows when he¡¯ll be back.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s horrible.¡±

    "Anyway, it should be pretty straightforward. The lady knows you''re coming. Just sit down, and see what you can find out."

    "Understood, sir. I''ll be there."

    ¡°See you tomorrow.¡±

    ¡®Click¡¯

    Thirty-six hours without sleep. Her eyes felt like sandpaper. She glanced at her watch again, having already forgotten the time she had read seconds ago.

    [6:09 PM]

    Had she really only been asleep for twenty minutes?

    The bathroom was close, but the kitchen sink was closer, and Mitsuki splashed cold water on her face, willing her synapses to fire. She couldn''t afford to be sluggish, not when lives might depend on her alertness. As she dried her face, her gaze fell on the electric blue streak in her hair. A reminder of simpler times, when her biggest worry was whether her father would approve of her career choice.

    She stumbled to her closet, grabbing the first civilian clothes she could find. A faded band t-shirt. Ripped jeans. Red baseball cap. Perfect for blending in.

    Mitsuki grabbed her go-bag, always packed for situations like this, and headed out. The streets were eerily quiet, a stark reminder of the pandemic''s ongoing grip on the city. As she walked briskly towards her car, she couldn¡¯t help but notice the mix of open businesses and vacant storefronts. A few pedestrians moved about, some masked, others not, hinting at the city''s slow return to its regular rhythm.

    And speaking of rhythm, her car refused to start. Of course.

    "Dammit!" She slammed her palm against the steering wheel.

    Taxi it was.

    As the cab weaved through empty streets, Mitsuki''s mind drifted to the case she''d just closed. A string of robberies. Nothing special. But the paperwork... endless.

    The driver''s voice snapped her back. "Community center, miss."

    Mitsuki blinked. They were already there.

    She paid and stumbled out, her legs wobbling. Sleep deprivation was a bitch.

    Mitsuki reached into her purse with clumsy hands then located the precious bottle before popping the cap and shaking out a caffeine pill to dry-swallow it all in one well-practiced sequence.

    She yawned, pushing open the community center''s door. Blink. The fluorescent lights of the gym attacked her eyes. Blink. A woman appeared in front of her, mouth moving. Blink. Mitsuki''s brain finally caught up with her surroundings.

    "I said, you''re a bit early. Would you like some coffee while we wait for the others?"

    Mitsuki nodded, suppressing another yawn while scrolling through her phone to remind herself of the details, her mental grid failing her.

    "Dr. Elena Rodriguez?" asked the detective.

    "Yes, that''s me. How can I help you?"

    "Detective Mitsuki Yamada. The department called earlier about observing today''s session."

    "Ah, yes. Detective Yamada. I was informed someone would be joining us."

    "I''ll just observe, if that''s okay. Won''t interfere with your session."

    "Of course, that''s no problem at all. Why don''t you grab some coffee? The others should be arriving soon."

    Elena gestured towards a small table in the corner.

    Mitsuki nodded and automatically headed for the coffee.

    Another cup and I''ll be more caffeine than human. Obaa-san would be appalled. She smirked, imagining her traditional grandmother''s scolding voice. "Mitsuki-chan, tea cleanses the soul. That coffee will only stain it."

    Sorry, Obaa-san. This detective runs on coffee, not green tea. Soul stains and all.

    Mitsuki leaned against the wall, coffee cup warming her hands. The caffeine hadn''t kicked in yet, but the aroma was a comfort.

    Definitely not Obaa-san''s green tea, she thought as she monitored the gymnasium¡¯s entrance.

    ¡®Creeeeak.¡¯

    First through the door was a blonde with pink-tipped hair, swagger in her step. Confident. Maybe too confident. The girl''s eyes darted around, assessing. Behind her, a waif-like figure with long black hair. The smaller girl''s movements were hesitant, almost ethereal.

    Odd pair. If she were honest, that was probably how her father saw her and Hana. Like oil and water.

    The blonde whispered something to her companion, who nodded without speaking. Very odd.

    Next came a man with tousled blonde hair and thick-rimmed glasses. His body language screamed tension ¨C fists clenched, jaw tight. As he passed, Mitsuki caught a whiff of barely contained rage.

    It all went to her mental grid.

    A few minutes passed. Mitsuki''s eyelids grew heavy. She blinked hard, willing herself to focus.

    The door swung open once more, this time revealing a young man who looked like he''d just stepped out of a boy band photoshoot. His perfectly coiffed hair and designer clothes seemed out of place in the utilitarian surroundings of the community center. He flashed a megawatt smile at Dr. Rodriguez, his teeth so white they were almost blinding.

    "Rick, welcome," Elena greeted him. "How are you feeling today?"

    "Absolutely fantastic, doc," Rick chirped, his enthusiasm so intense it bordered on manic. "You know me, always living my best life!"

    Charming. Too charming? Mitsuki wondered.

    In her experience, people who claimed to always be living their best lives were often hiding the deepest pain. She made a mental note to keep an eye on Rick''s interactions with the others.

    Mitsuki''s attention snapped to the final pair entering the gym. One she recognized immediately ¨C Lance Lawthorn. The other, a muscular Hispanic man, was unfamiliar.

    Lance didn¡¯t notice her, their heads bent in conversation.

    For the best.

    But why was he here? Mitsuki rifled through her mental filing cabinet. Lance''s file popped up, a sticky note attached: Highly likely arma user.

    And those burns¡­ what happened to you, Lawthorn?

    The muscular man beside Lance clapped him on the back, nearly sending him stumbling forward. "Come on, hermano," he boomed, his voice filling the gymnasium. "Let''s grab some seats before all the good ones are taken."

    "Diego, Lance," Dr. Rodriguez greeted them. "I''m glad you both made it."

    As the group settled into their chairs, Mitsuki took stock of the assembled individuals. Six enhanced individuals, each with their own quirks and mysteries. But they all seemed so¡­

    Normal.

    How could anyone know these people were enhanced?

    Mitsuki grabbed a folding chair and settled into the circle. She picked a spot opposite Lance, making sure a couple of other participants blocked his line of sight. From here, she could observe everyone without drawing attention to herself. Perfect. She crossed her legs and balanced her notepad on her knee, pen at the ready.

    As introductions began, Mitsuki listened, matching names to faces.

    Vicky. The blonde.

    Wren. The quiet one.

    Frank. Mr. Rage-in-Glasses.

    Rick. The charmer.

    Diego. Lance''s muscular friend.

    She committed every detail to memory, filing away observations for later analysis. How do these people fit into my investigation? Did Stevie really think he would find clues here?

    She watched their interactions closely. Vicky seemed protective of Wren, shooting glares at anyone who looked at her companion too long. Frank fidgeted constantly, his eyes darting between the other members. Rick appeared calm, but there was something... rehearsed about his demeanor.

    All of them carried interesting mannerisms and she filed each and every one of them. Every twitch, every nervous glance, every shift in posture, and every microexpression.

    And Lance... Lance was a puzzle. He kept glancing at Vicky, and Mitsuki wondered about the nature of those looks. Romantic interest? Lovers?

    Mitsuki pinched her forearm as another yawn escaped her lips. God, I''m off my game tonight. She took a sip of her coffee, wondering if it would ever kick in.

    The caffeine must have finally hit, because suddenly, something had changed.

    The conversation stopped. Mitsuki scanned the circle. Some of the participants'' expressions shifted. Vicky''s cocky smirk faded, replaced by a distant, removed look. Lance¡¯s features weren¡¯t too far off. Diego, though, was the most obvious. Vacant stare. Strained brow. Slack jaw. All three of them suddenly looked confused, staring blankly as if they could see something far beyond the gym walls.

    Had Mitsuki stumbled into some kind of cult?

    Their eyes moved back and forth as if reading invisible text.

    What the hell? Were these mass hallucinations?

    Dr. Rodriguez continued speaking, oblivious to the change that had swept through her group, until she, too, noticed the bizarre behavior of some participants a moment later.

    The psychologist looked bewildered.

    "Is everyone alright?" she asked.

    Frank leaned back and crossed his arms. ¡°What the fuck is wrong with them? Did the new chick spike the coffee?¡±

    A few heads swiveled towards Mitsuki. Before she was forced to respond, Diego shook his head like a wet dog.

    "Dios m¨ªo, I thought I was losing it."

    Lance and Vicky exchanged a quick glance, then stood abruptly.

    "Sorry, Dr. Rodriguez,¡± Lance said. ¡°I just remembered an urgent matter I need to attend to."

    Mitsuki yawned, blinked, and suddenly Lance was already at the door, Vicky close behind.

    Diego rose slowly. "Sorry, I have to go too. Today¡¯s the day I promised. I mean. Marcus, uh... needs me for a... thing. At the gym. Yes, the gym." He walked out, hands in pockets, as if this was the most normal thing in the world.

    "Perhaps we should take a break,¡± Dr. Rodriguez said.

    A break sounds great, Mitsuki thought as she rubbed her eyes. That''s enough weirdness for me. I need sleep.

 Nineteen: Fire Nç…¤mero Two

    Name: Lance Lawthorn

    Energy Framework

    Core Power

    ©¸©¤[Appropriation (Alpha II)]

    <ul>

    <li>Modes

    ©¸©¤[Redistribution]</li>

    </ul>

    <ul>

    <li>Essence Powers

    ©¸©¤[Adaptive Limbs: Saltatorial (8%)]</li>

    </ul>

    Energy Mastery

    ©¸©¤[Pain Nullification (Emergent)]

    ©¸©¤[Energy Classification (Emergent)]

    ©¸©¤[Energy Cycling (Emergent)]

    Enhancements

    ©¸©¤Power: Tier 2

    ©¸©¤Energy: Tier 2

    ©¸©¤Speed: Tier 2

    ©¸©¤Defense: Tier 2

    ©¸©¤Mind: Tier 2

    ©¸©¤Control: Tier 2

    Lance stared at his energy framework¡ªthat nifty trick Dr. Patel had shown him, courtesy of the NARS gene therapy''s second dose¡ªand sighed. Shit. The loss of Saltatorial and Impervious had left him feeling naked, vulnerable.

    The universe had nerfed him, but he remained a player in the game. With brute force no longer viable, it was time to explore his remaining abilities and adjust his methods.

    Appropriation doesn¡¯t do anything on its own. Without stolen abilities, it was just potential. Redistribution seemed worse: A joke without appropriated powers to shuffle around. Mack screwed him over. Royally.

    All that was left was that eight percent of Saltatorial. Was it even doing anything? He couldn''t tell if his jumps were better or if he was imagining it. The other ninety-two percent felt like a phantom limb.

    Pain Nullification, however, came with a lot of mixed feelings. It had emerged spontaneously, saving his ass when he''d dug that bullet out. But was it really useful? For a pain-averse, lily-livered wimp like him? Probably.

    At least I won''t suffer when I die.

    He rubbed his face, feeling the stubble on his chin and thinking: Energy Classification... what good is that in a fight? Oh great, I can see people''s arma colors. Really helpful when someone''s trying to murder me.

    Lance''s eyes froze on one particular line of his status screen. Energy Cycling? He did a double-take, confused. When did he get that?

    He racked his brain, trying to recall any moment where this ability might have manifested. Nothing. It was like finding a stranger''s underwear in your drawer¡ªunexpected and slightly concerning.

    "System," he muttered, feeling a bit foolish talking to thin air, "what''s Energy Cycling?"

    No response. Of course not. It wasn''t some video game with convenient tooltips. He''d have to figure this out the hard way.

    BioNova hadn''t mentioned anything about delving deeper into specific descriptions. Or had she? Hell, he couldn¡¯t remember ever acquiring Energy Cycling for crying out loud. These gaps were chipping away at his sanity.

    Come to think of it, he couldn''t remember learning about Redistribution either¡ª

    Mack, he thought. It must''ve been Mack.

    Okay, nevermind. Please let it be good

    Lance focused, willing the framework to reveal more. To his surprise, a description flickered into view:

    Energy Cycling: Ability to circulate and refine energy within the body, enhancing physical attributes

    He read it twice, a spark of hope kindling in his chest. This... this he could work with. It wasn''t flashy like his lost abilities, but it sounded useful. Practical.

    Enhance physical attributes, huh? Lance flexed his hand, wondering if he could feel the energy moving. Nothing yet, but the potential was there. A tool to make him stronger, faster, maybe even tougher.

    Satisfied, Lance''s attention flicked back to the designators next to each ability. Alpha II, Emergent, Tier 2¡ªwhat did those mean? If this followed video game logic, they could be power levels or some progression system. But right now, that info was about as useful as a chocolate teapot. He added "interrogate Dr. Patel" to tomorrow''s to-do list. No point wasting brain power on it now when he had more pressing concerns. Like preparing for danger. Or figuring out some useful combination of these powers before someone tried to turn him into a Lance-shaped skid mark on the pavement.

    But as he soared through the city, wind biting his face, icy droplets stinging his skin, neon lights blurring past, at his normal peak-human-performance pace, his exhaustive contemplation of life''s not-so-mundane superpowers was interrupted.

    "Hey, protein bar guy! Nice of you to finally show up."

    He turned to see Vicky, who had been jogging beside him, her beautiful blonde hair fading to pink bouncing with each step.

    She was right; she did look badass. The left side of her head was freshly shaved where her hair had been singed two days ago. Light stubble was growing back, barely visible against her skin. It gave her a tough look, like a character from a post-apocalyptic wasteland. Which, given their current world and the Vicky he''d come to know, wasn''t far from the truth.

    "About that meeting yesterday..." Lance started.

    "The one you promised to bring snacks to? Yeah, I remember. We all do."

    Lance winced. "Had some unforeseen complications."

    "Uh-huh. Sure you did." Vicky''s face scrunched into an exaggerated pout as she ran. "So, did you at least bring them today?"

    Lance reached for the small backpack he''d been hauling, almost forgetting he had it until Vicky called him out. Without a word, he unzipped a pocket and tossed a small pouch her way.

    Vicky snatched it out of the air, peeking inside. Her eyes widened. "Holy sh¡ª"

    "It''s not just protein bars. Threw in some other stuff too."

    She quickly composed herself, clearing her throat. "You''re forgiven. This time. But don''t you dare break another promise, boludo."

    "Wouldn''t dream of it."

    "Good," Vicky said with a smug "hmph."

    "How far is this place anyway?" she then asked.

    "2876 Industrial Parkway? That''s what our... what was it called again? Quest? Directive?"

    ¡°Yep, got the same one.¡±

    ¡°It''s on the outskirts of town. Not too far now."

    "Great. More running." She glanced at Lance. "Though I gotta say, it''s way easier keeping up with you today. What happened?"

    Lance''s face stiffened for a split second. "Maybe you''re just getting faster."

    "Or maybe you''re getting slower. Late nights catching up to you, old man?"

    "I''m no more than two years older than you."

    Vicky grinned. "Ancient. Practically decrepit."

    "Keep it up and I''m taking those protein bars back."

    "You wouldn''t dare."

    Lance raised an eyebrow. "Try me."

    Vicky clutched the pouch to her chest. "Mine now. No takebacks."

    "Real mature."

    "Says the guy threatening to steal snacks."

    They rounded a corner, the sprawling industrial complex coming into view.

    Lance and Vicky jogged on, surrounded by tall buildings and empty lots. The quiet here felt odd compared to the noisy streets they''d left behind. Lance''s legs burned, but not in the good way he was used to. Losing his abilities was indeed starting to show.

    ¡®Whoosh¡¯

    Something zipped past. So fast, Lance''s enhanced senses barely registered it.

    What the¡ª

    Before he could finish the thought, the blur circled back, transforming into a well-known face.

    Diego.

    But not the Diego they knew. This was Diego 2.0, grinning from ear to ear, practically vibrating with fresh energy.

    "Surprise, bitches!" Diego''s booming laugh filled the air. "Bet you didn''t see that coming."

    The sight hit Lance like a glitch in reality, leaving him dazed. Diego, who''d been wheelchair-bound just days ago, was now standing¡ªno, bouncing¡ªon legs that pulsed with power that was his¡ªalso¡ªjust days ago¡­ and he was¡­

    Crazy fast.

    They both stopped in their tracks, but Vicky recovered first. "Holy shit, Diego! When did you¡ªI mean, how¡ª"

    "Got my mojo back, baby!" Diego flexed, his muscles rippling beneath his shirt. "And then some. Turns out, having your superpowers on vacation for a bit really juices ''em up when they come back."

    Pride inflated his chest. Yes, returning them was the right choice.

    "I¡¯ve never managed that speed myself. How fast were you going just now, Beast?"

    Diego''s eyes gleamed. "Fast enough to make you two look like you''re running through molasses. See that wall? Mira esto."

    He moved his fingers to his smartwatch. ¡®Click.¡¯ ¡®Click.¡¯

    This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

    Blur.

    Diego vanished, sprinting to a nearby warehouse and back, touching its wall.

    "What¡¯s that?¡± Lance asked Vicky. ¡°About a hundred meters, there and back?¡±

    ¡°Aaaand now he¡¯s turning around,¡± she said.

    ¡°Damn, just damn. He¡¯ll do about... 15 seconds?"

    Blur.

    ¡®Click¡¯

    ¡°13.7 seconds,¡± Diego said, slightly winded but grinning.

    Vicky whistled, impressed. "Damn, Diego. You''re practically leaving skid marks."

    "That¡¯s the Beast on rocket fuel," Diego corrected.

    ¡°And, no pain still?¡± Lance asked.

    ¡°It¡¯s a little worse than yesterday, but nothing compared to before.¡±

    Lance''s head spun. He knew Diego''s power firsthand, but this? This was a whole new level. A drop of envy wormed its way through his veins, quickly followed by a wave of guilt.

    I should be happy for him. This is what he needed.

    But a small, selfish part of him couldn''t help but mourn the loss of that incredible speed. The memory of effortlessly jumping up flights of stairs, of the world blurring around him as he raced through the city, felt like a cruel taunt now.

    Diego grabbed his right foot and pulled it behind him. His face telegraphed the stretch in his quad. He held the position for a few seconds, then switched to his left leg. "So, I assume you got this weird-ass message too?"

    ¡°Yeah, the one about coming to this industrial wasteland,¡± Lance said.

    ¡°Thought I was going crazy. But I saw you two heading this way and figured, hey, maybe it''s not just the excessive amounts of pre-workout talking."

    "Welcome to the club, big guy,¡± said Vicky. ¡°We''re all losing our minds together."

    Diego scratched his beard. "So, these are the crazy messages you mentioned before, Lance? The ones you said were like... what was it? ''The AI apocalypse meets brain worms''?"

    Lance nodded. "The very same. Trippy, right?"

    "Trippy doesn''t even begin to cover it, hermano. It''s like... can someone explain what''s this about the ''path of sidekick'' or investigating arma energy or some shit?"

    Vicky burst out laughing, nearly doubling over. "Path of Sidekick? Oh my god, that''s priceless!"

    "What''s so funny?"

    "Nothing, nothing." Vicky wiped tears from her eyes, her smirk widening. "It''s just... imagine getting stuck with that lame title."

    Lance shot Vicky a pointed, questioning look.

    "Wasn''t that your first¡ª"

    "So, Diego," Vicky interrupted, her voice suddenly louder. ¡°Pumped to sidekick this observational directive?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t get it. "What''s wrong with being a sidekick? Every hero needs backup, right?"

    Diego flexed unconsciously.

    "Sure, Diego. You can be our muscle," Lance said.

    "Damn straight." Diego''s chest puffed out slightly. "So, what''s the plan? We storming some evil scientist''s lair or what?"

    "Not quite," Lance said. ¡°I think we¡¯re supposed to investigate. Quietly.¡±

    Vicky¡¯s eyes moved to Diego¡¯s form. "Yeah, good luck with that.¡±

    Diego held up his hands. "Hey, I can be stealthy! I''ll be like... a ninja. A really buff, awesome ninja."

    ¡°Okay.¡± Lance pointed to a dilapidated building in the distance. "That''s the place. 2876 Industrial Parkway."

    Lance''s gaze darted from broken window to cracked brick, his brain firing off a rapid-fire list:

    <ol>

    <li style="font-weight: 400">Unstable floors?</li>

    <li style="font-weight: 400">Squatters inside?</li>

    <li style="font-weight: 400">Rusty nails everywhere?</li>

    <li style="font-weight: 400">Asbestos?</li>

    </ol>

    The old building hunched in front of them like a grumpy old man, daring them to step closer. Lance couldn''t shake the feeling it was sizing them up, deciding whether to spill its secrets or keep them locked away forever.

    "Alright, guys," he said, his voice low and steady. "We need to be smart about this. No rushing in blind."

    Vicky''s silent ''yes'' came with restless eyes that mapped out the limits of their space. "How about we split up? Cover more ground, but stay within earshot."

    "Good thinking," Lance agreed. "Diego, you take the left side. Vicky, right. I''ll go straight up the middle. Any sign of trouble, shout."

    Diego flexed his fingers, joints popping. His lips quirked up. "Remember: need any muscle work? I''m your guy. Walls, doors, whatever¡ªI''ll make it budge."

    "Noted, sidekick," Vicky chuckled. ¡°I''ll whistle if I need my powerhouse."

    As they approached the building, Lance concentrated, reaching for his raw Energy Cycling skill. He pictured energy surging through his body, willing it to sharpen his hearing, boost his night vision, amp up his reflexes, heighten his awareness, his strength, anything.

    Nothing.

    A wave of "why me?" swept through Lance from head to toe. Come on, work, damn it.

    They reached the entrance, a rusted door hanging off its hinges. Lance held up a hand, signaling for caution. He peered inside, straining his eyes in the dim light.

    Empty.

    "Looks clear," he whispered. "Let''s move in."

    As they entered, the musty smell of decay violated their nostrils and their sanity. Lance wrinkled his nose, still trying to activate his Energy Cycling. He imagined the energy purifying the air around him, cleansing his lungs.

    Useless, he thought. Guess I need to find a mountaintop guru with a magic energy beard.

    "See anything interesting?" Vicky''s voice echoed slightly in the cavernous space.

    "Nothing yet. Keep your eyes peeled,¡± Lance shouted back.

    They ventured further in, their shoes scuffing against the gritty floor. Lance¡¯s muscles jumped.

    The old factory was a mess. To their right, half the building had caved in, leaving a mountain of broken concrete, twisted metal, and who-knows-what else. Impossible to get through. The other half wasn''t much better, but at least they could walk around. Rusty machinery loomed in the darkness, looking more like sleeping monsters than old equipment. Trash and debris littered the floor, crunching under their feet with every step. Shafts of dirty light poked through holes in the roof, painting everything in a grimy, washed-out gray. The air smelled musty, like wet cardboard and old metal.

    Lance''s frustration grew with each passing moment. Sure, Energy Cycling sounded cool, but right now, it felt like trying to catch smoke with his bare hands. He should be able to do something with this new ability, shouldn''t he?

    As he pondered his limitations, a moving shadow caught his eye¡ªprobably just a rat, but in this place, who knew?

    "Hey, guys?¡± The Beast¡¯s voice called. ¡°I think I found something."

    Lance and Vicky converged on Diego''s position. He stood before a heavy metal door, its surface marred by rust and age.

    "It''s locked," Diego said, pointing to a keypad beside the door. "Want me to, you know..." He mimed punching the door.

    With a hand up, Lance said, "hold on. Let''s not announce our presence - just in case." He examined the keypad closely.

    Vicky leaned in next to him, her face heart-racingly close and her eyes narrowing. "Look at the wear patterns on the keys. Some are more worn than others."

    Lance jerked back, creating some breathing room between them. "Good catch. That narrows down the possibilities."

    As Vicky worked on deciphering the code, Lance closed his eyes, concentrating harder than ever on his Energy Cycling. He imagined the energy flowing to his brain, enhancing his cognitive abilities, helping him crack the code.

    All of the sudden, "Got it!" Vicky''s triumphant whisper snapped Lance back to reality. The keypad beeped, and the door gave way with a groan.

    Beyond stretched a hallway, lit by sputtering bulbs that coughed out sickly yellow light. The air hit them like a cold slap, carrying a sharp tang that made Lance''s eyes water. There was something else in the mix too¡ªa smell that nagged at him, like a word stuck on the tip of his tongue. He covered his nose and for a millisecond, his thoughts crawled towards his Pain Nullification skill. But no¡ªhe needed to stay sharp. Dulling his senses now could be a deadly mistake. Instead, he took shallow breaths through his mouth, trying to ignore the stench.

    Lance glanced at his watch. [7:45 PM] Time was ticking. ¡°According to the directive, we have two and a half hours before authorities arrive.¡±

    "Ladies first," Diego said with a grin.

    "Such a gentleman," Vicky quipped with a roll of her eyes. But she took point anyway, moving cautiously down the corridor.

    Lance fell in behind Vicky while keeping tabs on the shadowy corners until they reached the end of the corridor, where another door stood an inch open.

    They stepped into a vast space that might generously be called a warehouse, if warehouses typically came with rust-streaked walls and floors littered with debris, and Vicky muttered something about tetanus shots while Lance noticed the air was no better than in the corridor¡ªif anything, the dust seemed thicker, mixed with who-knows-what-else. Multiple entrances dotted the perimeter, though half of them were sealed shut by what looked like the aftermath of a localized extinction event¡ªchunks of rebar and shattered cinderblock forming impenetrable barricades that spoke of either a controlled demolition gone wrong or maybe an earthquake with a vendetta against doors specifically.

    This was most likely once the main floor of some manufacturing plant, with old machines scattered around like forgotten dinosaurs, their functions now a mystery; the whole place had an eerie feel, as if everyone had bolted mid-shift during an earthquake a decade ago, leaving everything to rust and decay ever since.

    He took in the desolate scene, a sinking feeling in his gut. This had to be a wild goose chase. Or worse, they were lab rats in some sick experiment, scurrying through a maze for someone''s twisted amusement. He could almost picture a group of scientists watching them on monitors, placing bets on how far they''d make it before giving up. Fuck Energy Cycling! Lance thought bitterly. Fat lot of good it was doing him now.

    But the fire had been real¡­

    What the hell am I doing? The thought hit him like a pneumatic nail gun. Playing hero when I can barely keep up¡ª

    "You okay there, protein bar guy?¡± Vicky asked. ¡°You''re looking a little green around the gills."

    Lance forced himself to breathe. To push down the conflicting emotions scrambling his dinner. "Yeah, I''m fine. Just... processing."

    She nodded, understanding in her eyes. "It''s a lot, huh? One minute we''re normal, the next we''re... whatever the hell we are now."

    "Freaks," Lance muttered.

    "Speak for yourself," Vicky retorted, but there was no real heat in it. "I prefer ''extraordinarily gifted individuals.''"

    "Is that what we''re calling it now?" he half-asked, half-chuckled.

    "Damn straight. Now come on, Diego¡¯s got something. And don''t think I didn''t notice you slowing down earlier. What''s up with that?"

    Deflect.

    Lance shrugged, aiming for nonchalance. "Just pacing myself. You know, conserving energy for whatever clusterfuck we''re about to walk into."

    Vicky squinted, but she didn''t press. "Uh-huh. Well, I''ve got my eye on you"

    "Oye, I just remembered. This place was on the news, bro. Thursday, I think."

    "Thursday? What happened?" Lance''s eyebrow quirked up.

    "A fire. Pretty big one from what I recall. Middle of the night."

    Vicky snorted. "And you just happened to be watching the news at that hour?"

    "Couldn''t sleep." Diego shrugged. ¡°Was in a wheelchair, so not much to do either.¡±

    ¡°What did they say?¡± Lance asked.

    "Eh, not much. Local cops showed up, but¡­ they didn''t seem too worked up about it. Just some old building burning, you know?"

    Lance tapped the side of his leg with his finger. "Interesting. Our directive mentioned a fire too. I thought that¡¯s what we would find, but there¡¯s nothing here."

    ¡°Right, ¡®cause the fire already happened.¡±

    "Two fires? What is this¡ªthe arson capital of the world?"

    Lance and Diego looked at each other. A beat passed. Neither spoke.

    ¡°I don¡¯t think so, but I never paid much attention,¡± Lance finally said, then paused, his gaze distant.

    "What are you thinking, hermano?"

    "I''m not sure what I''m thinking yet,¡± Lance said.

    "Well, that''s helpful."

    "Sometimes the brain needs time to warm up, like before a heavy lift. Dale un break al hombre.¡±

    "Che boludo, dej¨¢ de joder con tus analog¨ªas de gimnasio."

    "No mames, g¨¹ey. Nom¨¢s quer¨ªa alivianar el pedo¡­"

    As the Beast and Vicky bickered in Spanish, Lance paced the large space, summarizing everything they''d learned, which amounted to a whole lot of nothing, making him wonder if there was something to find here, and then he saw it.

    He saw movement under the cracked rubber of an old conveyor belt that stretched next to a huge industrial press. The press''s arm was stuck halfway through its job, like it just gave up. Weak moonlight came through holes in the ceiling, showing dust floating around. Lance''s 25/20 vision came in handy¡ªbetter than average, especially at night, though certainly not cat-level. Still, he had to squint to make out what was moving in the shadows under all that rusty junk.

    There. A flash of something dark and slick. Not quite oil, not quite slime. It oozed and pulsed, defying easy description. It called out to him. Or at least, that¡¯s what Lance thought¡ª

    ¡®Behind you.¡¯ his internal voice screamed.

    Sight. Sound. Smell. Touch. Taste.

    Lance''s senses exploded all at once, yet it wasn''t any of them. A sixth sense, maybe¡ªor all five cranked up to high. Arma. Nearby. How did he know? He just... knew. Like recognizing your own reflection, but with every fiber of your being. It was there, pulsing, calling out to him. Real? Imagined? Both? Neither?

    Did it matter?

    Something was there, jumping at him from the shadows, demanding his attention.

    And it wasn''t alone.

 Twenty: Tar

    Lance spun to face the threat, his shoulders going rigid. Something skimmed the edge of his vision. A fist flying towards his face.

    Shit.

    He ducked, barely avoiding the punch. His attacker¡ªa well-dressed man in an impeccable suit¡ªpressed forward with no intention of stopping.

    Lance placed him now. Jenkins. Preston''s assistant. The realization brought no comfort, only a surge of adrenaline.

    The little prick¡­

    Jenkins swung again, his movements fluid and precise. Lance blocked, feeling the impact reverberate through his left arm. Stronger than me, he thought grimly. But not by much.

    Every Krav Maga move Marcus taught him surfaced at once. Last time, against Frank, it hadn''t mattered - all that technique useless against raw strength."

    Lance stepped into Jenkins''s space, disrupting his rhythm. A quick jab to the solar plexus with his working arm. Jenkins grunted but didn''t falter.

    Tough bastard, Lance admitted as they circled each other, trading blows.

    Lance''s enhanced senses picked up every detail¡ªthe rustle of Jenkins''s expensive suit, the faint smell of cologne, the slight widening of his eyes before each attack.

    Pain blossomed across Lance''s ribs as Jenkins landed a solid hit. He stumbled back, gasping. Keep your guard tight, he told himself. Use his momentum against him.

    Jenkins snapped into motion, overextending. Lance saw his opening. He grabbed the butler¡¯s arm, pivoting to throw the larger man over his hip. Jenkins hit the ground hard, the impact echoing through the empty warehouse.

    Three breaths in. Four out.

    Lance didn''t waste time gloating. He followed up with a swift kick, aiming for Jenkins''s midsection. But the man rolled, avoiding the worst of it.

    In seconds, they were grappling again. Lance''s muscles strained at their limit. Without his stolen powers, he was just an ordinary arma user¡ªalbeit a well-trained one¡ªagainst an opponent who seemed to have no such limitations.

    If only I''d been faster on that kick, damn it. Arma Cycling would''ve been handy, Lance thought. A thought that cost him dearly.

    Jenkins''s fist connected with Lance''s jaw, sending him reeling. Stars exploded across his view. He tasted blood.

    No more playing nice.

    Lance unleashed a flurry of strikes, targeting vulnerable points¡ªthroat, eyes, groin. It wasn''t pretty, but it was effective. Jenkins faltered, caught off guard by the sudden aggression.

    Taking advantage of the momentary hesitation, Lance swept the enemy¡¯s legs out from under him. They both crashed to the ground, rolling across the debris-strewn floor.

    Dust choked the air. Metal scraps bit into Lance''s skin. Vicky''s crack about tetanus shots didn''t seem so funny now. He ignored it all, focused solely on survival.

    "Really? Taking orders from that rich punk?" Lance backed up a step. "What''s he paying you - hazard bonus for butler duties?"

    The butler said nothing, his face an impassive mask.

    Right. Should''ve known money talks.

    Diego and Vicky finally noticed the scuffle and rushed.

    Lance feinted left, then struck right¡ªpure instinct, muscle memory. Wrong move. His wrist brace couldn''t stop the pop that followed. Jenkins blocked, but not cleanly. The impact shot fire through Lance''s injured arm, but he pressed the advantage.

    A knee to the stomach. An elbow to the face. Jenkins stumbled back, his composure finally cracking.

    Lance felt a grim satisfaction. He might not have his stolen powers anymore, but he wasn''t helpless. Far from it.

    Jenkins rallied, launching a counterattack. But Lance was ready. He slipped under the man''s guard and¡ªthis time remembering which wrist was busted¡ªcaught him with an uppercut just as Jenkins hurled himself across the space. The butler''s momentum did the rest, launching him over the conveyor belt and into the mess of bent metal and burned debris beyond.

    The butler didn¡¯t move.

    Sweat stung his eyes. He rubbed them. When they cleared, Diego at his left shoulder was there. The burn in his exhausted muscles was there. So was the steady throb under his wrapped wrist. A new arma signature, dark and threatening, was there. Same energy as Jenkins. Same toxic intent, but stronger. Deeper. Malicious. Death seeking.

    Despite the blood in his mouth and his throbbing wrist and the burn of torn muscle in his ribs and the grinding sensation of bone against bone in his shoulder, Lance forced his body to turn and face it, but¡­

    Something bounced toward him. Grey. Tennis-ball sized. Smoke poured out, thick and fast. Cute trick. His senses worked fine without sight. Besides, that malicious arma still pulsed nearby, waiting to strike.

    He turned toward the smoke bomb anyway. His body moved before his brain could stop it. Idiot.

    A black-gloved fist filled his vision. Not fast enough to dodge. Not fast enough to block. Not fast enough to counter. Not fast enough to do anything but watch it come. But just slow enough to catch Preston''s smirk before impact.

    I have to take it, he told himself. I have to take it and counterattack.

    Activate Pain Nullification? Y/N

    Yes.

    He lifted his chin and met the incoming strike with unyielding resolve.

    But the fist never connected.

    The smoke cleared. Two hands appeared¡ªDiego caught Preston''s fist mid-swing while someone else grabbed the attacker''s forearm.

    Lance stood there, stunned. Diego and¡­ Rick? When had Maverick Munson even arrived? And how had they moved so fast?

    He hadn¡¯t sensed Rick at all. Had his arma been completely obscured by Preston¡¯s bloodthirst?

    "What the hell?" Preston snarled, trying to wrench his arm free. Neither Diego nor Rick budged.

    ¡°Kid, you''re better than this,¡± said Rick.

    "Screw you!" Preston yanked at his arm. "Let fucking go!"

    "Tranquilo, hermano," Diego said. "You''re acting like my abuela when we hide her chanclas."

    One swipe at his forehead, then the taunt: "nice fail, Preston,¡± Lance said. ¡°What''s wrong? Daddy''s money can''t buy you better henchmen?"

    "You think you''re so clever, don''t you? Always one step ahead. But you''re nothing. Just some nobody lucky enough to scraped together enough cash for an upgrade."

    "Lucky?" Lance scoffed. "Funny, last time we met, you left with a broken nose. Want to quit while you still have all your teeth?"

    "Quit, me?" Preston laughed, a harsh, brittle sound. "Y''all think this is over? I get stronger every day. Soon I''m gonna put you in the ground where you belo¡ª" His smirk, all of the sudden, widened as he watched Lance. "Looks like you''re getting weaker, huh? I bet it¡¯ll get exhausting, always looking over your shoulder. Sleep tight."

    Lance remembered how Preston''s shoulder had felt like a sumo wrestler when it slammed into him at BioNova and how he''d only won their last fight because of the stolen powers he''d juiced up with beforehand yet now those powers were gone while Preston just kept getting stronger.

    He yanked his arms free from Diego and Rick. "Get off me. I''m done with this fucking directive anyway."

    ''Thwack.''

    A blast of d¨¦j¨¤ vu hit Lance like that glossy white delivery truck that had missed him by a millimeter last year - the kind that always seemed to be hunting down protagonists in the Japanese light novels Mike kept trying to get him to read.

    Preston crumpled. One second he was standing there running his mouth, the next he was face-down on the concrete. Vicky shook out her hand, stepping over his unconscious body.

    "What?" She glanced at Lance. "Kid talks too much. Besides, you had that same look from the other day when you two threw hands."

    Lance almost smiled at her choice of words, but caught himself. "Thank you, Vicky¡­ I guess."

    "Yeah." Vicky nudged Preston with her foot. "He''ll live. Might even learn something, but I doubt it."

    Lance turned to Rick, who still hadn''t moved from his spot. "You''ve got some timing. How''d you even know we were here?"

    ¡°Yeah, bro. You were like a ninja,¡± Diego said.

    "Former drama teacher," Rick corrected. "We''re quite good at making entrances."

    Lance hadn''t talked much with Rick outside their support group sessions, yet he''d always seemed like the sanest one there¡ªwhich was kind of funny considering Lance saw himself as a complete mess and he was supposedly one of the stable ones. Still, something about Rick''s presence just made everything feel less chaotic.

    "Did you also get the system alert about this place?" Lance asked, gaze on Rick.

    "I did. Actually, I was hoping I could join you guys?"

    "Oh, um¡ª" Vicky tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Of course you can join us."

    "?Claro que s¨ª! More people means more fun!" Diego''s grin filled his whole face. "But uh, hate to break it to you, amigo¡ªwe were just about to bounce. Place is dead empty."

    "What a shame." Rick''s voice carried just the right note of disappointment.

    Lance''s gaze drifted to Preston''s unconscious form. "Actually, there was something I wanted to check before we got... interrupted."

    "What''s the deal with this pendejo anyway?" Diego asked.

    "Long story. But he''s the one who trashed my apartment."

    "??Qu¨¦?!" Diego took a step toward Preston, cracking his knuckles. "This little piece of¡ª"

    "Lance." Rick''s calm voice cut through Diego''s building rage. "What were you hoping to find here?"

    At the prompt, he walked to the conveyor belt, forcing himself to move slowly. The dark liquid under the machine drew his attention, making it hard to focus on anything else.

    "There." He pointed to the shifting mass. "Under the belt."

    Vicky crouched beside him, her nose wrinkling. "What is that? Looks like dinosaur oil, but... wrong."

    "It''s alive," Rick said. His tone carried no doubt.

    Diego shuffled his feet. "Man, that''s some horror movie shit right there."

    Lance focused on the substance, trying to parse the sensation it gave off. Not quite arma, not quite matter. Something in between, perhaps? The energy signature felt familiar, yet alien.

    "What do you think it is?" Vicky leaned closer, her hand hovering near the substance. "Seems in pain, I don¡¯t know."

    "Careful." Lance caught her wrist. "We don''t know what this does."

    After saying those words, he did what came naturally.

    Energy signature detected

    [Human Shifter (1st Evolution)]

    The substance rippled as if responding to their presence. Lance''s arma classification ability tingled, untangling the readings it received.

    Dark. Cold. Wrong.

    Human? First time this skill¡¯s ever given me chills, he thought, his hairs standing on end. Whatever this is, it shouldn''t exist.

    A groan from behind made them twist their necks. Preston lay sprawled on the floor, dead to the world.

    "Speaking of which..." Rick gestured to Preston''s limp body. "What should we do about our young friend there?"

    Lance glanced at the crumpled figure. "Leave him. His butler will take care of him when he wakes up."

    "Cold, bro." Diego grinned. "I like it."

    They turned their attention back to the substance. Lance couldn''t shake the feeling that it was watching them back, studying them as intently as they studied it.

    If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

    "So what''s the play here?" Vicky asked. "We can''t just leave this stuff lying around."

    "Well spotted, Vicky. Always brilliant." Rick''s melodious voice carried a hint of pride. "This could be why we''re here in the first place."

    At Rick''s praise, her head dipped low, fingers fidgeting the edge of her sleeve.

    Rick picked up a metal rod from the floor and stepped toward the mysterious puddle. "Maybe if we just-"

    "Wait." Lance held up his hand. "Look at what it''s doing."

    The black mass had begun to contract, pulling itself together into a tighter configuration. As if preparing for something.

    The mysterious substance bunched together, forming ridges and hollows in its surface. It writhed and bubbled and folded into impossible shapes. Features emerged - first a nose, then hollow eye sockets, finally a grotesque mouth. Within seconds, a full face - twisted and gnarled like bark, its surface cracked and weathered. The features looked both ancient and raw, as if carved roughly into wet clay. Lance watched the mouth stretch wider, its edges rippling with each movement.

    But it didn¡¯t stop there: the mass was in a constant motion, shifting, reforming like oil on water.

    "H-hhelp... meee" The sound scraped out of its makeshift mouth.

    Diego stepped back. "Did that thing just¡ª"

    "The hell kind of bullshit is this, boludo?" Vicky''s boot scuffed the concrete as she stepped forward.

    "Stop! No one touch it," Lance said. "Not until we understand what we''re dealing with."

    "Please tell me someone''s recording this." Rick circled the mass.

    Record this? It¡¯s not the time, crossed Lance''s mind.

    "Everyone back up. We don''t know what this thing is."

    "But hermano, did you hear it? It''s asking for help. We can''t just leave it."

    "What if it''s not asking for anything and just mimicking speech?" But even as Lance said it, he knew better.

    "Che, maybe we should listen to protein bar guy on this one."

    "Think about it logically," Lance pinched the bridge of his nose. "Why would a sentient blob of tar be hanging out under a conveyor belt?"

    Rick cleared his throat, his voice taking on a professor-like tone. "Perhaps we''re looking at this all wrong. What if it''s not the substance speaking, but something trapped inside it?"

    "Holy shit, like in that movie with the black alien goo?" Diego''s face lit up.

    "What¡ªno. No way we''re dealing with..." Lance raked his fingers through his hair. ¡°Let me think for a second.¡±

    "Why not? Crazy shit''s been happening lately," Diego said.

    Meanwhile, Rick circled the substance, hands clasped behind his back. ¡°Young Diego¡¯s right. Life, dear friends, has a way of surprising us. Especially lately."

    "Pleasssse..." The face in the mass stretched grotesquely into a sound that stopped their argument mid-breath.

    "Okay, this is getting creepy as fuck." Vicky hugged herself, rubbing her arms.

    Rick knelt beside the mass, his voice dropping to a whisper. "What are you?"

    No response. The blob only moved like water in a wave pool, rising and falling in steady pulses.

    Lance ran through his options. None of them had shown signs of the identify ability. Might as well tell them what he was seeing.

    "I think he''s a person. Or was a person, maybe," Lance said. He crouched closer to the face, opposite Rick. "So are... you... an arma user?"

    The black mass quivered. "Y-yes... we all... met here. Every... week."

    "All? How many others?" Lance asked.

    "T-twelve... of us."

    Vicky paced in a tight circle. "What happened to them?"

    "Dead... all dead. Someone... one of us... killed..."

    "Whoa whoa whoa. Hold up. You''re saying one of your own group did this?" The words burst out of Diego. He knelt too. His hands hovered over the mass, fingers spreading and closing as if unsure how to offer comfort.

    "Ye¡ªye¡­ yes," it rasped.

    Lance''s thumb traced his wrist. "What brought you all together here?"

    "We... had abilities. Like you. Met to... share stories. Practice..."

    "And the one who did this... they were part of your group?"

    The substance rippled inward on itself. "Must... warn others. He¡¯s a¡­ he¡¯s a mons¡­ter. More will... die."

    "Can you tell us who it was? What they looked like?" said Vicky.

    The face in the mass contorted. "It¡­ it was¡­ no¡ªcan''t... remember. Try but... nothing."

    "Bro, that''s messed up. Just take it easy, okay? We got you," Diego whispered.

    "Hidden... room. Behind the... storage. Bodies..."

    Rick rubbed his throat. "There''s a hidden room? With more people trapped like you?"

    "No... just bodies. I''m... dead too. Just... residual... arma¡­ I gone soon..."

    "Does that mean your ability¡ªthis is about to fade,¡± Lance said. Unless..."

    Vicky twitched. ¡°Hold up - are we really standing here negotiating with a talking puddle of tar?¡±

    The system wouldn''t bring us here for nothing, Lance thought.

    "Vicky, think about it. Why else would we find the only survivor?"

    The mass stretched toward Lance. "My power... won''t last. Can feel it... fading."

    "There might be a way to preserve it," Lance said. ¡°I can take it.¡±

    The mass rippled. "You can... take it?"

    "Probably."

    "That¡¯s right, in therapy - you mentioned something about taking abilities?" Rick asked.

    "More or less. Still figuring it out."

    "But you can do it?"

    "Wait¡ªyou''re thinking of stealing a dead man''s ability?" Vicky stomped her boot on the concrete. "That''s messed up, boludo."

    "Why not? They''re already dead. Their ability could help us catch the killer."

    Diego pressed his palms together. "?Dios m¨ªo! I don¡¯t like it either, buuut he''s got a point though.¡±

    "Would you... use it... to stop them?"

    "Yes."

    "Then... please. Stop them. Before... more die. Take... it."

    Lance cracked his knuckles, stretched his neck.

    "Of course."

    His voice came out rougher than intended.

    Vicky stomped her boot again. "This isn''t you, Lance. Since when do we steal powers from dying... um, whatever this shit is?"

    "Think of it this way, dear Vicky - their power could serve a greater purpose." Rick swept his arm in an arc. "Help prevent more deaths."

    "Dead people, killers. Bro, this is getting dark real quick," Diego said.

    "Exactly! And how do we even know this... thing is telling the truth?" Vicky crossed her arms.

    The mass rippled. "Time... running out..."

    "As I said, there''s a reason the system brought us here. What if we''re meant to stop this person?"

    "There''s gotta be another way, hermano."

    "Name one. Right now."

    "We call the police, bro. That''s what normal people do," Diego said. "System just wanted us to check things out, ?no?"

    "A few days ago, I could stop bullets. Think about it - in a few weeks, what chance do the police have against people like us?"

    Vicky scratched the back of her hand. "Lance, wait. Diego¡¯s right, there has to be another¡ª"

    "Do we have time for another way?" Lance asked before she could finish her sentence.

    Rick leaned forward. "The question isn''t whether we can do this. It''s whether we should let this power go to waste when it could save lives."

    "...fine,¡± Vicky conceded. ¡°But next time, we find a different solution."

    Lance ran his tongue over his teeth. "Next time might be too late. We can¡¯t wait for other directives."

    "Just... do it already."

    The black mass shuddered. "Thank... you..."

    No one moved, watching Lance stretch his hand toward it, pull back, push forward again. He needed to deal with this, but how? A question nagged at him, one he hadn''t considered before. Did he need physical contact to appropriate an ability? He''d always assumed so, but now, faced with this strange, formless entity, he wasn''t sure.

    "Wait," he said, pulling back slightly. "Do I need to touch you for this to work?"

    The face morphed into what might have been a smile. Or a grimace. Lance couldn''t tell.

    "Touch... me?"

    "Yeah, for the ability transfer. I think it requires physical contact."

    "No... need. I am... extension."

    "Extension?" he asked, his words scraping out at pocket volume. "What does that mean?"

    The substance seemed to gather itself, as if mustering strength for a longer explanation. "This... not separate. Part of... my body. My power."

    Makes sense¡­

    This wasn''t just some weird goop they''d stumbled upon. It was someone''s flesh, transformed and liquefied by their ability.

    ¡°So uh... should we start shopping for Lance-sized puddle containers?¡± Diego asked.

    The side effects of Frank''s power surfaced. Wait¡ªwill I become this? Fuck that.

    "So, you''re saying this is actually... you?"

    "Yes. Not my body... but still me. Extension of¡­ my body.¡±

    Lance sorted through the bizarre facts, piece by piece. He pressed his palms against his temples. The ripple effects wouldn''t stop coming. If this was truly an extension of the user''s body, what did that mean for the appropriation process? Would he be absorbing part of their physical form along with their ability?

    The thought dried his mouth.

    "La¡ªLance?" Vicky''s voice came uncharacteristically soft."Hey... you''re shaking. What''s going on?"

    "Yeah, I''m fine. It''s just... this is more complicated than I thought."

    Rick gripped Lance''s forearm with the kind of steady pressure that made everything else fall quiet so that Lance could finally hear his own thoughts through all the noise. Then he said, ¡°listen to your gut on this one. It hasn''t steered you wrong yet.¡±

    My gut¡­

    His gut said that these weird abilities had taught him one clear lesson: each power demanded its pound of flesh. Vicky''s palms erupting in flame while her skin blistered beneath. Rony commanding electricity but ending each day blind with migraines. Even the trinity of Zack, Mack, and Frank¡ªthree minds sharing one body but wielding more raw power than anyone Lance had ever seen. But every single wielder had adapted, had pushed through, had made it worth the cost. And hell, we''re all still changing, aren''t we? Powers growing, shifting, becoming something new. If this ability wouldn''t evolve on its own, Lance would make damn sure it did.

    "Alright," he said, not to the others, not to the weird black oil spill, but to himself. "Let''s do this."

    The fingers on his left hand went into the black puddle. He was careful not to disturb the facial features. It felt oddly warm, like body temperature. The consistency was thicker than water but thinner than honey. When he tried to grab it, it slipped between his fingers, but it wasn''t quite liquid enough to drip off quickly. It felt smooth and slick, similar to oil, but had a weird springiness to it, like poking a piece of raw meat.

    He closed his eyes, reaching out with his senses, feeling for the familiar tug of arma energy. It was there, pulsing weakly like a fading heartbeat. Lance focused, drawing it towards him, willing it to flow into his own body.

    Core Power: [Appropriation (Alpha II)] activated

    ©¸©¤Target: [Human Shifter (1st Evolution)]

    ©¸©¤Warning: Arma signature critically weak

    ©¸©¤Warning: Assimilation from depleting arma signature may have unforeseen consequences ©¸©¤Indirect contact via biological extension detected

    ©¸©¤Assimilation in progress...

    Damn, that''s way more messages than usual, Lance thought, unable to keep the worry off his face.

    Unforeseen consequences? ¡°You can¡¯t be serious¡­¡±

    Vicky lunged forward, flames erupting from her hands to illuminate the darkened corners of the warehouse and Lance¡¯s ashen face. "Boludo, stop. This is not a good idea."

    ¡°The blob''s fading fast. Might be my only chance to take whatever power it has left.¡±

    "You okay, hermano? I don¡¯t like that look."

    "I''m fine. Just... different than usual. Like swallowing ice water that won''t melt."

    He was anything but fine since something about this felt fundamentally wrong yet he couldn''t stop now because backing down would make him look weak plus they needed whatever information this thing had even though he couldn''t shake the terrifying thought that he might spend the rest of his life as a sentient puddle of tar.

    "This doesn''t feel right." She lowered her arms, the flames dimming.

    "It never feels right, Vicky."

    "Keep going, Lance. I won''t let anything happen to you. Trust me. I''ll keep our friend here alive long enough for you to finish.¡± Rick moved beside him, dipping his hands into the black mass.

    Lance nodded sharply and plunged back into the darkness, all hesitation forgotten.

    The sequence came as second nature now. A rush of cold, alien sensation flooding through him. It was unlike anything he''d experienced before ¨C not the clean, crisp feeling of Diego''s ability, nor the crazy surge of Zack''s power. This was something else entirely.

    Assimilation complete

    ©¸©¤New ability acquired. Internalizing...

    New Essence Power acquired: [Morphoplasm (Alpha I)]

    ©¸©¤[Morphoplasm (Alpha I)]: Ability to generate and control dark viscous matter as biological extension

    ©¸©¤[Mode: Solidify] Appropriated

    ©¸©¤[Solidify]: Allows generation and hardening of limited morphoplasm muscle

    Well, that''s... something. Lance tested each joint in his hand, making sure everything still worked.

    Something else came with the power this time - knowledge, maybe memories. Images flooded his mind: molecular structures, organic polymers, flesh twisting and reshaping itself. Are these his memories? Lance wondered, trying to make sense of the unfamiliar sensations. Some leftover piece of him in that residual arma? He saw visions of living tissue molding like clay, the power to become anything ¨C or anyone.

    Lance gasped, his eyes flying open. The black mass was gone, absorbed into him completely. In its place was a small puddle of clear liquid, quickly evaporating in the warehouse air.

    "Holy shit," Diego breathed. "Did it work?"

    Lance bobbed his head, still trying to catch his breath. "Yeah. Yeah, it worked."

    Vicky peered at him closely. "You don''t look any different."

    "Trust me," Lance said. "I feel different."

    Rick clapped his hands together, his eyes alight with excitement. "Marvelous! Simply marvelous. Lance, my boy, you''ve just opened up a whole new world of possibilities."

    Lance wasn''t so sure he shared Rick''s enthusiasm. This one felt different from the others - not the usual rush of energy, but something that made his teeth itch.

    But it was his now. For better or worse. And its owner was dead, so for the first time, there was no going back.

    "So what now?" Diego asked, glancing around nervously. "We still got a killer to catch, right?"

    Lance checked his phone. [9:19 PM]

    "Right," Lance said. "But I think we can go home now."

    And I have work to do, he kept to himself.

    Physically, nothing felt different - no rippling skin, no weird sensations. But now he had two new abilities to figure out fast, and the thought was intoxicating and terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

    "Let''s hope I can figure them out before it is too late," he murmured.

    They moved away from the conveyor belt while Vicky kept rubbing her arms like she was trying to get rid of an invisible chill, as Diego mumbled prayers under his breath while Rick''s face settled into that blank drama teacher mask, until a new notification appeared.

    [Arma Integration Protocol - Observational Directive #2 Complete]

    Subject: Lance Lawthorn

    Path Analysis: Antihero classification confirmed with 93% certainty

    Analysis:

    - Successfully identified and interacted with residual arma signature

    - Demonstrated willingness to appropriate abilities from deceased user

    - Prioritized practical results over moral considerations

    - Showed strategic thinking in potentially dangerous situation

    Key Observations:

    <ul>

    <li>Subject''s decision-making aligns consistently with anti-hero paradigm</li>

    </ul>

    <ul>

    <li>Appropriation ability shows adaptation to non-standard energy sources</li>

    </ul>

    <ul>

    <li>Subject exhibits growing comfort with morally ambiguous choices</li>

    </ul>

    Note: Unusual arma energy patterns detected during transfer process. Further analysis required to understand implications of post-mortem ability appropriation.

    Recommendation: Continue monitoring subject''s development along Antihero path. Current trajectory suggests optimal integration of ability growth and moral flexibility.

    Based on your performance, the following potential ability augmentations have been mapped:

    <ol>

    <li> [Arma Parasitism (Emergent)]: Enables the user to siphon and temporarily borrow the active abilities of nearby arma users, without fully appropriating the powers.</li>

    <li> [Essence Fusion (Emergent)] - Enables temporary combination of two appropriated Essence Powers. </li>

    <li> [Dark Resonance (Emergent)]: Grants the user the ability to sense, track, and disrupt the arma signatures of other users, especially those with malicious intent.</li>

    </ol>

    Note: Accumulated arma energy from this directive is ephemeral. You have 24 hours to crystallize one augmentation before the accumulated arma energy dissipates.

    Select wisely. Your choice will influence future arma-human integration protocols.

    Continued observation and analysis of your actions will refine the understanding of arma-human symbiosis.

    Lance stared at the notification until the words blurred together. Another directive complete, another set of choices to make. He''d seen Essence Fusion before, after the last directive - the ability to combine two powers had seemed too good to pass up. A thought struck him: combining Saltatorial with Solidify could mean creating platforms in mid-air, or extending his jumps with solid constructs.

    But then there were the other options. Arma Parasitism and Dark Resonance. Just their names made him wince. They sounded like villain powers - stealing other people''s abilities, tracking them down like prey.

    Not this time, Lance decided, closing the notification. He wasn''t about to let that human blob floating around in his system make a choice for him. He''d learned that lesson.

    [Arma Energy Crystallization Initiated]

 Twenty-one: Busy Morning

    [Day 15]

    They''d searched for the room full of dead Arma bodies the goop mentioned, but hit a wall¡ªliterally. The "back room" was buried under fallen concrete, twisted machinery, and enough rubble to keep a demolition crew busy for weeks. No one wanted to push their luck with the three-hour deadline, so they called it quits with twenty minutes to spare. Diego especially seemed eager to get out, his usual swagger replaced by constant glances over his shoulder.

    Lance crashed hard that night, face-planting into his own bed. Sweet Jesus, I missed these sheets.

    Getting his phone back had been a mixed blessing. He''d spent hours catching up on social media, scrolling through NARS death counts and conspiracy theories until his eyes burned. After days without it¡ªthanks to the police evidence locker¡ªhe hadn''t realized how nice the forced break had been.

    That wisdom hit him at 6:47 AM when his phone jolted him awake with a call from the police station.

    He''d spotted Detective Yamada at last night''s support group but kept his distance. Either she hadn''t recognized him or was working undercover¡ªeither way, he''d decided to steer clear. Fat lot of good that did. Turns out, she did recognize him and wanted him at the station for questioning.

    Just my fucking luck.

    And so he mapped out his day between bites of toast: Lumberjack breakfast¡ªjust one this time¡ªthen the police station, swing by BioNova, grab lunch, Krav Maga, and cap it off with the support group. Hell of a Monday.

    "So much for mastering my three new abilities and becoming a god, arma user," he said a little too loud while shooting Mrs. Miller an apologetic smile across Betty''s before she answered with her usual knowing nod from behind the coffee pot.

    Oh, and he''d almost forgotten¡ªhe''d woken up with a baseball-sized black mass sticking out of his shoulder. At least he hadn''t melted into a puddle of tar overnight, so there was that. The thing looked like something out of a horror movie, and switching off Pain Nullification had been a mistake¡ªthe stinging had him tearing off his Titan''s Den hoodie sleeve just to get comfortable. He''d have to figure out what the hell this new growth could do at some point, but that would have to wait. Like I said, busy day.

    Lance pulled his blue NeoTech Phantom into Brad''s driveway, twisting to check the crumpled front bumper over his shoulder. Brad could fix it¡ªguy could work miracles with a wrench. From there, he sprinted to the police station¡ªeasy going with half the world''s population still "under the weather"¡ªhis legs eating up the distance. Since the arma boost, running had become his go-to. Why bother with traffic and parking when he could cross town faster than an Olympic runner? His lungs didn''t even notice the miles anymore.

    He stopped in front of the Durham Police Department, catching his breath more out of habit than need. His shoulder throbbed where the black mass pressed against his shirt. The thing had started moving.

    Keep it together.

    He pushed through the glass doors and into the bustling lobby¡ªofficers shuffling papers, perps in cuffs, civilians looking lost and confused. Lance belonged with the confused crowd.

    He walked to the counter, checked in with the receptionist, and moments later a burly officer holding a tiny white coffee cup and looking about as thrilled to be there as Lance ushered him into a cramped room with a rickety metal table, two chairs, and a mirror that fooled exactly no one.

    "Detective Yamada will be with you shortly," the officer said, closing the door behind him.

    Lance sat, his leg bouncing involuntarily. He glanced at his watch.

    [8:03 AM]

    Five minutes passed. Then ten.

    Standard police tactics¡­ Thrilling stuff.

    He knew the game. Make him sweat. Get him nervous. Waste his time.

    Not gonna happen. As he had said before: Busy day. Lance closed his eyes, dropping into what he''d started calling meditation¡ªhis little joke for whenever he focused inward to see arma colors. Morphoplasm was proving tricky, its black hue almost invisible against the darkness of his mind.

    He steadied his breathing, forced his pulse to slow, and concentrated on the river of arma. The trick was finding the sweet spot between focus and relaxation¡ªpush too hard and the colors scattered like startled fish. Let go too much and they blurred into meaningless smears.

    Luckily, he didn''t have to meditate long.

    The door opened. Detective Yamada strode in, all business in a crisp navy blue blazer and slacks. She carried a thin file and a steaming cup of coffee that made Lance''s mouth water.

    "Mr. Lawthorn, thank you for coming in," she said, settling into the chair across from him. "How are you feeling today?"

    Lance forced a smile. "Just peachy, Detective. Always a pleasure to start my week at the police station."

    The detective''s stern mask cracked briefly. "How''s the apartment?"

    "Clean. Finally. Though I''m still finding police tape in weird places."

    ¡°Sorry about that. And sorry for meeting you here.¡± she gestured to the interrogation room. ¡°I don¡¯t have an office. But as I said on the phone, you¡¯re not in any trouble, Mr. Lawthorn.¡±

    "Lance is fine.¡± He watched as she stifled another yawn. "Long day?"

    "Long week." Mitsuki took a sip from her cup and let out a satisfied "mmm," the coffee clearly hitting the spot.

    "I called you in because I saw you at the support group meeting last night. I''m investigating several deaths involving enhanced individuals, and I was hoping you could help me understand this community better."

    Several¡­ deaths, Lance echoed in his head. Are we looking for the same killer? Cool.

    The only reason Lance was sitting in this room was because of his self-imposed investigation. He needed leads, and he had to earn Morphoplasm too¡ªhe''d made a promise to a dying man, after all. Detective Yamada had called him in, so it wasn''t like he was pushing his way into police business. If¡ªbig if¡ªshe had useful information, all the better. Here we go, baby!

    "Fire away."

    ¡°Perfect, thank you for your cooperation.¡± She opened the file, glancing down at it. "So, how long have you been a member of this group?"

    "A couple of weeks," Lance said, going for that ''just passing through'' tone. "It''s been... helpful."

    "I''m glad to hear that. And what exactly do you discuss in these meetings?"

    Lance shrugged, careful not to disturb the growth on his shoulder. "Oh, you know. The usual support group stuff. How we''re coping with the aftermath of NARS, the challenges of readjusting to normal life."

    "I see." Mitsuki''s tongue pressed against her cheek. "What about Dr. Rodriguez? How would you describe her leadership of the group?"

    "She''s great," Lance said, perhaps a bit too quickly. "Very supportive, really knows her stuff."

    Yamada scribbled something on her notepad. The scratching of her pen sounded like chalk on concrete in the silent box.

    Scratch everything he¡¯d said. Three questions in and Lance was already regretting this. Mental checking every word for potential landmines was fucking exhausting¡ªone wrong answer and he might as well confess to having illegal powers.

    "What about the other members? Like Wren - she hardly spoke last night."

    "Yeah, she is pretty quiet."

    "And Frank... he seems intense. Has he caused any trouble?"

    Lance sighed. "Frank''s... complicated."

    She made another note. "I noticed you and Vicky seem close."

    "Met her at group. We''ve become friends." Lance shifted in his chair, crossing his arms.

    "And the other members?¡± Yamada asked while her pen scratched across her notepad. ¡°What can you tell me about them?"

    So she''s fishing?

    "Not much, to be honest. We''re all pretty private. It''s kind of an unspoken rule¡ªwhat happens in group, stays in group."

    "I see. So in general, have you noticed anything... unusual about any of the members? Any behavior that struck you as odd?"

    Lance''s heart rate kicked up a notch. Define unusual for a bunch of people who can bend reality, he thought dryly while forcing himself to maintain eye contact. "Unusual how?"

    "Unexplained absences, sudden changes in demeanor, that sort of thing," Yamada said, waving her hand dismissively.

    Lance pretended to consider this. "Can''t say that I have. We''re all dealing with a lot, you know? Everyone has their off days."

    A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    "Look, Detective, I get what you''re trying to do here, but I''m not comfortable discussing other people''s situations. Everyone processes trauma differently."

    Mitsuki set down her pen. "I understand. I won''t press you about the others."

    ¡°Thank you.¡±

    Mitsuki nodded. "Would it be correct to assume everyone in the support group has arma?"

    "Yeah." Lance shrugged. No point denying that.

    "You didn''t mention you were enhanced when we spoke."

    "Because I wasn¡¯t sure I was." Lance''s finger tapped against the arm of his chair. "That''s why I go to the group. I''m sure you''ve heard¡ªthis stuff happens randomly to people now. Courtesy of this godforsaken pandemic."

    ¡°Fair enough.¡± She pulled out a photo from her file. "I''m looking into the death of Ronald McMullan."

    "What?" Lance''s tapping stopped dead. "Rony," the name barely made it past his lips.

    The lights guy. Damn. Lance¡¯s heart met the floor. He''d actually been looking forward to talking to him again, maybe figure out more about those electromagnetic tricks. Here he thought the reason Rony hadn''t shown up to group these past few days was because his joints couldn¡¯t handle the stairs.

    This killer was cranking up their body count. Perfect. Lance exhaled slowly. This was insane - him trying to track down a murderer? He wasn''t qualified for this. But someone had to figure out what was happening, and he was already neck-deep in it anyway. Besides, he needed the practice with his abilities. Might as well make it count for something. Sound logic there, buddy. Really solid plan.

    "You seem surprised. This hasn''t come up in your meetings?"

    "Not that I''ve heard."

    "That''s... interesting." Mitsuki leaned back, studying his face. ¡°Is there anything at all that you can tell me about him?¡±

    "I''ll... need to think about this."

    "That¡¯s fair. If you think of anything that might help the investigation, please give me a call." She slid her card across the table.

    Though he already had one from their first meeting, Lance reached for it anyway, his throat going dry as he stared at the card. ¡°Sorry, I couldn¡¯t be more helpful.¡±

    "These things tend to come back to us when we let them settle." Mitsuki gathered her papers. "I''ll check in with you next week?"

    The scratch of her chair against the floor seemed unnaturally loud as she stood up.

    ¡°Thank you for your time. Please wait here, and Sergeant Williams will escort you out.¡±

    Lance waited until her footsteps faded down the hallway before letting out the breath he''d been holding. His hands were steady - they were always steady - but his mind felt like a browser with too many tabs open. Rony''s death, the other victims, his new powers, Mitsuki''s questions. And underneath it all, that nagging feeling that he was missing something obvious.

    His head elsewhere, he stepped out of the station, the morning sun warm on his face but doing nothing to lighten the weight in his chest.

    He checked his phone - one hour had gone by. One hour of dancing around Mitsuki''s questions while trying not to give himself away.

    His feet carried him forward, muscle memory taking over as his brain struggled to process. Rony. Dead. Another enhanced person killed.

    First the guy who''d given him this thing currently squatting on his shoulder, now this. The support group suddenly felt less like a self-help circle and more like a target list.

    A bus rumbled past. Lance barely noticed. He was too busy replaying the interview, picking apart his answers. Had he said too much? Not enough? At least Mitsuki hadn''t pressed about his own abilities.

    He''d gotten himself into this mess, thinking he could play hero. It all felt like a fever dream, too surreal to be true. Yet here he was, walking down the street with a chunk of alien something growing out of his body.

    He thought about Vicky and Diego, wondered if they were dealing with similar mind-bending situations. Probably not. They seemed to have a better handle on their abilities, on this whole enhanced individual thing. Classic Lance - analyzing everything to death while those two just rolled with it.

    A crosswalk signal changed. Lance walked. Someone bumped his shoulder. He kept walking.

    His phone buzzed - it had to be his mom checking in again. He''d call her back later. Maybe. If he could figure out how to lie about where he spent his morning.

    He walked, then walked faster, then ran. Didn''t even make a conscious decision to do it.

    One thing was clear: master his abilities, find the killer. Simple enough on paper. He''d focus on the powers first - at least that was something he could actually work on. Though honestly, he had about as much idea how to do that as he did about playing detective. Great plan there, genius¡ª

    "Mr. Lawthorn?"

    The marble floor swam into view beneath Lance''s feet. Overly clean air. Glass walls everywhere. That stupid modern art sculpture that looked like DNA. The BioNova logo gleamed along the back wall. At the half-moon desk, Zara with her distinctive afro typed at her keyboard in her usual professional rhythm while the screens behind her cycled through their endless loop of corporate achievements and breakthroughs and meaningless statistics.

    "Dr. Patel will be ready in five minutes. Please wait in the lobby."

    "Thanks, Zara."

    As he guided his body towards the lobby, a commotion near the main entrance caught his attention. From the elevators emerged a small delegation led by two figures in crisp military uniforms. One, a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair and a neatly trimmed mustache, carried the weight of four stars as naturally as he carried his own skin. The other, a woman with sharp features and lieutenant general''s stars on her collar, matched his pace step for step. Behind them followed two officers in medical insignia and a pair of plainclothes personnel who radiated security training.

    Holy shit, Lance thought, when a four-star shows up at your door, something big is definitely going down.

    Lance''s too-good-for-his-own-good hearing picked up fragments of their conversation.

    "...can''t keep this under wraps forever, Shannon."

    "We don''t have a choice, Chaps. If word gets out..."

    The group strode toward the exit. Lance pretended to study a wall display in the waiting area, his ears catching the woman¡¯s words as they passed.

    "...containment is our top priority. These enhanced individuals..."

    The rest was lost as they disappeared through the standard commercial glass doors.

    Whatever fresh disaster that was about, Lance decided it could wait its turn in the queue of problems currently vying for his attention. Besides, his day was already looking up - there was Carl, walking towards him with that familiar look of someone who''d rather talk about anything except enhanced abilities.

    "Hi there.¡± Lance nodded towards the two empty chairs next to him. ¡°Almost forgot we had the same follow-up schedule."

    "Turns out this is my last one. Dr. Harrison says I''m done with treatments.¡±

    "That''s great news."

    Carl lowered himself into the chair, leaned back, and released a long and loud exhale. "They''re not too happy I''m ignoring the little status updates. Keep asking why I don''t check my stats or whatever they''re calling it."

    ¡°I see.¡±

    "Gotten pretty good at not seeing all that blue text nonsense. Don¡¯t even show up anymore." Carl''s shoulders relaxed slightly. "How about you?"

    "Still playing along. Way more involved than I thought it''d be." Lance''s tone was dry. "How''re the kids? Everyone healthy?"

    "Boy, they''re keeping me busy. Math, English, whatever keeps their minds off things."

    "No school yet, I presume?"

    "Got an email about online classes starting next month." Carl''s hand moved to the back of his neck. "Won''t be the full curriculum, but it''s something."

    "Mr. Lawthorn?" Zara''s voice carried across the lobby. "Dr. Patel will see you now."

    "That¡¯s me."

    Carl gave a quick, half-hearted wave, his hand rising an inch before he let it fall again.

    "Here." Lance pulled out his phone. "Let me give you my number. In case you need anything."

    What a nice guy, he thought.

    Lance called the elevator. It beeped as it arrived. He stepped in and pressed four. No more catching Carl in the lobby, no more sharing awkward minutes before their check-ups. The display ticked up - first floor, second. Carl''s last visit ever. Good for him. Third floor. One less person stuck in this arma mess. Fourth floor. One less familiar face in a world that had gone to hell two weeks ago. The doors opened with their usual ¡®ding.¡¯ At least somebody was getting back to normal.

    The sweet aroma of freshly brewed coffee hit him first. Then the blue glow from Dr. Patel''s computer screen reflecting off her thick pink-rimmed glasses. And finally¡­

    Dr. Reeves.

    Lance''s shoulders crept toward his ears, muscles bunching. The lead researcher''s presence at a routine checkup was about as normal as finding a penguin in the Sahara. He forced a smile, trying to mask the sudden surge of anxiety coursing through his veins.

    Well, there goes my day again¡­

    "Mr. Lawthorn, please come in," Dr. Patel said, her tone walking the line between corporate handbook and coffee with a friend. "I hope you don''t mind, but Dr. Reeves wanted to join us today."

    Lance picked through his memories like sorting through old files. Could BioNova see his arma abilities? His stolen power? No - Dr. Patel said it herself. Three times. The system messages are mine alone. Still, his fingers drummed against his thigh. So much for asking about that black mass on my shoulder. Dr. Patel would''ve talked him through it, no questions asked. But no way he''d bring that up with Dr. Reeves in the room.

    "Not at all," he lied smoothly, settling into the examination chair. "Always a pleasure, Dr. Reeves."

    The lead researcher nodded, his sharp eyes studying Lance with an intensity that made him want to squirm. "Mr. Lawthorn. I trust you''re feeling well?"

    "Never better," Lance said simply.

    Dr. Patel began her usual routine, checking his vitals and asking about any new developments. Lance answered on autopilot, his attention split between her questions and Dr. Reeves'' silent presence.

    "Your readings are... interesting," Dr. Patel murmured, frowning at her tablet. "There seems to be a significant spike in your stats, and even arma energy levels. Have you noticed any new abilities manifesting?"

    "Nothing major," he said, aiming for casual. "Maybe a bit more stamina? It''s hard to tell with everything else going on."

    "Great! Well, the first part was easy today," Dr. Patel said, passing the tablet to Dr. Reeves in a way that made Lance''s fingers drum faster on his thigh, matching the rhythm they''d kept since he''d first sat down.

    "Mr. Lawthorn, we''ve made some significant advancements in our gene therapy treatment," Dr. Reeves began. "Given your exceptional progress, we believe you''d be an ideal candidate for this new round of treatment."

    Another upgrade? Lance questioned internally. When did I get the second treatment? One¡ªtwo weeks since my last dose with Dr. Patel. That added the handy [Energy Classification] menu to his HUD, and if he had to guess, was what was categorizing all of his arma abilities. If this new upgrade would be that convenient, he wouldn''t be opposed to it.

    His system still pinged him about abilities he hadn''t figured out. His veins itched to test them, to understand what he could do, but between the morning''s police meeting and this follow-up at BioNova, he hadn''t even had a chance to try. At this rate, I''ll have a dozen new powers before I master the first one.

    "The treatment could enhance your natural resistance to viral mutations," Dr. Reeves said in the background. "Our latest trials show a 47% increase in immune response. Given your previous positive reactions, you''re an ideal candidate." He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses. "The potential benefits far outweigh any temporary discomfort."

    As Dr. Reeves continued explaining the ¡°potential benefits¡± and risks, Lance''s eyes instinctively sought out Dr. Patel.

    What he saw made his blood run cold. Behind Dr. Reeves'' back, Dr. Patel''s lips were moving silently, urgently. Lance focused, trying to decipher her silent message. His enhanced senses kicked in, slowing down his perception just enough to catch the words she was mouthing:

    ¡®Don''t do it.¡¯

    His lungs stopped. Why would Ananya be warning him against this new round? What did she know that Dr. Reeves wasn''t saying? He forced his expression to remain neutral, not wanting to give away that he''d seen Dr. Patel''s warning. Questions about what she knew¡ªwhat Dr. Reeves wasn¡¯t saying¡ªpiled up faster than he could process them. Hell, if Dr. Patel had doubts, that was all he needed to know.

    "I think I''ll pass on that upgrade."

 Twenty-two: Balance

    Lance broke from his trance, frustration etching lines across his forehead. The group exercise room at Titan''s Den took shape around him, its mirrored walls reflecting his scowl back at him. He''d been at this forever, trying to tap into the Energy Cycling ability that kept slipping away.

    HIs gaze dropped to his palms. The compression band around his right wrist had done its job. No throbbing, no stiffness - he could move every joint in his hand without discomfort. As he unwound the elastic wrap, loop by careful loop, he reviewed his mental checklist:

    Energy Cycling

    Morphoplasm

    Dark Resonance

    Behold, the mighty arsenal of the world''s most pathetic enhanced being!

    Faced with Dark Resonance, Arma Parasitism, and Essence Fusion, the choice had been clear. Arma Parasitism sounded like a bargain-bin version of his core power - and he''d had enough of that for now. And Essence Fusion? He snorted. He could barely handle one power at a time, let alone combine them. With Dark Resonance, well... no more cheap shots. Hopefully.

    But first things first. He had to get this damn energy to move within his body.

    Come on, fucking work already.

    He tuned out the room again, forcing his breathing to slow. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The gym''s hardwood made itself known - firm and chilly beneath him, grounding him in the physical world even as he sought to transcend it.

    The ¡®bangs¡¯ and ¡®booms¡¯ of metal crashing against metal in the weight room faded into white noise. Lance reached inward, searching for that spark of arma energy he knew resided within him. It was there, he could feel it¡ªa subtle warmth pulsing beneath his skin, just waiting to be harnessed. Waiting to be cycled.

    But every time he thought he had a grip on it, the energy vanished like a snuffed flame.

    Dammit.

    His temples pulsed¡ªhe could see it in the mirrored wall. This shouldn''t be so difficult. He''d mastered other abilities with relative ease. Why was Energy Cycling proving to be such a stubborn bastard?

    A bead of sweat trickled down his temple. Lance ignored it, pushing deeper into his meditation. He visualized the energy as a river flowing across his body, imagining himself dipping into that current, redirecting its flow.

    For a moment, he felt something. A tingling sensation spread from his core, racing along his limbs. His heart rate sped up. Was this it? Had he finally cracked the code?

    ¡®THUD!¡¯

    The sound of a fully stacked barbell dropping in the free weights room shattered his concentration. The energy dissipated, leaving him feeling hollow and drained.

    "Son of a bitch," Lance whispered, eyes flying open.

    He pushed himself to his feet, muscles protesting the movement. How long had he been sitting there? He checked his watch and groaned.

    [12:56 PM]

    Two hours. Two hours of his life, wasted on fruitless meditation.

    He stretched, joints popping. The black mass on his shoulder¡ªMorphoplasm, his mind supplied¡ªshifted uncomfortably beneath his shirt. Each new ability emerged like a puzzle box with missing instructions. So much for those fantasy stories with their helpful system messages and tutorial chapters¡ªNARS hadn''t bothered with a user guide.

    Genius, he laughed at his own joke. What am I doing wrong?

    He''d tried some New Age mumbo-jumbo he''d found online¡ªfrom the same brilliant minds who''d convinced him that sweet-talking to houseplants would unlock his powers. Because that had worked out so well.

    He''d even followed all the visualization techniques from Dr. Patel''s last real consultation. This morning''s appointment had turned into a sales pitch for more treatments instead of the power training he''d hoped for. Still, watching Dr. Patel''s subtle resistance to Dr. Reeves'' plans had shown him something precious: she was on his side.

    Back to square one, though¡ªnothing worked.

    He stopped in front of the mirror, studying his reflection. Disheveled hair. Dark circles. He looked like hell. Felt like it too. Exhausted. The man staring back at him looked tired, frustrated, and more than a little lost. This wasn''t the Lance Lawthorn who''d confidently strode into that BioNova facility and secured a gene therapy dose for himself weeks ago.

    This was... something else.

    Someone else.

    Lance pressed his palms against his head as if he could physically force the answers out. His mind drifted to the conversation with Detective Yamada, to Rony''s death, to the list of enhanced individuals turning up dead.

    Focus, he told himself, then almost laughed¡ªhis new favorite word these days.

    But how could he focus when the world seemed to be falling apart around him? When every day brought new challenges, new dangers? When he couldn''t even master his own abilities?

    Once again, Lance blocked out the mirrored walls and weight room clatter. He needed to approach this differently. Brute force clearly wasn''t working. Maybe...

    Wait.

    He''d been treating Energy Cycling like a brute force algorithm, throwing processing power at the problem until it worked. But what if it was more like state management? The system wasn''t failing¡ªit was responding exactly as designed to his emotional state. Clean input, clean output.

    That made sense, right?

    Right?

    Lance assumed the universal programmer''s debug stance¡ªcrossed legs, straight back, and the distinct air of someone prepared to outlast a stubborn while loop. Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

    This time, instead of trying to force the energy to bend to his will, he chose to observe it. Felt its natural flow, the way it ebbed and surged within his body.

    There¡­ yes¡­ I¡­ see it.

    A pattern emerged. Subtle, but unmistakable. The energy didn''t simply flow randomly¡ªit followed specific pathways, like blood through veins or electricity through circuits or variables through a call stack..

    Lance''s restless movements ceased as understanding hit. He was onto something, he could feel it. Carefully, oh so carefully, he reached out with his mind, not trying to control the energy, but to guide it. Unlike Appropriation''s forceful drain of others'' energy, this was internal¡ªthe same force expressed in completely opposite ways¡ªone taking, one redirecting. To nudge it ever so slightly along its natural course.

    The tingling sensation returned, stronger this time. It built slowly, a warmth spreading from his core outward. His skin buzzed raw, hot, wild.

    Don''t force it, he told himself. Let it happen.

    The energy flowed faster now, picking up speed as it cycled inside his body. Lance felt a surge of excitement, but tamped it down. He couldn''t lose focus now, not when he was so close.

    The studio''s cool air did nothing against the heat rolling off his skin that plastered his shirt to his back while the energy built through each cycle until he thought it might overtake him.

    Hold on.

    Lance set his jaw hard, fighting the urge to break the connection. He was balancing on a knife''s edge, teetering between control and chaos. One wrong move and¡ª

    "Hey, Lance! You in here?"

    Marcus''s voice ripped into his meditation. The energy snapped back like a rubber band, leaving Lance gasping.

    "Yeah," he rasped. "Just... stretching."

    Marcus raised an eyebrow. "Looked more like you were trying to bench press the air. Come on, time for your lesson."

    Lance joined Marcus in unrolling the training mat. The workout room already smelled like leather and old sweat, which seemed unfair since they hadn''t even started.

    While Marcus squared up into his fighting stance with all that bulk ready to pounce, Lance couldn''t stop grinning because despite his failed attempt, he was pretty sure he''d finally cracked the energy cycling thing even though his body felt wrecked from the earlier attempts.

    ¡°You''re thinking too much about defense," Marcus said. "At your level now, it''s about finding that sweet spot - knowing when to hold your ground and when to redirect. Balance isn''t always about staying centered.¡±

    After a nod, Lance jumped into a fighting stance. Muscles taut. Ready for action.

    Marcus didn''t wait. He launched forward with the speed you''d expect from someone half his size, that massive fist coming straight for Lance''s face. He caught the incoming strike and fired back, aiming for the weak point under Marcus''s ribcage that they''d drilled a hundred times last week.

    Marcus was fast. He caught Lance''s arm, twisting it behind his back.

    Lance felt the hold but not the pain¡ªnot anymore. Each power he''d appropriated had pushed him a little further past normal human limits, stacking up like weights on a barbell. He wasn¡¯t as strong as when he rocked Impervious skin, but he wasn¡¯t too far off either.

    Now Marcus, despite all his skill and bulk¡ªa non-enhanced''s arms might as well have been pool noodles.

    He could break the hold easily¡ªa simple burst of speed, a flex of superpowered muscle. But that wasn''t why he was here. He''d started Krav Maga to learn control, to understand how normal people fought and moved. Raw power wasn''t the point.

    "Good instincts," Marcus grunted, "but you''re telegraphing your moves. Stay fluid, unpredictable." He released Lance, who stepped forward and rolled his shoulder, playing the part of the winded student. It wasn''t entirely an act¡ªhis technique really did need work.

    Fuck, not again, he unexpectedly thought.

    Something clicked wrong in Lance''s head, like a door he thought he''d closed suddenly creaking open. This fake struggling, this pretend weakness¡ªit was the old him sneaking back in. The him that wore masks, that played parts. And he was doing it to Marcus, who''d never been anything but real with him. The thought made his stomach turn.

    No. I won¡¯t be that person again. Lance stepped back from their sparring stance, squaring his shoulders.

    "I need to tell you something."

    Marcus lowered his hands, head tilting slightly.

    "About why I started coming here. And why I''ve been holding back."

    "You mean why you''re pulling your punches even though you could probably bench press my truck?¡±

    Lance¡¯s chin snapped up. "You knew?"

    "Son, I''ve been training people longer than you''ve been alive. Body mechanics don''t lie."

    "And you''re not... I mean, this whole time..."

    "What, mad? That you''re trying to learn control and not rely on raw power?" Marcus adjusted the wraps on his hands. "Hell, that''s the smartest thing I''ve seen you do."

    "I don''t want to pretend anymore. With anyone."

    "Good. Then let''s drop the act and work on your technique. All that strength won''t mean jack if you telegraph every move like a rookie."

    "You''re really okay with this?"

    "Lance." Marcus clapped his hands once, the sharp sound ricocheting off the walls. "The body already knows what to do. Your job is to get your mind to stop fighting it. Ready to sync those up?"

    Those words hit like a simple truth, hidden in plain sight.

    Wow... I''ve been overthinking this whole thing, Lance thought. Energy Cycling follows the same logic¡ªforcing control just creates resistance. "Let''s do it."

    "Reset!" Marcus called out, returning to his fighting stance.

    They circled each other, but Lance turned his focus inward. He traced the arma''s pattern in his mind¡ªthe way it had cycled through his core, branched through his limbs, created those perfect loops of power. Rather than forcing control, he let his awareness settle into its natural rhythm.

    Marcus attacked again.

    Left hook. Lance''s forearm swept up to block¡ªand a heartbeat later, arma surged through the same path.

    Roundhouse kick. His body pivoted away¡ªthen the energy followed, spinning through his core like an echo.

    Right cross. Lance''s shoulder rolled back¡ªand the arma rippled through his muscles, matching the motion a fraction too late.

    Front kick. Lance''s hips dropped, deflecting the strike¡ªafter a moment, the arma caught up, flooding the same muscle groups.

    Palm strike. He deflected the blow outward¡ªwhile the energy traced the same arc through his arm, just out of sync.

    With each exchange, the lag between his movements and the arma''s response grew shorter. Like learning to play an instrument, where mind and muscle gradually find their rhythm.

    Movement, then energy. Signal, then echo. Until they weren''t quite so separate anymore. Then¡­

    It made sense.

    The lag disappeared.

    Now the arma flowed with his movements instead of chasing them, and each block and strike felt lighter, sharper, more precise.

    For a moment¡ªonly a moment¡ªLance felt invincible. The perfect harmony of mind and body, enhanced by the cycling arma running inside him. He could see every possibility, every angle of attack and defense.

    Lance felt the energy surge into his left shoulder, and it rushed across his tendons, and it flooded his muscles, and it charged within his veins, all the way down to his knuckles, and the pressure built like a hydrant about to burst, and the raw force gathered in his fist, and he threw the punch¡ªand froze it right before impact, close enough to stir the air near Marcus''s face.

    The Krav Maga instructor took his first step back since they''d started training.

    A second passed. Then two. Then¡ª¡°Holy shit, kid! Where''d that come from?¡±

    ¡°I think I¡¯ve got it,¡± Lance said.

    Marcus clapped him on the shoulder, trainer mode forgotten. "Modest, too. Come on, let''s grab some water and then we''ll go again. I want to see if you can pull off that move twice."

    Energy Cycling

    Morphoplasm

    Dark Resonance

 Twenty-three: Chaos

    "?OOOOOYE!" Diego Ram¨ªrez shouted, rubbing his bare biceps with his hands as broken glass crunched under their sneakers past an abandoned pawn shop. "You missed one hell of a check-up today, hermano."

    His breath clouded in the darkness, and his lips had started to turn purple from the cold.

    "How''d it go?¡± Lance''s attention snapped toward Diego. ¡°Everything okay?"

    "Well, first of all, Dr. Patel was looking incredible in that lab coat. And she actually touched my leg! Not in that way, but still." The shiver in Diego''s voice wasn''t entirely from swooning - he''d insisted on wearing his lucky Real Madrid jersey over a thin t-shirt despite the December cold.

    "Come on, Diego... seriously, did she figure out what''s causing the pain?"

    "Hear me out first - I know she''s not your type, but you''ve known her since the arma trials started. Sooo hook your boy up with some intel."

    ¡°Do you want her to help you or not?¡±

    "Fine, but speaking of types... you and Vicky though¡ª"

    "Stop. With NARS turning people into ¡®Great Value superheroes,¡¯ dating isn''t exactly a priority."

    "Man, why you gotta be like that? Olv¨ªdate,¡± Diego sighed. ¡°Since you asked - my leg''s getting way worse."

    "Worse how? I thought you said it wasn¡¯t as bad as before."

    "Like, can barely do leg day worse. Dr. Patel said arma¡¯s not supposed to mess with muscles like this. So now I''m getting every test imaginable, hermano. X-rays, MRI, the works.¡±

    ¡°And?¡±

    ¡°Nada yet. I don¡¯t get the results until tomorrow. I''m telling you - something''s not right. It''s like... like my muscles are rewiring themselves or something.¡±

    "That''s not how muscles work."

    "?Exacto! That''s what freaks me out. Used to crush five plates on squats, now I can barely walk some mornings."

    ¡°Hmm. Although¡­¡±

    ¡°What are you thinking?¡± Diego asked.

    "My system''s calling it Adaptive Limbs... maybe that''s exactly how they''re meant to work." Lance ran a hand over his chin. "Weird thing is, I''ve got like twelve percent of what you have, and I haven''t felt anything."

    "I don¡¯t know, man. Also, my quads are getting massive again, like peak training massive. And I haven''t touched a weight since the wheelchair."

    "Yeah, that''s definitely concerning."

    "I¡¯m telling you, something''s gotta give," Diego said as they approached the community center doors. "Either I forget about gains, or I buy all new pants."

    Lance snorted. "Your problems are so unique."

    "Hey, you try finding jeans when your quads are the size of¡ª" Diego stopped mid-sentence, grabbing Lance''s arm.

    Voices leaked through the gymnasium doors. One belonged to Dr. Rodriguez, but her usual calm tone had an edge Lance had never heard before.

    "...can''t keep ignoring this," she was saying. "Three more this week alone."

    Diego shot Lance a look. They crept closer to the door, which stood slightly ajar.

    "No, listen to me." A pause. "If they find out what''s really happening, we''ll lose everything we''ve built." Dr. Rodriguez''s voice shook. "The authorities are already¡ªno, you don''t understand. These people trust me."

    Lance''s enhanced hearing picked up papers rustling, the sharp clicks of heels on hardwood.

    "I don''t care about protocol!" Her voice rose. "They''re dying, and we''re just¡ª" She broke off. More pacing. "Fine. Yes. But if one more person disappears, I''m going public. I mean it this time."

    Diego mouthed ''what the fuck'' at Lance.

    A chair scraped inside. "Tomorrow at noon. Okay. And please¡­ don¡¯t bring anyone."

    ''Click.''

    Lance grabbed Diego''s sleeve and yanked him back from the door. They scrambled away just as Dr. Rodriguez''s footsteps approached.

    "Shit, shit, shit," Diego whispered, nearly tripping over his own feet.

    They made it halfway down the hall before the gym door opened. Lance forced his breathing to steady, his heart hammering against his ribs.

    He tapped Diego''s elbow twice and raised his voice to an unnatural level. "Man, I can''t believe Jordan squatted six plates yesterday. That''s insane."

    "YES, SPORTS!" Diego practically shouted back.

    "Oh!" Dr. Rodriguez''s voice came from behind them. "Lance, Diego. You''re early."

    They turned. She stood in the doorway, perfectly composed save for a slight tremor in her hands as she straightened her blazer.

    "Traffic was light," Lance said with a shrug.

    "Yeah, w-weird day," Diego added, scratching the back of his neck. "Nobody on the roads."

    Dr. Rodriguez smiled, but it didn''t reach her eyes. "Well, come on in. Help me set up the chairs?"

    As they followed her into the gym, Lance caught Diego''s eye. His friend''s face said it all: What the hell did we just walk into?

    He headed for the neatly arranged row of metal folding chairs, and Diego broke away to the beverage station, arranging cups and napkins while sneaking sips of coffee between tasks.

    Dying. Disappearing. Going public. Dr. Rodriguez¡¯s phone conversation rollercoastered through his thoughts as he grabbed another chair.

    Mitsuki had asked about Dr. Rodriguez earlier. Is she a suspect too? Lance moved his head in refusal. Two weeks of support group meetings had shown him one thing: Dr. Rodriguez genuinely wanted to help them. Didn''t she?

    He was still wrestling with that thought when the gymnasium doors swung open.

    Lance looked up to see Rick sauntering through the double doors, his usual easy smile in place. But there was something off about it¡ªa tightness around the eyes, a slight hesitation in his step.

    "Lance, my man!" Rick called out, his voice carrying that theatrical projection that seemed to come as naturally to him as breathing. "Good to see you up and about. I was starting to worry."

    Lance set down the chair he was holding and arranged his features into a smile. "Hey, Rick. Just helping set up."

    The drama teacher crossed the room, clapping Lance on the shoulder. His grip lingered a moment too long. "How are you feeling? Any... side effects from your recent, ah, acquisition?"

    Lance''s muscles tensed involuntarily. The black substance¡ªMorphoplasm¡ªshifted beneath his skin, as if responding to Rick''s words. "I''m fine," he said, perhaps a bit too quickly. "Why do you ask?"

    Rick''s smile widened, but it didn''t reach his eyes. "Just looking out for a friend. You know how it is with these new abilities. Never know what might pop up."

    Pop up. The phrase froze Lance''s blood with sudden awareness. One ability down, two to go. Black goop was next. He needed this to be more than just a tumor sprouting from his shoulder.

    "I appreciate the concern,¡± Lance said. ¡°But really, I''m good. No unforeseen consequences so far."

    "Glad to hear it." Rick''s gaze swept over Lance, as if searching for some visible sign of change. "You know, I''ve seen what happens when people rush into embracing new powers. It''s not always pretty."

    Lance''s heart rate picked up. What did Rick know? Was he fishing for information, or genuinely concerned?

    "I''m being careful," Lance said. "Taking it slow, you know?"

    Rick dipped his chin, his expression softening. "Smart man. That''s why I like you, Lance. You''ve got a good head on your shoulders."

    "Thanks," he managed. "I try."

    Rick surveyed the room, then lowered his voice. "Listen, if you ever need someone to talk to about all this¡ªsomeone who gets it¡ªI''m here. Day or night."

    The offer hung in the air. Lance watched Rick, trying to spot any lies. Is he really part of the club? Then again, his help last night had gotten them out of trouble. Still...

    "I appreciate that," he said finally. "Same goes for you."

    A few regulars trickled in, finding their usual spots. Elena checked her watch and called out, "We''ll start in five, everyone."

    Rick tilted his head, squinting at Lance''s face. "Something''s eating at you."

    "Just thinking how to go about Morphoplasm." The thought stumbled from his lips unplanned.

    "Care to explain?" Rick gestured for him to continue.

    "The black mass. I can move it. But then it''s like it gets angry."

    "Ah. From what you''re describing... I think you might be approaching it wrong. Maybe stop fighting the chaos."

    "What, just let it do whatever it wants?" Lance asked.

    "Think of it like improv. Yes, and..." Rick gestured with his hands. "Flow with it."

    "This isn''t exactly community theater."

    "No, but the principle stands. Control through surrender."

    Lance rubbed his shoulder. "That makes zero sense."

    "It¡¯s how I¡¯ve controlled all of my abilities. Trust me, it works. Try it. Next time, don''t resist. Dance with it."

    "Please never say that again." Lance pulled back, nose wrinkling.

    Rick''s advice wasn''t completely crazy. Lance had seen him use his abilities - they could heal. He''d fixed a cut on Wren''s forearm during group one time, and last night he''d kept that dead arma user alive¡­ kept a dead person alive. That sentence made his brain hurt. No, soothe, that''s what Rick had called it. Lance had thought his powers would be like that when he first got them. Great job there, universe. Instead of helping people, I got power theft and mind control. Straight out of the villain''s handbook.

    "Give it a try," Rick said, grinning.

    "Now?" Lance stiffened.

    ¡°Sure, we still have a couple of minutes.¡±

    Lance hesitated, glancing around the room. Most of the group members were still milling about, chatting or grabbing coffee. He turned back to Rick, who was waiting expectantly.

    For science! his inner voice grumbled.

    "Fine," Lance muttered. "What do I do?"

    "Alright, first things first. Close your eyes and take a deep breath."

    Reluctantly, Lance complied. He felt ridiculous standing there with his eyes shut, but he had to admit he was curious.

    "Now," Rick''s voice came low and smooth, "I want you to imagine the black mass as a living thing. Not just a substance, but an entity with its own desires and fears."

    Lance rubbed his ear. "That''s... unsettling."

    "Just go with it. Picture it moving, pulsing. Can you feel it?"

    He could. The Morphoplasm seemed to respond as Rick spoke, shifting beneath Lance''s skin.

    "Good. Now, I want you to raise your right arm, slowly. As you do, invite the mass to flow with the movement."

    Lance lifted his arm, focusing on the sensation of the mass on his back. To his surprise, he felt it begin to move, sliding along his shoulder and down his bicep.

    "Holy shit," he whispered.

    "Excellent!" The pitch of Rick''s tone lifted as he raced through the next set of instructions. "Now, let''s try something a little more... dramatic."

    Lance opened his eyes. "Dramatic?"

    "Trust me. I want you to act out a scene for me. You''re a ship captain in a storm, fighting to keep control of the wheel."

    "You can''t be serious."

    "Deadly. Come on, give it your all!"

    Embarrassment and heat and shame flooded Lance''s cheeks. He looked around, relieved to see that most people were still preoccupied. Taking a deep breath, he planted his feet and gripped an imaginary wheel.

    "The wind howls!" Rick narrated. "Waves crash over the deck! You''re losing control!"

    Lance gritted his teeth, twisting his body like he had in that senior year production of Our Town, where his ''natural performance'' had won praise he didn''t want - because he wasn''t acting, just being his awkward self on sta¡ªYou could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

    To his amazement, the tumor responded, flowing across his torso and down his arms.

    "That''s it!" Rick encouraged. "Now, here comes the big one! A massive wave, about to capsize the ship!"

    Lance threw himself into the role, letting out a guttural yell as he mimed being thrown against the railing. The blob of tar surged under his skin, thinning itself, spreading across his entire upper body.

    Exhilarated.

    Rick leaned in close. "Now, I want you to let go. Give yourself to the storm."

    Lance''s muscles locked up. Every instinct screamed at him to maintain control. But Rick''s philosophy from earlier cut through his doubts: Control through surrender.

    Eyes shut. One breath. And... let go.

    The sensation was indescribable. The dark mass pulsed and flowed beneath his flesh, leaving trails of weightlessness wherever it passed."

    Then, slowly, he became aware of his surroundings again. The black substance retreated, settling back into its usual spot on his shoulder.

    He blinked back to awareness, panting slightly. Rick stood before him, beaming.

    "That," Rick said, "was incredible."

    He couldn''t disagree, but the more he analyzed the experience, the more his initial triumph soured. Morphoplasm responded to raw instinct, to surrendering control - while Energy Cycling demanded the opposite. Every time he circulated energy through his meridians, he needed absolute focus, precise control over each pathway and flow. It was like trying to direct traffic while sleepwalking. The more he understood each power, the more certain he became that using both simultaneously was beyond him.

    Lance studied his palms, testing each finger in turn. "It¡­ it felt so easy."

    "Sometimes we need to step outside our comfort zone to truly understand our abilities. Lance, I want you to try one more scene for me. This one might be... intense,¡± Rick said with a lift of his chin.

    Lance nodded, still riding the high of his newfound control. "Okay. What is it?"

    "I want you to imagine a moment when you felt completely powerless. A time when everything was spinning out of control, and you couldn''t do anything to stop it."

    Lance almost laughed - this was like printing ''Hello World.'' Memories flashed through his mind: the chaos of the NARS outbreak, his entire department wiped out from that last happy hour, the desperate act of stealing the experimental treatment.

    "I don¡¯t want to go back there," Lance stammered. "Not to that day."

    "You can," Rick said firmly. "Don''t just think about it. Feel it. Let the emotions wash over you."

    He looked around. Wren sat cross-legged in the circle, already waiting for the session to start - she turned her gaze to the floor when she caught him looking. By the coffee station, Vicky gestured wildly during what looked like a heated debate with Diego and Frank¡­ or maybe Zack. Whatever.

    No one else seemed to notice his internal struggle - just another night at support group. He was good at that, keeping the messier parts locked away like deprecated code that might break the build.

    Lance''s shoulders sagged in defeat. Darkness claimed him as his breath came in short gasps. He let the memories surface, reliving the fear, the desperation, the overwhelming sense of helplessness.

    A tickle deep in his muscles pulled Lance from the memory. The Morphoplasm responded, writhing just beneath the surface. But this time, Lance didn''t try to control it. He let it move freely, mirroring the turmoil within him.

    "That''s it," Rick''s words seemed to come from far away. "Now, show me. Don''t tell me, show me how it felt."

    Lance''s body moved of its own accord. He fell to his knees, hands clutching at his chest as if trying to hold himself together. A wordless cry escaped his lips, visceral  and primal.

    The abnormal growth went ¡®thump, thump, thump¡¯ and spread around his muscle fibers, following the paths of his panic. For a moment, he was lost in it, consumed by the memories and emotions he''d been suppressing for so long.

    "Stay with it. Don''t fight,¡± Rick said.

    A message flew past his vision.

    [Warning: Arma Energy Low. Energy Reserves at 25%.]

    New alert. One he¡¯d never seen. Seemed important. He ignored it anyway.

    Lance''s fingers scraped against the hardwood floor, his whole body shaking as the darkness wormed deeper. Too much input, too many sensations, everything spiraling out of his grasp. Someone touched his shoulder. He flinched, but the steady pressure kept him anchored to the present.

    The hand was warm. Was solid. Was soothing.

    Then, slowly, the storm began to subside. The substance retreated, leaving Lance kneeling on the floor, trembling and raw.

    He opened his eyes to find Rick crouching beside him, a hand on his shoulder.

    "You did it," Rick said softly. "You faced it, and you came out the other side."

    Lance managed a slight bob of his head, unable to speak. He felt drained, but also... lighter somehow. As if a weight he hadn''t even realized he was carrying had been lifted.

    "Thank you," he managed finally.

    Rick helped him to his feet. "No, thank you for trusting me. You''ve made incredible progress today."

    The sudden explosion of applause made Lance flinch. His groupmates were on their feet, some wiping at their eyes, others grinning widely. Lance''s neck burned as he stared at his shoes, wishing he could sink through the floor. This wasn''t a performance - it had been real, stripped-bare, and far too personal for an audience.

    Dr. Rodriguez stepped forward, her expression unreadable. "I think," she said carefully, "it''s time to start our session."

    Lance pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly. A smile felt wrong, a bow ridiculous, words impossible. He felt like he¡¯d fallen off a twelve story building, but one thing was clear:

    Energy Cycling

    Morphoplasm

    Dark Resonance

    ***

    ¡®Clap-clap-clap, clap-clap!¡¯

    Mitsuki Yamada froze in the doorway of the community center''s gym, her hand still on the handle. A circle of people sat in folding chairs, their faces turned toward a man in the center. Lance Lawthorn. Again.

    She pressed her tongue against her cheek, a habit she''d never quite shaken. The group''s enthusiasm felt out of place, like stumbling upon a party she hadn''t been invited to. Mitsuki''s eyes narrowed, scanning the room for any signs of trouble.

    "That was... intense," the blonde said, each word rolling through the big space. Vicky, Mitsuki reminded herself. Her name was Vicky.

    Lance stood in the middle, looking dazed. His shoulders slumped, and a sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead. Whatever had happened, it had taken its toll.

    Mitsuki''s fingers twitched, itching to reach for her notepad. But she held back. Observe first. Act second. She heard her mother''s voice again, the same lecture she''d given at every dinner about police work.

    She slipped into the room, grateful for the distraction of clapping hands and murmured conversations. No one seemed to notice her arrival. Good. Mitsuki preferred it that way. Staying invisible was a detective''s best friend.

    As she edged closer, she caught snippets of conversation.

    "...never seen anything like it..."

    "...the way it moved..."

    "...you okay, man?"

    The last comment was directed at Lance. He nodded, a weak smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Yeah, just... drained."

    She took a harder look. Drained from what? The support group was supposed to be about talking, not... whatever this was. She shifted to the balls of her feet, ready to move if needed.

    A man with colorful tattoos of Aztec warriors ¨C Diego, if Mitsuki remembered correctly ¨C approached Lance with quick steps. "Maybe you should sit down," he said, helping him to an empty chair.

    Lance didn''t resist. He practically collapsed into the seat, his breathing heavy. Mitsuki''s suspicion grew. This wasn''t normal exhaustion. It was something else entirely.

    "Alright, everyone," called Dr. Elena Rodriguez. The group facilitator. "I know that was interesting, but we need to begin. Remember, this is a safe space. We''re here to support each other."

    Mitsuki found an empty chair near the edge of the circle, close enough to observe but far enough not to draw attention. As she sat down, her eyes locked with Lance''s for a brief moment.

    He went from relaxed to guarded the moment he saw her face. He knew who she was. And he clearly wasn''t happy to see her here.

    Good, Mitsuki thought. Let him be uncomfortable. Discomfort often led to mistakes. And mistakes led to answers.

    When silence settled, Dr. Rodriguez spoke up.

    "This," she said, gesturing between Rick and Lance, "is exactly why group therapy works - we heal better together."

    Mitsuki''s knee bounced once, detective-mode engaging. Her fingers found her blue streak of hair - something about his reaction felt off.

    "Lance, would you share how that exercise made you feel? Particularly in relation to your Appropriation ability?"

    Lance''s casual demeanor wasn¡¯t so casual anymore. Appropriation? What could that even mean? Would this be his arma whatever?

    She''d need to do more digging on these arma abilities. The internet was full of wild theories and contradicting information, and her official briefing had barely scratched the surface. She couldn''t exactly raise her hand and ask for an Arma 101 lecture - undercover work and all that.

    "I... prefer not to discuss that particular ability."

    Dr. Rodriguez tilted her head, her voice gentle. "This is a safe space, Lance. Everyone here has abilities they''re learning to accept." She gestured to the group. "Many of us struggle with powers that can affect others. It''s natural to have complex feelings about that."

    Lance''s eyes darted to Mitsuki, then away. Appropriation affects others¡­ First time she''d seen Lance this uncomfortable. The information went into her mental grid.

    "That¡¯s not it." Lance''s words came out clipped, precise. "The exercise helped with... other aspects."

    ¡°I see," said the doctor. We''ll explore this at your comfort level."

    Lance relaxed. "Thanks." He sank back in his chair, clearly done sharing.

    The next moment, Mitsuki stopped herself just after her head whipped up because Dr. Rodriguez had shifted her attention to the man she was almost certain went by Frank.

    "Mack, how has your day been going?"

    Mack? The name hit Mitsuki wrong. She''d been sure he was Frank, a surly individual with barely contained rage. Yet here he sat, calm and collected, worlds away from her recollection.

    Was I that off my game last night? She suppressed a grimace, mentally scanning her grid for other mismatched facts. Sleep deprivation could mess with observation, but one wrong ID could compromise months of casework.

    "It''s been alright, Elena. Had a bit of a headache earlier, but it''s cleared up now."

    Mack smiled, his demeanor pleasant. His voice, his mannerisms - they were all wrong. She''d interviewed enough suspects to know when something didn''t add up. But what? And why?

    "And how are you managing with your companions?" Dr. Rodriguez asked. "Have you found ways to coexist?"

    "Oh, we''ve reached an understanding. They do their thing, I do mine. Though let''s be honest - they know who''s really in charge here." He chuckled, as if sharing an inside joke with himself.

    She forced her attention back to the group, hyper-aware of every twitch, every glance. Dr. Rodriguez gave Mack''s response the measured consideration it deserved, then turned to Diego.

    "Diego, would you like to share something with the group today?"

    The tattooed man stood, his muscular frame dwarfing the folding chair behind him. His thighs were like tree trunks beneath his gym shorts. That''s new, she thought. Mitsuki tensed, ready for... what? She wasn''t sure. But her instincts screamed that something was amiss.

    "Yeah, I''d like to say something." There went her hearing, Mitsuki thought - Diego''s voice could probably reach the parking lot. "I want to thank Lance for being such a good friend."

    Everyone''s gaze, including Mitsuki''s, snapped to Lance. He looked surprised, maybe even uncomfortable.

    Diego continued, his words laced with genuine emotion. "Man, you''ve been there for me through some tough times. When my legs were acting up, you were right there, offering support."

    Lance''s face cycled through several expressions, landing somewhere between touched and terrified at being the center of attention. When he caught Mitsuki watching, his deer-in-headlights look transformed into something reminiscent of a second-grader who''d just won the spelling bee. He kept glancing her way, tiny head tilts included, like he was making sure she''d witnessed his moment of glory.

    "I know we''ve had our ups and downs," Diego continued. "but you''ve always come through. Even when I thought I''d lost everything, you found a way to help."

    Lost everything? Diego''s legs acting up, Lance helping him recover, abilities involved... Three data points that suggested a pattern. Either Lance had some kind of healing power - unlikely, given his reaction earlier - or his "appropriation" ability had something to do with transferring physical traits. That might explain why Diego''s thighs didn''t match her files¡ªno, that¡¯s not it. It was too fantastical.

    She studied the faces around the circle, gauging reactions. Most seemed touched by Diego''s words, but a few - Rick, and oddly enough, Mack - wore expressions that didn''t quite fit. They knew something the others didn''t.

    Clues. Secrets. Answers.

    As Diego sat down, Mitsuki caught Lance''s eye again. This time, his guard was down, raw emotion evident on his face. Gratitude, yes, but also... guilt?

    The pieces refused to fit together. Mitsuki felt like she was trying to solve a jigsaw puzzle in the dark, fumbling with fragments that should connect but didn''t. Her frustration mounted, tempered only by years of training and discipline.

    Dr. Rodriguez beamed at Diego. "Thank you for sharing that, Diego. It''s wonderful to see such strong friendships forming within our group."

    Mitsuki fought down a snort. Friendship didn''t begin to cover what she was seeing. Lance sat in the middle of it all, sure - but the connections spread outward like a case board. Wren, silent and watchful. Mack, wearing Frank''s face but none of his rage. Vicky, whose protective hovering around Lance suggested... what exactly? Even Rick carried himself like someone guarding a secret. Only Diego seemed to be exactly what he appeared - and that, in itself, was suspicious.

    She needed more. More information, more context, more anything to make sense of this bizarre gathering. But where was it?

    ¡°Let¡¯s take five,¡± said the facilitator, and the circle broke apart, people drifting toward a table laden with snacks and drinks. Mitsuki used the movement as cover, sliding closer to where Lance sat. She needed to hear more.

    "Are you feeling better, boludo?" asked Vicky.

    Lance''s head sank in a sluggish yes, his eyes still unfocused. "I¡¯ll be fine soon. That Rick¡¯s something else."

    In her peripheral vision, Mitsuki caught Vicky shiver - there and gone, like a ripple in still water.

    ¡°Let¡¯s get a refill.¡±

    Vicky nodded. Lance stood. Three steps to the coffee station.

    Mitsuki waited ten seconds. Grabbed her empty cup. Casual. Natural.

    She inched closer, straining to hear more. Move slow. Look bored.

    Another joined in. Mack. Mitsuki dug through her bag.

    "Lance, finally get to meet you face to face. Been looking forward to this."

    "Mack, I presume?"

    "In the flesh. Or, well... you know how it is."

    Mitsuki reached for the sugar packets. First time they meet? Another puzzle, she thought.

    "I see you''ve picked up some new tricks since my visit," said Mack.

    "Not interested in a reunion tour," Lance answered, taking a sip of his black coffee, steam still rising.

    "Come on, we had fun!¡± Mack spread his arms wide. ¡°Let me tell you, the others seem to think you''re worth keeping around, and so do I."

    Mitsuki took a careful sip. Too hot.

    "Cut the crap, Mack,¡± Vicky snapped.

    "Ah, you¡¯re the needy one.¡±

    "I mean it.¡±

    "Don¡¯t interrupt. I''m having a chat with my friend,¡± Mack said. ¡°Thinking you''d make a great sidekick, by the way. What do you say, Lance?"

    "Hard pass."

    What kind of sick game are these people playing? Mitsuki busied herself with her coffee, watching the cream swirl.

    "We¡¯ll let it marinate,¡± Mack shrugged. ¡°Either way - this support group thing? Boring as hell - I¡¯m out."

    "And as boring goes... Hey, pig. Your coffee''s getting cold."

    The cup trembled slightly in Mitsuki''s hand.

    "See you around, Lance. We''ll catch up properly so¡ª"

    Mitsuki didn¡¯t hear the last part. She was already five strides away from the coffee station with her nearly overflowing cup, brain sorting through her growing list of suspects and inconsistencies that would keep her up tonight, and realizing she should probably skip these meetings for her own safety, but these people were like kendo opponents who''d switched stances mid-match.

    A hand on her shoulder made her jump.

    "Detective Yamada," Dr. Rodriguez said, her voice low. "I wasn''t expecting you today."

    Mitsuki pivoted on her heel, composing her features into a neutral expression. "Just observing the dynamics. Nothing to worry about."

    "I hope you''re not planning to interrogate anyone. This is supposed to be a safe space."

    "Of course not," Mitsuki said smoothly. "Actually, I''ve got what I needed. Won''t be troubling your group anymore."

    "I see." Dr. Rodriguez didn''t look convinced, but she nodded. "Well, I hope you found some clarity here."

    As the doctor walked away, Mitsuki''s gaze drifted back to Lance. He was talking quietly with Vicky and Diego, his color slowly returning to normal. Whatever had happened, it seemed the worst had passed.

    But questions still burned in Mitsuki''s mind. What kind of "support group" left its members drained and disoriented? And why did Lance Lawthorn always seem to be at the center of it all?

    Mitsuki reached for the door. The floor shifted beneath her feet. Her coffee sloshed all over her navy blue jacket.

    The basketball court swayed gently, then not so gently. Around her, the building creaked.

    She steadied herself against the doorframe. North Carolina doesn''t get earthquakes.

    The rolling motion continued. Not violent, but persistent. Not stopping. Getting worse.

    In the parking lot, car alarms started wailing.

    Then stillness. Complete stillness.

 Twenty-four: Interlude II

    At 0420 hours, General Stroebel stood at his office window, watching the dark sky over the Pentagon''s courtyard. His jacket hung on the coat rack, and his sleeves were rolled up past his elbows. The geometric doodles on his notepad showed he''d been awake for hours.

    A sharp knock interrupted his thoughts.

    "Enter," he said, not turning from the window.

    General Washington stepped in, carrying a red-bordered folder. Her service uniform was crisp despite the early hour, though a coffee stain marked her sleeve cuff. "Sir, I have the preliminary SITREP from NORTHCOM and the initial geological assessment."

    Stroebel turned, gesturing to his conference table rather than his desk. "What''s the latest from Kansas?"

    "That''s why I came personally, sir." Washington placed the folder on the table. "The satellite imagery came in twenty minutes ago. The chasm..." She paused, spreading out several thermal imaging photos. "It''s still growing."

    DEPARTMENT OF DEFENSE

    UNITED STATES NORTHERN COMMAND

    Peterson Space Force Base, Colorado

    IMMEDIATE

    DATE: 19 Dec 2034

    TIME: 0345Z

    SITREP #: 2034-319-A

    CLASSIFICATION: TOP SECRET//NOFORN

    PRIORITY: FLASH

    SERIAL: PS-11192034-001

    SITUATION REPORT: CONTINENTAL GEOLOGICAL EVENT

    REF: a) INITIAL ALERT 192330Z DEC 34 b) USGS PRELIMINARY REPORT 190115Z DEC 34 c) NORAD TRACKING DATA 190145Z DEC 34

    <ol>

    <li>SITUATION OVERVIEW At approximately 1930 EST (18 Dec 2034), a catastrophic geological event initiated along the 100th Meridian (100¡ã W). Initial manifestation presents as a rapidly expanding fissure with unprecedented characteristics inconsistent with known tectonic activity.</li>

    <li>CURRENT STATUS a) PRIMARY IMPACT ZONE

    <ul>

    <li>Fissure extends from North Dakota (48.9¡ãN) to Texas (26.8¡ãN)</li>

    <li>Width varies: 0.8-2.4 miles</li>

    <li>Depth: Unknown (measurement attempts inconclusive)</li>

    <li>Expansion rate: 4.7 feet/hour (average)</li>

    </ul>

    b) MILITARY INSTALLATIONS AFFECTED

    <ul>

    <li>Ellsworth AFB: Severe structural damage</li>

    <li>Fort Riley: Western portion compromised</li>

    <li>Multiple National Guard facilities: Status pending</li>

    </ul>

    c) CIVILIAN IMPACT

    <ul>

    <li>Estimated displaced population: 267,000+</li>

    <li>Major cities affected: Bismarck (ND), Pierre (SD), North Platte (NE)</li>

    <li>Infrastructure disruption: Interstate 70, 80, 90 severed</li>

    </ul>

    </li>

    <li>ANOMALOUS OBSERVATIONS a) Energy readings inconsistent with known geological phenomena b) Electromagnetic disruptions within 50-mile radius of fissure c) Unexplained equipment malfunctions d) Multiple reports of unusual atmospheric effects</li>

    <li>IMMEDIATE ACTIONS TAKEN a) DEFCON level adjusted b) Strategic Commands notified c) Emergency response units deployed d) Evacuation protocols initiated in affected zones</li>

    <li>PENDING INFORMATION a) Deep geological analysis b) Complete infrastructure assessment c) Full environmental impact report</li>

    </ol>

    Bob turned the page.

    UNITED STATES GEOLOGICAL SURVEY NATIONAL EARTHQUAKE INFORMATION CENTER Golden, Colorado

    PRELIMINARY GEOLOGICAL ASSESSMENT Report #: GEO-2034-1119-001A Time Stamp: 0330 EST 18 Dec 2034 Classification: TOP SECRET//NOFORNThis tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

    SUBJECT: Anomalous Geological Event - 100th Meridian Rupture

    <ol>

    <li>GEOLOGICAL CHARACTERISTICS a) Formation Type: Unknown

    <ul>

    <li>Does not conform to known fault line behavior</li>

    <li>No precursor seismic activity detected</li>

    <li>Energy signatures unprecedented in geological record</li>

    </ul>

    b) Physical Properties

    <ul>

    <li>Vertical walls exhibit crystalline structures</li>

    <li>Surface temperature: 127¡ãF (average)</li>

    <li>Magnetic anomalies detected</li>

    <li>Unknown energy emissions present</li>

    </ul>

    </li>

    <li>SEISMIC DATA a) Primary Event

    <ul>

    <li>Magnitude: Unquantifiable on Richter scale</li>

    <li>Duration: Ongoing</li>

    <li>Depth: Measurement equipment malfunction</li>

    </ul>

    b) Secondary Effects

    <ul>

    <li>Continuous microseismic activity</li>

    <li>Harmonic tremors at 18.3 Hz</li>

    <li>Ground deformation extending 127 miles east/west of fissure</li>

    </ul>

    </li>

    <li>ENVIRONMENTAL IMPACTS a) Atmospheric

    <ul>

    <li>Localized pressure changes</li>

    <li>Unusual cloud formations</li>

    <li>Temperature inversions along fissure line</li>

    </ul>

    b) Hydrological

    <ul>

    <li>Groundwater table disruption</li>

    <li>Aquifer systems compromised</li>

    <li>New thermal spring formations</li>

    </ul>

    </li>

    <li>PRELIMINARY CONCLUSIONS This event represents an unprecedented geological phenomenon that defies current scientific understanding. The combination of energy signatures, physical characteristics, and ongoing expansion suggests this is not a natural occurrence within known parameters of Earth sciences.</li>

    <li>IMMEDIATE CONCERNS a) Expansion rate appears to be accelerating b) Unknown energy readings increasing in intensity c) Potential for cascading geological effects d) Risk of additional fissure formations</li>

    </ol>

    END REPORT

    <ul>

    <li style="list-style-type: none"> </li>

    </ul>

    Bob pulled off his reading glasses, returned the classified documents to their red-bordered folder, placed the folder in his burn bag, and pinched the bridge of his nose. His geometric doodles had grown more angular, almost aggressive, as he''d read through the reports.

    Shannon stood at parade rest near the window, watching the still-dark sky.

    "General, SecDef wants to know if we''re mobilizing the 5th Army Corps for evacuation support."

    "What''s the latest from the affected bases?"

    "Minimal structural damage at most installations, sir. The seismic activity is... unusual. Our instruments are struggling to get clear readings, but everything points to steady, low-level tremors. Nothing over 3.2 on the scale. It''s the consistency that''s weird - they''re not fading. It''s concentrated along the meridian."

    "And the coasts?"

    "That''s what''s strange. Almost no impact outside the central corridor. Fort Riley''s taking the worst of it."

    Bob checked his watch. "Where are we on civilian infrastructure?"

    "Emergency Management''s primary concern is the ground transportation network. I-70 and I-80 are effectively cut. Rail lines too. But the power grid is holding."

    "What about these energy readings?"

    "Sir, I''ve been in contact with the research team at Lincoln Lab. They''re seeing patterns that don''t align with any known geological phenomena."

    Bob nodded, marking something on his notepad. "Get them connected with USGS. I want their preliminary analysis before the Joint Chiefs briefing."

    "Already initiated that, sir. Dr. Harrison''s team has been monitoring similar anomalies. They should have comparative data within the hour."

    "Good. Time on the Joint Chiefs?"

    "0600 in the Tank. POTUS will be attending."

    "Anything else critical before I call NORTHCOM?"

    "Yes, sir. FEMA''s requesting immediate military support for temporary bridges. They''re looking at a seventy-mile gap in emergency services."

    "Draft the order. I''ll sign it now."

    "Yes, sir. And sir? The Chairman was asking about our containment protocols."

    "Tell him we''re following EP-7744. Full transparency with affected state governments."

 Twenty-five: Dumb Luck

    Lance stared at a pair of heavy wooden doors. No way. Something felt off about this moment, but he couldn''t pinpoint what.

    "You coming in or what?" Mike stood beside him, backpack slung over one shoulder. His Dungeons & Dragons t-shirt had a fresh marinara stain near the collar.

    "Yeah, just..." Lance''s hand closed over the handle. He hesitated, his hand resting on the cold metal. Distant¡ªthat''s how this felt.

    Like usual, the low-watt bulbs lined the walls, lighting up the floor''s old scuff marks. But the smell hit him hardest. The familiar scent of hops and fried food wrapped around him like an old sweater.

    "First round''s on me." Mike headed for the bar, weaving between clusters of Qualtech employees.

    Haven''t we done this before?

    "The usual?" Mike lifted two fingers at the bartender.

    "Guinness." Lance settled onto a barstool, its worn leather creaking under his weight. "How''s the AI optimization going?" He hated how easily the casual questions still came. He didn¡¯t want to be fake. Not to Mike.

    "Brutal. The algorithms keep spitting out garbage data." Mike''s fingers drummed against the bartop. "But hey, at least we''re not stuck debugging in that windowless cave tonight."

    The bartender slid their beers across the counter. Dark liquid sloshed against glass walls, foam creating intricate patterns on the surface.

    Something''s not right here.

    Lance lifted his glass. The weight felt familiar yet strange, like trying to remember a dream while still dreaming.

    "You okay?" Mike asked. "Or is that merge conflict still giving you hell?"

    "Fine." Lance took a long drink of his Guinness, using the moment to gather his thoughts. The stout tasted exactly how he remembered. Too exact. "Just tired."

    Laughter erupted from a nearby table. The sound echoed oddly, as if coming from underwater.

    We''ve been here before.

    "Maybe we should join the others?" Mike gestured toward their coworkers.

    Lance''s vision blurred at the edges. The room seemed to pulse with each beat of his heart.

    "Lance?"

    His ears rang. The noise of the bar faded in and out like bad reception. He gripped the bar top. Tried to focus on Mike''s face. Kept missing when he tried to check his watch. The glass slipped from his fingers, but before it could shatter...

    Mike caught it.

    ¡°Man, you sure you¡¯re okay?¡±

    "Yeah, just... bathroom,¡± Lance said, already stumbling out of the stool.

    He pushed through the crowd. The hallway stretched before him, impossibly long. Lance''s hand fumbled for the doorknob, finally grasping metal.

    The bathroom door swung shut behind him with a soft click. Lance seized the edges of the sink, knuckles white.

    What the hell is going on?

    He stared at his reflection, searching for answers in the familiar lines of his face. Everything looked the same, but it obviously wasn¡¯t.

    "Time travel?" Lance whispered to his mirror image. The words stared back at him, absurd yet strangely plausible. After everything he''d experienced with arma abilities, was it really so far-fetched?

    An alien discomfort jolted his shoulder. The inky black mass still clung there, a reminder that this wasn''t just some fever dream or alcohol-induced hallucination.

    This did happen. If it¡¯s not time travel, am I in some sort of alternate reality?

    As he pondered these implications, black veins spread from his shoulder. They bulged, thickened, pulsed.

    "No, no, no..."

    Panic clawed at his throat as the substance expanded, oozing down his arm like tar. He tried to brush it off, but his fingers passed through it as if it were smoke.

    The growth accelerated. Within seconds, the blackness had engulfed his entire arm, creeping across his chest.

    On his back, the baseball-sized spot swelled and split. It doubled, then tripled in size. Thick strands pushed out, like roots breaking through soil. Stuff like tar oozed out. He could feel it crawling down and stretching toward his spine.

    Lance''s breath came in ragged gasps as he stumbled backward until he slammed into the stall door, but the impact didn''t even slow the spread of that black stuff.

    Think, dammit!

    He closed his eyes, desperately trying to access his Energy Cycling ability. If he could just redirect the flow, maybe he could¡ª

    His body locked up. That black stuff found his neck and suddenly his brain couldn''t process anything except raw pain. Lance''s legs gave out, and he crumpled to the grimy bathroom floor.

    The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting eerie shadows as the substance consumed him. Lance''s vision dimmed, the edges of his consciousness fraying.

    Is this how it ends? he thought. What a stupid way to die¡ªin an alternate-dimension, time-warped bar bathroom. Classic cosmic irony.

    [Dark Resonance detected hostile arma signature]

    ©¸©¤Target identified: [Morphoplasm]

    ©¸©¤Warning: Foreign arma attempting biological integration

    ©¸©¤Initiate disruption sequence? Y/N

    He gawked at the words.

    The text hung in his vision, crisp and clear, unlike the hazy bathroom around him. It cut through the pain, through the panic¡ªlike reading a phone notification about your car being towed while having a nightmare. His brain switched tracks with an almost audible click.Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

    "Um... yes?"

    [Day 16]

    Lance bolted upright.

    His heart raced, memories of the black substance flooding back. He patted his chest, arms, face¡ªnothing. No trace of that tar-like horror remained.

    "Shit." He sat up. The world spun. He gripped the edge of... a bed?

    As his vision adjusted, familiar shapes emerged from the gloom. His dresser. A chair piled with laundry from before the police had confiscated his apartment to confirm he''d killed in self-defense. The cherished glow of his alarm clock. [6:59 AM]. And every single thing he owned scattered across the floor for the third time in as many weeks - because apparently a supreme being made up of pure arma or some other bullshit had decided his apartment needed regular redecorating, whether by assassin, psycho, or earthquake.

    After the initial wave of okay-I''m-not-dead passed, Lance fumbled for his phone, squinting at the sudden burst of light. No missed calls or texts. Nothing to suggest the night had been anything but ordinary.

    So Mack hadn''t hijacked his body. Instead, his own stolen ability had tried to eat him alive. Pure dumb luck he''d snagged Dark Resonance last week¡ªthe kind of luck that definitely wouldn''t strike twice. Like every other appropriated ability, this one was already showing its teeth. Sometimes he wondered if the trade-offs were worth it, if maybe he should stop collecting these cursed "upgrades" before one of them finally killed him.

    He swung his legs over the side of the bed, bare feet touching cool hardwood. The floor felt solid, real. Not like the shifting unreality of the Rusty Nail. Good.

    Was it some kind of hallucination? Lance wondered, padding to the bathroom. Or did I actually... He couldn''t finish the thought. He almost laughed at how his mind had gone straight to sci-fi explanations while dying. But that was the thing¡ªhe remembered dying. Not the vague memory of a dream, but every excruciating detail. His shoulder, arm, spine, neck were all sore.

    The bathroom light flickered on. Lance clung to the sink, staring at his reflection again. Same old face. Also good.

    He turned, craning his neck to examine his shoulder. The fist-sized spot of inky blackness looked different now¡ªmore dense, almost metallic¡ªsolid proof that not everything had been a figment of his imagination.

    Lance prodded at it gingerly. The substance felt cool to the touch and it didn''t ooze or spread like before.

    "Okay," he said to his reflection. "Let''s figure this out."

    He closed his eyes, focusing inward. The familiar warmth of arma energy coursed through him, responding to his will. But there was something else now. A new current, darker and more potent.

    Morphoplasm.

    The name appeared in his mind, unbidden. Lance''s eyes flew open.

    "Show me," he commanded, unsure if he was talking to himself or this new presence within him.

    For a moment, nothing happened. Then, text flickered into existence, hovering in his field of vision:

    [Morphoplasm status check]

    ©¸©¤Current mode: [Solidify] Active

    ©¸©¤Genetic Optimization: 5%

    Damn, just damn, I did it. Lance blinked rapidly and the text didn¡¯t change.

    "Holy shit," he whispered. "It worked."

    A laugh bubbled up from his chest, half relief and half hysteria, and a third half utterly unreal. Yeah, I know that''s mathematically impossible, but these days nothing makes sense anyway.

    His bare feet padded circles in the too-small bathroom, shuffling between shower and sink with each lap spawning wilder theories. Whatever had happened in that other place¡ªdream, alternate reality, whatever¡ªit had broken through the code barrier that had been limiting his progression. He could feel it: the next step in his evolution.

    Forced adaptation, he corrected himself, hearing Dr. Patel''s voice in his head like a disapproving thesis advisor.

    Lance twisted in front of the mirror, trying different angles as faint lines of dark energy rippled beneath his skin. It felt right, somehow. Like a missing piece slotting into place.

    "Okay, Morphoplasm," he said, testing the words. "Solidify!"

    He shut the world out, remembering Rick''s lesson. Control through surrender. Lance let his arma flow through familiar pathways while simultaneously loosening his grip on the dark mass. The two forces should have clashed¡ªinstead, they merged like parallel processes sharing resources. Nailed that analogy, he thought with programmer''s pride.

    The substance spread across his chest in liquid ribbons, then hardened.

    Lance rapped his knuckles against it. The sound rang solid, like tapping titanium. He pressed harder. Nothing. Not even a dent.

    Look who just unlocked god mode, he proclaimed with a smirk. Three weeks ago, he''d been debugging payment processing systems. Now he was basically wearing alien armor. Talk about a career upgrade.

    The enormity of it all began to sink in. He''d faced death¡ªor worse¡ªin that other place. And now he had a new power, one that might have saved his life. Lance had lost count of how many times he''d almost died these past three weeks, but this time felt different. This time he''d gotten something useful out of it.

    And with it, more dangerous thoughts wormed through his synapses. Could Dark Resonance help him track down other arma users? Wonder if our friendly neighborhood murderer would show up on my radar, he thought with grim satisfaction.

    But first, there was that phone call he''d been putting off.

    Phone in hand. Search through contacts. Scroll past the dead ones. Hit call.

    Lance paced his living room, phone pressed to his ear. Three rings. Four. He was about to hang up when¡ª

    "Lance?"

    "Hey Alex. Been meaning to call sooner, just..." Lance trailed off, suddenly unsure what to say.

    "Yeah. Been a hell of a month."

    "How are you holding up?"

    A long pause stretched between them. Lance could hear Alex''s breathing, slightly ragged.

    "Not great. Had to identify... had to see them all."

    Lance''s feet stopped moving. His free hand clenched at his side.

    "Jesus, Alex. I didn''t know."

    "Someone had to do it. Next of kin, you know?"

    "Did they have any services yet?"

    "Small ones. Private. Most families couldn''t... with everything going on..." Alex''s words dissolved into a shaky exhale.

    Lance leaned against the wall, sliding down until he sat on the floor. "I should have been there."

    "You were fighting for your life. Besides, what would you have said? ''Sorry your loved ones died because we all went for drinks?''"

    "That''s not¡ª"

    "I keep seeing their faces, Lance. Every time I close my eyes. Emily''s smile. Dave''s stupid jokes. Mike..."

    Silence filled the line, heavy with shared grief.

    "I can''t do this anymore," Alex whispered. "Sitting in my empty apartment, staring at their messages, their emails. All these half-finished projects that''ll never... I just... I can''t."

    "Alex¡ª"

    "Maybe if I hadn''t pushed for that happy hour. If I''d just let everyone go home..."

    "Don''t. You couldn''t have known."

    "Doesn''t make them any less dead." Alex''s bitter laugh held no humor. "Listen, I should go. Got another funeral in an hour."

    "Wait, Alex. Let me help. Whatever you need¡ª"

    "Unless you can bring them back, there''s nothing anyone can do. But thank you for calling, really."

    The line went dead.

    Lance stared at his phone. Something in Alex''s tone had been off, heavy with an emotion he couldn''t quite decode. He''d been so caught up in his own survival, in mastering his new abilities, that he''d¡ªwhat? What was he supposed to do with this? Save people? The concept sat there like an unsolvable equation. He knew the right answer was probably somewhere between "care more" and "help others," but those variables meant nothing to him. Give him a clear objective, a problem to solve, and he''d excel. But this? He had no protocol for this.

    From his bedroom, Jiro whined softly, sensing his distress.

    "I know, buddy. I know."

    Lance ambled to his room and buried his fingers in Jiro''s shaggy fur, letting his dog''s presence steady him for a moment. In the kitchen, he measured out kibble¡ªthen dumped a third back in the bag.

    "Marcus definitely turned you into a stress-eating monster while I was out," he said, poking at Jiro''s slightly rounder belly. "We''re gonna have a talk about portion control, you enabler." Jiro just wagged his tail, unashamed of his gains.

 Twenty-Six: Hash Browns

    The arma situation took a while to sort out.

    Must have been because Lance was juggling several new abilities at once. Energy Cycling had finally clicked - he could direct the flow through his body with fluid control. Morphoplasm was coming along too, though "master" might be overselling it. He could make the black substance harden like steel across his skin, but only about half an arm''s worth at a time. Not quite the full-body protection Impervious had given him.

    Was it even as strong as Impervious had been? He wasn''t eager to test that theory with bullets.

    All typical superhero problems.

    Then there was Dark Resonance. Just the name gave him chills - like some final boss ability in an RPG. Everything pointed to it being some kind of aura detection power, assuming his countless hours of gaming hadn''t led him astray. But aside from saving him from a Freddy Krueger scenario, he couldn''t get it to do anything besides occasionally ping him with cryptic warnings.

    So that was Phase One complete: figure out his powers. Sort of.

    Phase Two - catch the killer - was proving more challenging. He had no leads, no real plan, and absolutely no idea where to start. Which was why he''d invited Vicky and Diego to breakfast at Betty''s.

    Surprisingly, they''d both said yes. Though maybe it wasn''t that surprising - Vicky never turned down food, and Diego... well, Diego was just that kind of friend.

    The kind who showed up for you, even when you were clearly in over your head. The kind that made it worth it giving up the mask.

    "How''d you even find this place, bro?" Diego asked before Lance could even say hello. "I love the noodle spot you showed me, but I''ve been dying for options. Gets boring eating the same thing every day."

    Lance''s hands went deeper into his pockets. "Just um¡­ I noticed it during a run¡ª"

    ¡°What?!¡± Vicky interrupted, saving Lance from having to say more. ¡°Sacred Valley literally has a hundred items on the menu.¡±

    ¡°Same seasoning on everything, Vicky,¡± Diego said. ¡°Same. Seasoning.¡±

    She groaned, dropping her head into her hands. "I can''t with you right now."

    "So what''s like the best thing here?" Diego asked.

    "Hash browns."

    Vicky leaned back slowly. "That''s it? Just... hash browns?"

    "They''re fantastic hash browns," Lance said.

    "Dude drove us across town for potatoes. Classic Lance," Diego chortled.

    "Not just any potatoes. Crispy on the outside¡ª"

    "If you say ''soft on the inside'' I''m leaving," Vicky said in a low tone.

    "Actually, I was going to say ''burnt to hell on the outside.''"

    "?No mames! You''re telling me you like them burnt?"

    "Some of us have taste, Diego."

    "Says the guy who eats burnt potatoes for breakfast."

    "Better than your protein sludge," Lance retorted.

    "Hey, that''s premium grass-fed whey, bro. And at least I season my food."

    Lance shrugged. "Salt is a seasoning."

    "You two realize we''re still standing outside, right?" Vicky said, pulling her jacket tighter around herself.

    The bell over the door tinkled when they entered. Betty''s was very much a local joint. Three retirees occupied separate booths, hunched over coffee cups and half-eaten breakfasts. More people than yesterday - seemed like the post-pandemic breakfast rush was finally picking up again.

    They dodged a harried waitress, weaved between the checkered linoleum tables, and slid into a booth beneath a faded photo of downtown circa 2010.

    "Ugh, why is the menu sticky?" Diego held the laminated page with his fingertips like it might bite him. "This better not mess with my macros."

    Vicky hadn''t made it past the first page. "Stop talking. I''m trying to decide if I can finish the lumberjack special." Her eyes darted back to the description for the fourth time.

    Lance glanced at the ancient Samsung mounted in the corner - one of those clunky flat-screens from before flexible displays. The news crawled across its scratched display, the volume lost beneath the clink of cutlery, morning chatter, and Ms. Miller standing beside their booth with her order pad at the ready.

    "Three days straight? My cooking must be growing on you."

    Vicky''s eyebrow arched as she glanced at Lance.

    "Your cooking''s worth the trip, Mrs. Miller. Though I think I''ll try the huevos rancheros today. Need to mix it up."

    This time Diego raised his eyebrow.

    "Branching out from the lumberjack special? Bold choice." Mrs. Miller smiled.

    As Vicky and Diego placed their orders, Lance stared at the news report showcasing the results of last night''s temblors. The footage showed several streets with buckled asphalt alongside sidewalks bearing hairline cracks while scattered storefronts displayed fresh "Pardon Our Appearance" signs.

    It had been worst during group therapy last night, but then it had continued as low-level tremors, and he could still feel them, and it was terrifying because even though he''d never felt an earthquake before, he was pretty damn sure they weren''t supposed to feel like the entire city was a cruise ship at port. However, after everything he''d been through lately, the panic barely fazed him. In fact, Durham¡¯s gentle rocking had lulled him right to sleep.

    "Mister ''salt is a seasoning'' wants huevos rancheros?" Diego asked the moment Ms. Miller moved away. Then he followed Lance''s gaze to the TV. "That earthquake last night was weird as hell. We''re not even supposed to get those here, right?"

    "Hey Vicky, you''re still at the Durview Hotel, aren''t you? Any issues there?"

    Vicky kept scribbling on her napkin, then looked up. "What? Oh, no, everything''s fine. Come to think of it, the new manager''s pretty decent. Pretty sure he¡¯s an arma player, but decent. Said we can stay through January since the girls are helping clean."

    "If you need a place... you know, when they kick you out... my couch is always open. Until you figure things out."

    "Look who''s getting soft on me."

    "I''m just offering¡ª"

    "Don''t flatter yourself. I was about to ask if you had room for my mini-fridge."

    "I just thought¡ª"

    "Right,¡± Vicky said mischievously. ¡°And I suppose you''ll want me to do your laundry too?¡±

    Clearly my social skills are diminishing, he thought. If Valentina had been a fencer with her wit¡ªprecise, controlled, elegant¡ªVicky was a street fighter, delivering blows meant to leave bruises.

    While Lance shifted in his seat, suddenly very interested in his coffee, Diego pocketed his phone with a satisfied look.

    ¡°Just got my test results from Dr. Patel,¡± he said. "Something about a pinched nerve in my lumbar spine."

    "Damn. Serious?"

    "Can''t make sense of half the medical jargon, but looks like it''s nothing major. She sent over some physical therapy exercises too." Diego grinned. "That woman''s amazing."

    Lance cringed. ¡°Well, keep me posted on how it goes."

    "Will do." Diego leaned forward, eyes sparkling with excitement. "So¡­ what''s the plan? We doing stakeouts? Interrogations? I''ve been working on my intimidating flex."

    Lance¡¯s attention snapped away from the TV. "Not exactly. We need to figure out who''s behind these killings first."Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

    "Oh, that''s easy. It''s gotta be Frank. That dude is weird as hell."

    Vicky snorted. "Real detective work there, sheriff."

    Lance stared out the window at the front, weighing the possibilities. Frank was volatile, even dangerous ¨C the break-in at Lance''s house proved that. But after getting his power back, Frank had just walked away. It was Mack, the other personality living inside Frank''s head, who worried Lance. That guy was a genuine psychopath. But maybe¡­

    "There''s also Preston," Lance said.

    "The rich kid?" Diego asked. "Why him?"

    "Think about it,¡± Vicky said. ¡°He was at the warehouse, and then again at that burning building. Seems suspicious, doesn''t it?"

    "You''ve got a point. It is pretty odd that he keeps showing up," noted Diego before stuffing a hash brown into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully.

    "Yeah, but..." Lance trailed off, realizing the flaw in his logic. "We were at those places too."

    He took a slow sip of coffee, buying time while the implications sank in. Were they also suspects? Or worse, was the killer among them?

    The silence. Diego broke it. "Guess we''re all suspects now. Cool. Cool cool cool."

    "Relax," Lance said. "Your panic spiral is showing."

    "Okay, so maybe we can''t rule anyone out yet. But we need to start somewhere. What do we know for certain?" Vicky asked.

    "We know the victims were all arma users. They all had abilities like us."

    "So the killer is picking off enhanced individuals,¡± Diego said.

    ¡°That¡¯s right.¡±

    Vicky slumped against the vinyl booth, drummed her fingers on the table''s edge, and traced the rim of her coffee mug with her thumb. "And how do you know all this?"

    "Someone killed Rony.¡±

    "The old guy? Holy shit, what? No way. No way no way no¡ª" Diego pushed his plate away, breakfast forgotten. "But I just saw¡ªhe was at the community center last week!"

    ¡°Found out yesterday.¡±

    "That explains why he missed the last three sessions." Vicky uncrossed her arms, exhaled through her nose, and stirred her coffee, her eyes distant. "You ''found him''? What do you mean by that?"

    "A detective interviewed me. They''re looking at everyone from the support group."

    "Wait." Diego''s voice cracked. "You''re saying whoever did this... they could come after any of us next?"

    "Exactly." Lance pointed his coffee cup at Diego.

    ¡°But why?"

    "Fear? Jealousy? Maybe they see us as a threat," Vicky suggested.

    It made sense, but something still nagged at him¡­

    "But how do they know who has abilities? It''s not like we''re walking around with signs on our backs," he finally said.

    "Hey, didn''t you say BioNova called you about getting another dose?" Diego asked. "Like, right after all this started happening?"

    As unlikely as Diego''s theory seemed, he couldn''t dismiss it ¨C not after Dr. Reeves'' suspicious behavior and Dr. Patel''s silent warning.

    "It''s possible," Lance admitted. "But we can''t just go accusing people without proof. But maybe¡­" Lance''s train of thought derailed as he noticed Vicky¡¯s pen dancing across her napkin, leaving behind precise shapes and crossed lines.

    "Those look familiar."

    "What?" Vicky glanced down. "Oh. Just looks like stage directions to me. You know, from drama class."

    "More like crop circles," Diego grinned. "Maybe the aliens are sending you messages through your pancakes."

    Vicky crumpled the napkin and hurled it at Diego.

    "So what''s our next move?" Vicky asked right before digging into her own lumberjack special.

    Lance hesitated. He was out of his depth here. He was a software engineer, not a detective. But lives were at stake. And if someone was hunting arma users, self-preservation alone made this his problem. They had to do something.

    He opened his mouth, changed his mind, swallowed, and then said, "We need more information. We should start by looking into the victims. See if there''s any connection beyond the support group."

    "I can do some social media digging," Diego said. "Between Facebook, Instagram, and Reddit, someone''s bound to have posted something useful."

    "Good thinking," Lance said. "Vicky?"

    "I''ll talk to Wren, see if she''s noticed anything. That girl doesn''t miss much, even if she barely speaks."

    "What about you?" Diego asked as he wolfed down the rest of his lumberjack special.

    "I''ll keep my eyes open, ask around. If I find any leads, you''ll be the first to know." Lance took a deep breath while tapping his finger on the table. "I''m going to talk to Dr. Patel. See what I can find out about BioNova - if they''re even involved in this."

    Vicky''s sausage link hovered halfway to her mouth. "Are you sure that''s safe?"

    "No," Lance admitted. "But it''s our best lead right now."

    The conversation lulled as Lance broke off a piece of his huevos rancheros, watching salsa and yolk pool together. The bite sat heavy in his mouth. They had a plan. Not much of one, but it was better than waiting to see who disappeared next.

    The last bites of breakfast sat untouched as Diego and Vicky headed their separate ways, leaving Lance alone with his cooling coffee and thoughts. He walked home¡ªactually walked, for once¡ªletting the crisp December air clear his head. The city''s subtle swaying from last night''s tremors had mostly subsided, though every few minutes a gentle roll would catch him off guard, like missing a step on stairs.

    Back at his apartment, he wrestled with Jiro, who seemed determined to prove that even adult dogs could have growth spurts. Lance could have sworn his furry companion had grown an inch since the whole NARS mess started. He fired off a quick text to Marcus, canceling Krav Maga for the first time since he''d started. Ten days. Just ten days of training, and he''d absorbed more than some people learned in a year.

    Thank god for that 6.5 in Memory Capacity, he thought, scratching Jiro behind the ears. Now if he could just redirect all that mental horsepower toward catching their killer.

    Although... memory wouldn''t help much there, would it? Sure, he could stockpile clues like a deranged squirrel hoarding nuts, but his Analytical Ability was stuck at 5.4. Probably because he hadn''t been actively using it¡ªunlike his physical abilities, which he''d been pushing to their limits with all the Krav Maga and superpower training. The body evolved what you exercised, after all.

    Well, aren''t you just the smartest little arma user who ever scienced, he thought with a self-satisfied smirk. Well¡­

    Time to put that analytical ability to work!

    But of course, because the universe had apparently developed a sick obsession with the number three¡ªlike his morning coffee rule (never less, never more), or his gym routine (three sets, three exercises, three days), or even his current juggling act of abilities (Energy Cycling, Morphoplasm, Dark Resonance)¡ªhe could only see three ways forward.

    Option one: march back into BioNova, where they still treated him like a bomb that might go off at any moment. After the "unorthodox treatment administration" incident and his recent rejection of their latest wonder drug, he''d rather fight Frank blindfolded than deal with whatever fresh corporate hell they''d cook up.

    Option two: reach out to Detective Yamada. But he''d watched enough gluetube compilations of police interviews gone wrong to know how that would play out. Shouldn''t have met with them two days ago. What a dumbass.

    Which left option three: confront Elena. The least terrible choice, if only by default.

    So Lance spent the afternoon putting his apartment back together... *again*, though there wasn''t much left to arrange. His bookshelf¡ªthe only piece of furniture he''d splurged on after landing his job at Qualtech¡ªstood empty except for a few paperbacks that had survived the latest toss-up. The three trashings had stripped his place down to the basics, making it look eerily similar to when he''d first moved in fresh out of college.

    With both his apartment and his thoughts slightly more ordered than they''d been that morning, he arrived at the community center¡ªhe checked his phone: [6:04 PM]¡ªAn hour early.

    He''d never shown up more than fifteen minutes before their 7 PM sessions, but Elena was always there, no doubt working in her small office across from the gym. He had no idea when she arrived¡ªfor all he knew, she lived there. Still, it was worth a shot. Still, he hesitated outside Elena¡¯s office door. Still, he had to try.

    The community center''s hallway stretched empty behind him, silent except for the¡ª

    Stop hesitating, damn it.

    ¡®Knock¡¯

    "Come in," Elena''s voice called from inside.

    Lance pushed the door open, stepping into the small, cluttered space. Elena sat behind her desk, surrounded by stacks of papers and what looked like psychology textbooks. She stilled, pen hovering above her paperwork, as she registered his presence.

    "Lance? You''re very early. Is everything alright?"

    He closed the door behind him, leaning against it. "We¡¯ll see. We need to talk."

    A crease appeared at the bridge of her nose, sharp as a paper cut. She gestured to the chair across from her desk. "Have a seat. What''s on your mind?"

    Lance dropped into the plastic chair while his hands found each other in his lap as he tried to sort through the mess in his head. "It''s about the group. About the arma users."

    "Go on," Elena prompted gently.

    "Someone''s targeting us. Killing us." The words streamed out in a rush. "Rony''s dead. And I think there might be others."

    Elena pushed back from her desk. "I didn''t realize you knew about Rony."

    "The police dragged me in for questioning yesterday. They''re investigating his death, running background checks on everyone in the group."

    "I''ve¡­ I¡¯ve been trying to make sense of it all week." She rubbed her temples. "Especially after they told me about Thad."

    "Thad?"

    "Thaddeus Walsh. He only came to one session¡ªit was before you started coming. I thought¡ª" Her voice cracked. "I thought he just didn''t like the group. But the police say whoever killed him probably killed Rony too."

    "Was he an arma user too?"

    She made a soft, pained sound before nodding.

    Another victim. Whatever doubts Lance had been clinging to vanished.

    ¡°I think whoever''s doing this is specifically going after people with abilities. Like me."

    "How can you be sure?"

    "The victims all had abilities,¡± Lance said. ¡°There have been others outside the support group - it''s all connected."

    Her legs seemed to shake, and she grabbed the edge of her mahogany desk to steady herself. "I keep telling myself there has to be another explanation."

    "There isn''t."

    "The police have been asking so many questions. About everyone in the group." She pressed her hand to her mouth.

    Two victims, two weeks.The group was a death trap now.

    He stepped closer to the doctor. "You can''t keep running these sessions."

    "I know." She paused. "God, I know. But what am I supposed to do? These people need help. Everyone that shows up each night is strugg¡ª"

    She didn¡¯t finish. She buried her face in her hands. "What should I do?" she asked.

    Lance took another step towards her. Elena Rodriguez, always composed, always in control. Now breaking apart in front of him. The perfect moment.

    ¡°Cancel the group. Now.¡±

    Dr. Rodriguez lifted her head, tears streaking her cheeks.

    "You''re right." A deep breath. "You''re right."

    He watched her pull herself together, then asked, "Who did you meet today at noon?"

 Twenty-Seven: Frame by Frame

    "Heading out already?" Rick asked as he watched Lance stroll out of the community center in his sleek leather jacket while Dr. Rodriguez trailed behind him before setting a small bag and cardboard box onto the ground.

    "Yeah. Dr. Rodriguez cancelled the group."

    "Oh." Rick cleared his throat. "Such a shame. These sessions were really helpful for people like us."

    "It''s not safe anymore." Lance zipped up his jacket, glancing at Dr. Rodriguez who was taping a notice to the community center door.

    "Not safe? Are you in any trouble?"

    "I''m alright," Lance smiled. "No trouble at all."

    The good doctor¡¯s hands quivered as she smoothed the paper that read ''Support Group Session Cancelled.¡¯

    "About yesterday - are you feeling more in control now?"

    "Yes, definitely. Thank you." He brought a hand to the back of his neck. "Listen Rick, someone''s attacking people with arma. Just... be careful, okay?"

    Noble to the core. Trying to protect others, even when he''s also in danger, Rick thought, a sad smile marring his face.

    "Good morning, Rick," Dr. Rodriguez called out, her voice lacking its usual energy.

    Could Lance have done something to her? Rick wondered, then immediately dismissed the thought. No, he wouldn''t. Not after all the progress he''d made.

    "I''m sorry about the group," she said, gathering her belongings. "Please be careful, all of you."

    Rick watched them leave the community center, shoulders slouched against the brick wall. The tremors had finally died down, and with them went his beloved support group. But something else lingered in the air¡ªpotential, raw and electric. Like the moment before the curtain rises, when anything feels possible.

    Lance''s performance last night had been... illuminating. The way the darkness had spread across his skin, consuming him. Yet he¡¯d conquered it. Such raw talent, but so misguided. Such darkness festering beneath that carefully maintained facade.

    "Just like Tommy," Rick whispered to the empty parking lot.

    Two years felt like yesterday. Tommy Blackwood, sixteen, front row of Rick''s advanced drama class. The boy had that same spark Lance carried¡ªthat barely contained intensity threatening to burst free. Tommy''s true nature had revealed itself during the spring musical. Rick still remembered the moment perfectly: Act Two of "The Glass Menagerie," when something shifted in Tommy''s eyes during his monologue.

    The memory washed over him like theater lights...

    Tommy stood center stage, trembling. "Mr. Munson, I can''t keep pretending. Everything inside me, it''s¡ªit''s too much."

    "Breathe, Tommy. Remember what we practiced." Rick approached slowly, hands raised. The boy''s shoulders heaved with each ragged breath, his performance transforming into something raw and primal. "Let it flow through you, like we discussed. You''re the performer, not the performance."

    "I''m trying, but it hurts. Everything hurts."

    Rick''s heart ached. The same potential, the same raw emotion¡ªwasted on someone who couldn''t truly appreciate its beauty. Who couldn''t understand the greater role they were meant to play.

    "I know it does, Tommy. But pain shapes us. Molds us." Rick''s voice carried to the back of the empty auditorium. "The question is: what will you become?"

    The boy''s eyes met his, brimming with tears and trust. Such innocence. Such waste.

    "Help me, please. I don''t want to be like this."

    Rick smiled, gentle and warm. "Of course I''ll help you, Tommy. That''s what I''m here for."

    He stepped closer, close enough to see the tremors running through Tommy''s frame. Close enough to¡­ well¡­

    He should have seen it sooner¡ªthe signs were all there. The boy''s rising aggression in rehearsals. The way he''d manipulate his castmates, turning them against each other for his own amusement. Small cruelties that grew larger each day.

    He''d tried everything. Private coaching sessions. Extra rehearsals. Long talks about channeling darkness into art. But Tommy had only gotten worse.

    The incident with Jessica had been the final straw. She''d been a promising young actress, until Tommy systematically destroyed her confidence, whispering poisonous words between scenes, orchestrating "accidents" during her monologues. Rick had found her sobbing in the prop room, ready to quit not just the play, but school entirely.Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

    That night, after everyone had left, Rick confronted Tommy on the empty stage.

    "I thought I could help you," he''d said. "I thought if someone just showed you the right path..."

    But Tommy had only laughed. "Help me? I don''t need help. I need an audience."

    Rick had watched the boy strut across the stage, so proud of his petty manipulations. So blind to the true power of performance. Of transformation.

    "You''re right," Rick had told him. "You don''t need help."

    The next day, Tommy transferred schools. A month later, his family moved away entirely. No one asked questions. No one even seemed to notice.

    Rick''s fingers drummed against the cold wall. Lance was different. Lance could still be saved from the darkness consuming him. All he needed was the right guidance. The right director.

    Rick smiled. After all, that''s what he was here for. To help. To shape. To transform.

    To set things right.

    ***

    Mitsuki Yamada''s fingers hovered over her keyboard, the grainy video paused on her monitor. The timestamp read [21:53:03]. Two figures approached the burning Oakwood Apartments, their outlines distorted by smoke and the phone camera''s auto-focus struggling in the dark.

    She''d watched this clip seventeen times now. Each viewing revealed new details, tiny inconsistencies that made her instincts buzz. The way Lance Lawthorn moved - too fluid, too precise for someone who claimed to be just another NARS survivor. His companion flanked him like a practiced unit, not random good samaritans who happened upon a crisis. Something about that inhuman precision made her uneasy, like watching a predator pretending to be prey.

    She tapped play again.

    [21:53:15] Lawthorn disappeared into the inferno. The woman with pink-tipped hair - Victoria Contreras, sister of the deceased Valentina - followed close behind.

    [21:55:42] They emerged carrying survivors. An elderly man in a wheelchair. Two children clinging to each other. All safely evacuated before the building''s partial collapse at [21:59:17].

    The footage painted a clear picture: two heroes rushing into danger, saving lives. It should have closed the case. Should have erased him from her suspect list.

    So why couldn''t she shake the feeling that she was missing something crucial?

    Mitsuki rubbed her eyes, the late hour and endless coffee catching up with her. On her desk, a stack of files chronicled the mysterious deaths plaguing Durham''s enhanced community. Somewhere in this mess of data, witness statements, and shaky phone videos, there had to be a connection.

    She pulled up her notes on the latest victim. Ronald McMullan. Thaddeus Blackwood. Ryland Kestrel. Three deaths that should have stayed unconnected - if Stevie hadn''t spotted the pattern before taking stress leave. His hasty notes pointed out what everyone else had missed: all three were arma users, and all three had died in fires.

    McMullan was found in his apartment, no signs of forced entry. No evidence of a struggle. Just another elderly man who appeared to have died in his sleep. It mirrored what happened to Thaddeus Blackwood a week and a half ago, the first death that caught Stevie''s attention. Now Kestrel had followed the same pattern, his body recovered from the ruins of Oakwood Apartments. Initial reports suggested the fire had been set to destroy evidence, the building chosen because its outdated sprinkler system had been flagged in multiple safety inspections.

    If Lance Lawthorn was the killer, had he returned to confirm Kestrel''s death? Mitsuki dismissed the thought almost immediately. The security footage showed Lawthorn spending exactly two minutes and forty-seven seconds inside, rushing up to apartment 4C to save elderly Mr. Crow. Meanwhile, Kestrel''s body had been found in the basement maintenance room on the opposite side of the building. Even with enhanced abilities, the timing didn''t add up. Lance seemed fast, but not that fast.

    "What are you hiding?" she muttered, freezing the video on Lance''s face as he placed the man and the wheelchair down. Ridiculous.

    Her nose almost graced the monitor, squinting at a shadow behind Victoria. Frame by frame, she tracked the movement - [23:32:89], [23:32:90], [23:32:91]. There. A figure lurked just beyond the emergency vehicles'' flashing lights, their stance too purposeful to be a random bystander.

    "Detective Yamada?"

    Mitsuki startled, hand instinctively reaching for her coffee. Officer Sullivan stood in her doorway, arms laden with manila folders.

    "The warehouse files you requested," he said, dropping the stack onto her already crowded desk. "Complete structural analysis, fire marshal''s report, and chemical residue findings from the scene."

    She flipped open the top folder, scanning the contents. "Anything interesting?"

    ¡°Define interesting." Sullivan scratched his stubble. "Place was a mess before the fire. Safety violations going back five years. But get this - night shift workers at the factory next door kept seeing lights on in there. Started about two weeks ago.¡±

    Mitsuki tensed. Two weeks. Right when NARS first appeared.

    "Thanks, Sullivan. Before you go - can you get Tech to enhance this section?" She pointed to the timestamp. "[23:32:91]. There''s someone behind Contreras."

    Sullivan leaned in, adjusting his glasses. "Pretty grainy. Might take a while."

    "Priority flag it. Something about this doesn''t feel right."

    After Sullivan banged Stevie''s office door shut because the pneumatic closer had been broken since before Mitsuki had started borrowing the space, she turned back to the image. The figure''s outline was barely visible, but their posture suggested someone watching, evaluating. Not the stance of a concerned citizen or emergency responder.

    The stance of a hunter studying their prey.

    She forced herself away from the screen, her neck protesting the hours spent hunched over footage. Her gaze landed on the photograph pinned to her corkboard - the strange symbols they''d found scrawled on the maintenance room wall opposite Kestrel''s body. Arrows pointing north, crosses intersecting circles with dots, parallel lines that seemed to ripple across the concrete. The imagery nagged at her, like a word stuck on the tip of her tongue.

    Mitsuki traced the patterns with her finger, willing them to make sense. They had to mean something - killers this methodical didn''t leave random graffiti. Unless they weren''t the killer''s at all. Maybe just kids breaking into empty buildings, leaving their mark. But the precision of those lines...

    With a frustrated sigh, she let the photograph fall back against the corkboard. Her digits found the first manila envelope in Sullivan''s stack, crisp and official against her palm. The folder''s weight promised answers, or at least new questions to chase.

    She cracked it open.

 Twenty-Eight: Progress

    [Day 17]

    Left jab. Right cross. Roundhouse kick.

    Too telegraphed.

    Feint. Hook. Spinning back kick.

    Better, but still reading her like a book.

    Vicky threw her strikes in patterns Lance had already memorized in the first ten minutes of their match. They circled each other on the black mats of the Titan''s Den group exercise room, where the cheap LED panels turned skin tones an unflattering bluish-white. Even without her powers activated, Lance could see the focus in her eyes - she never took these practice rounds lightly.

    Duck. Weave. Sidestep.

    She''s favoring her right side again.

    "You''re thinking too much," Lance said, easily slipping past another combination. "Your body''s already moving before your brain catches up."

    "Says the guy who turns everything into a coding problem," Vicky shot back, frustration evident in her next flurry of attacks.

    His Energy Cycling ability had changed everything about how he saw combat. Or rather, how he sensed it. He couldn''t actually see Vicky''s arma, but he could feel it somehow, like catching someone''s movement in your peripheral vision. It had first happened during Preston''s attack in that abandoned warehouse, that strange awareness of energy building up before each strike. Now he could sense the flow through Vicky''s muscles, the subtle shift in her weight that betrayed her next move. Could trace the surge of power in her right shoulder seconds before she threw a punch. But he kept that to himself. No need to reveal just how much these abilities were evolving.

    Jab. Cross. Hook. Uppercut.

    Classic boxing progression. Time to show her why that won''t work.

    Lance waited for the uppercut, then moved inside her guard with preternatural speed. One quick sweep and Vicky hit the mat, the impact echoing through the empty gym.

    "Nice!" Diego whooped from the sidelines.

    Lance studied her.

    [Human Elementalist (1st Evolution)]

    From what he''d seen, Vicky could only generate heat from her palms. But elementalists were supposed to be able to control their element completely - manipulate existing fire, create it from nothing. At least, that''s what the arma theorists claimed online in their endless debates about power progression.

    The more he thought about it... maybe he should teach them Energy Cycling. It didn''t feel like the other abilities he''d stolen - there was something more fundamental about it, more natural. Like it wasn''t really part of his Appropriation suite at all, but something any arma user should be able to do with enough practice. The way the energy moved through the body, following those invisible pathways - it was too... organic to be an acquired power.

    Hopefully, it would help her unlock those deeper abilities that seemed just out of reach.

    "That''s three falls," Lance said, offering his hand. "Want to know what you''re doing wrong?"

    "Enlighten me, oh wise one," Vicky grumbled, accepting his help up while shooting him a glare that could melt steel.

    Lance circled Vicky on the mat, gesturing at her stance. "The principle you''re missing is economy of movement. Every motion needs to serve a purpose - no wasted energy."

    "Right, keep your strikes tight and direct."

    "Yeah, and stay balanced. Each attack should flow into your defense." Lance demonstrated a compact combination. "See how I''m never overextending?"

    Diego nodded from his spot against the wall. "That''s what Marcus kept drilling into me last week. Said I was throwing haymakers like a drunk at closing time."

    "Exactly. In Krav Maga, you want to be efficient, not flashy."

    Vicky wiped sweat from her forehead. "What''s with the sudden interest in teaching us anyway? You''ve been extra pushy about this training."

    Lance''s shoulders tensed. "Because we need to be ready. This killer isn''t going to stop."

    "I can''t believe you got Elena to cancel support group," Diego said.

    "It had to be done."

    "So you''re serious about this? They''re one hundred percent hunting down arma wielders?" Vicky asked.

    "Has to be. The pattern''s too clear - Rony, that guy at the warehouse, someone named Thad, probably others we don''t know about yet."

    Vicky¡¯s eyebrows rise. ¡°Thad¡¯s dead too? The skinny dude from the support group?¡±

    ¡°That might be him,¡± Lance said. ¡°You knew him?¡±

    ¡°Not really. Only saw him once.¡±

    Diego pushed off from the wall. "He''s right. We can''t just sit around waiting to be next."

    "Ugh, fine." Vicky dropped onto the mat. "But I still think this is overkill."

    "Thanks, Vicky. By the way, find anything interesting online, Diego?"

    "Nah man, ended up in reels hell for like three hours. Though I did see this one guy who could cut down trees with his voice..." Diego trailed off. "The death count''s at 400 million worldwide now. That''s... that''s why I quit social media. Couldn''t take seeing those numbers anymore."

    "Jesus." Lance''s face went slack. "That''s..."

    "Yeah."

    Vicky pulled her knees to her chest. "Heard they''ve treated more than two billion people though."

    "That''s something at least. Maybe we''re turning a corner." Lance said, looking up.

    "They''re saying half of businesses might reopen by next year," Diego added. "Things could start feeling normal again."

    "Normal." Vicky''s voice went soft. "All those kids who won''t have Christmas this year..."

    "My niece asked Santa to bring her dad back." Diego stared at his hands. "How do you even respond to that? The NARS treatments aren''t even making it past the border yet. Not to places like where my family lives."

    "You can''t." Lance sank down beside them. "You just... be there."

    "Some Christmas miracle we turned out to be." Vicky''s laugh came out hollow. "All these powers and we can''t fix what matters."

    "But maybe we can." Lance''s voice hardened. "We can stop whoever''s doing this."

    "Fine." Vicky threw her hands up. "I guess we''re catching a killer now."

    A hint of approval crossed Lance''s face. "Did you talk to Wren?"

    "Wren?"

    Vicky stared past Lance, her face blank for a moment too long.

    "Yeah¡­ about anything suspicious she might have noticed."

    Lance and Diego exchanged looks. Until: Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

    "She wouldn''t talk to me. To be honest, she was acting weird this morning. Left the hotel before I did."

    ¡°Is that strange¡ª¡±

    Heavy footsteps approached from the hallway. Marcus appeared in the doorway, raising an eyebrow at the trio sprawled on his mats.

    "Damn, you''re early today."

    "Morning Marcus. Just getting some training in," Lance said. "Things are getting dangerous out there."

    Marcus crossed his arms. "You in some kind of trouble?"

    "Not me specifically. But someone''s targeting arma users."

    Marcus''s expression darkened. "Say no more. You¡¯re all free to use this room as much as you need."

    "Mind doing a group session today?"

    "Aight." Marcus cracked his knuckles. "Let''s see what y''all need help with."

    Perfect - now he could work on what he really came here for. Lance took a stance in the center of the mat. ¡°Diego, Vicky, I want you both to attack me at once.¡±

    "Pfft. Showoff," Vicky muttered, rolling her shoulders back.

    Diego let out a low whistle.

    "And don''t hold back on the powers. Use everything you''ve got."

    ¡°Are you sure about this?¡± Marcus asked.

    Lance ran the numbers in his head: 99.7% chance he could handle them both. It wasn''t that he was a juggernaut - he and Vicky were both technically at First Evolution. But every power he appropriated seemed to make him jump a level. Sparring with Vicky was like playing against someone from a rec league when you''d just made the school team - the gap was subtle but undeniable. And that was just comparing base stats, before factoring in Core abilities or Energy Masteries.

    His calculations over the past few days had proven something interesting: with proper technique, he could still edge out someone with a 0.1 advantage in raw strength. But 0.5? That was an insurmountable wall. No amount of technical knowledge could bridge that gap - not in a million years.

    Numbers were nice, but practice was better. He nodded to Marcus.

    "Aight, show us." The older man stepped to the sidelines.

    Diego circled right, Vicky left. Fair play.

    Lance tracked both movements.

    Diego struck first. His legs, a propelling force that surpassed any ¡®unawakened¡¯ human. Lance sidestepped, narrowly avoiding a roundhouse kick that whistled past his ear. He pivoted, only to find Vicky closing in, her hands glowing an angry red.

    Damn.

    Lance ducked under her swing. The warmth singed his hair.

    He pivoted, using Diego''s momentum against him. A quick shove sent the bigger man stumbling.

    With a breath that positioned him on Diego¡¯s flank, energy cycling kicked in. He felt the flow, like electricity arcing through his limbs.

    Diego recovered. Another kick. This time, Lance saw it coming.

    He grabbed Diego''s ankle, redirecting the force. The Beast hit the mat. Hard.

    Without proper redirection, those kicks could shatter bones. If Lance was forced to block with Solidify, Diego''s leg would snap against the morphoplasm like hitting concrete. The thought made his stomach turn. No. Control. Always control.

    Vicky pressed his distraction. A flurry of heated strikes.

    Lance weaved through them. Her hands warped the air like summer heat off asphalt.

    He reached for Dark Resonance. Nothing. Just a vague awareness of their arma signatures.

    Disappointment.

    Diego was up again. Both opponents closed in.

    Vicky''s heat-charged fist grazed his shoulder. Lance hissed, the skin instantly blistering. He spun away, using the momentum to dodge Diego''s follow-up attack. His energy cycling punched into overdrive, redirecting power to his legs for a quick retreat.

    "Come on, Lance!" Marcus called from the sidelines. ¡°You can clearly finish the fight. Remember the principles of the art.¡±

    Calculations. Probabilities. Angles of attack. He processed it all.

    Then he let instinct take over, if only to see how that would work out. Messages peppered his vision, but he was a veteran at looking past them.

    A series of quick jabs kept Vicky at bay. A low sweep disrupted Diego''s footing.

    But they were unstoppable. Excellent.

    Diego''s leg shot out, impossibly fast. It caught Lance in the ribs.

    Pain.

    Activate Pain Nullification? Y/N

    The message blinked. Lance accepted.

    No pain.

    Another hot palm graced His shoulder. It struck morphoplasm instead of flesh. The black mass writhed, then hardened.

    Lance twisted the solidified piece of skin against Vicky''s palm, forcing her back right when Diego''s kick descended.

    The Beast could jump like a pro athlete - higher than Lance could manage - but there was no time to dwell on it.

    Think.

    He centered himself. Let the energy flow.

    Time seemed to slow.

    Lance saw the patterns. The ebb and flow of their movements. It lasted less than a second, but he was able to see the arma radiating from Vicky¡¯s punch. Hot. Red. Angry.

    He moved.

    A perfectly timed dodge. Diego''s kick sailed past.

    Lance grabbed Vicky''s wrist. Redirected her heated strike towards Diego.

    They collided.

    Tangled.

    Fell.

    Diego was done. Vicky was not.

    Lance focused on her footwork. There¡ªa slight hesitation before she stepped forward. He waited, patient, until she committed to her next attack.

    When Vicky lunged, Lance was ready. He sidestepped her punch, grabbing her extended arm and using her momentum to flip her over his hip. She hit the mat with a satisfying thud.

    Lance stood over them, breathing hard. Victory.

    Vicky slammed her fist against the floor. She made a sound somewhere between a grunt and a growl. ¡°One more.¡±

    ¡°No!¡± Marcus called out, stepping onto the mat. "That''s a wrap, folks."

    Lance doubled over, hands on his knees as he caught his breath. His chest throbbed where Vicky had struck him, but a grin spread across his face despite the pain.

    It was progress. He''d done it. For a brief moment, he''d tapped into Dark Resonance. It wasn''t much, but it was a start. As Marcus approached with an ice pack and a concerned expression, Lance straightened up, his mind already mapping out possibilities.

    Marcus leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Your technique''s solid, but you''re all still too rigid. Gotta learn to flow with the hits, especially you, Diego."

    "Man, my whole body feels like jello after that beatdown."

    Lance watched his friend stretch his arms overhead, wincing.

    "And Vicky, you''re showing your¡ª"

    Diego''s body jerked. His eyes went wide.

    "Whoa whoa whoa what the¡ª" Diego stumbled forward, catching himself on the wall. "Okay that was weird, like my whole body just went bzzt for a second there and now everything feels like... you know when you''re playing a video game and you get that power-up that makes everything slow down but also speed up at the same time? It''s like that but also not like that at all and¡ª"

    "Breathe." Vicky steadied his shoulder.

    "I''m good, I''m good, just... trippy. Like my skin is too tight but also not? And then there''s this weird buzzing in my¡ª"

    Lance knew that feeling. He focused, scanning Diego.

    [Human Enhancer (1st Evolution)]

    A smile tugged at Lance''s lips. Just a moment ago, his power had barely registered as nascent.

    "I felt something like that before," Vicky said quietly. "Right before I started generating heat."

    "Wait, what? That''s what this is? Man, it feels like getting tased by Pop Rocks!"

    Lance nodded. "Your body just crossed some kind of threshold. This is good, Diego."

    "Is this more of that arma business?" Marcus frowned. "Whatever this is, not near the mirrors."

    "Relax, Marc, are you kidding? I feel amazing! Like I could run a marathon or bench press a car or¡ª" Diego took a step and wobbled. "Okay, maybe sitting down for a minute isn''t the worst idea."

    "I''ll get you some water." Vicky said, steering him toward the bench.

    Lance watched them, that familiar warmth of pride spreading in his chest. They were growing stronger. Together.

    "How''s the leg pain now?"

    "Actually, not too bad? Like, Dr. Patel sent me these exercises - have I mentioned Dr. Patel to you, Marc? Because wow, she''s literally the perfect doctor - anyway, did the stretches she recommended and it helped a bit. Still hurts today, though."

    Lance studied Diego''s legs, sensing the subtle currents of arma within them. The energy pooled above his knees, struggling to flow downward like water hitting a dam. No wonder the physical therapy only helped so much - the problem wasn''t just muscular. If energy cycling was as fundamental as Lance suspected, it might help clear those blockages, restore the natural flow. At the very least, it couldn''t make things worse.

    "Good to hear. Keep doing them. I think they''ll help more than you expect."

    "Aye aye, captain! Though if Dr. Patel told me to do backflips, I''d probably try those too."

    ¡°Listen.¡± Lance rolled his shoulders back. "I was thinking we should bring in the others. Get everyone training together."

    "Makes sense. Safety in numbers with that killer out there,¡± Vicky said as she passed Diego the cup of water.

    "Yeah. Maybe Rick could¡ª"

    "Absolutely not Frank," Diego interrupted.

    "Wasn''t going to suggest him. Although, I do feel sorry for Zack..."

    "Hermano, you never know which one you''re gonna get."

    ¡°Aight.¡± Marcus pushed off the wall. "Gotta check the front desk. Doubt anyone''s coming in, but..." He gestured vaguely at the mats. "When I get back, let''s see if you can lose those limbs properly this time."

    Lance waved. "Thanks Marcus."

    "I want to bring Wren. She''s... she''s having a rough time," Vicky said.

    "Of course."

    Diego gulped down his water, jumped to his feet, and bounced to the center of the mats, staggering as a single step launched him five feet closer. He caught himself at the last second, face-to-face with Lance.

    "Think I got the hang of this." Diego bounced on his toes. "Another round?"

    Lance''s smile had an edge to it. "Not yet, there''s something I want to teach you both."

 Twenty-Nine: Communion

    His inbox showed another automated reply: [Your message has been received¡­]

    "They''re going to fire us."

    Let them try.

    The office chair creaked as he jerked upright, then slumped again. Been wanting an excuse to show them what we can do anyway.

    "That''s not¡ªwe can''t¡ª"

    "Why not? Look what we did to that asshole at the bar."

    His hand trembled over the mouse. "I don''t remember..."

    Because you''re weak. Always hiding.

    A laugh bubbled up, sharp and cutting. Oh, let him hide. More fun for us.

    "I just want things to be normal again."

    Normal? The mouse cracked in his grip. We''re gods now. And you want to answer IT tickets?

    Not gods. Just¡ªjust different.

    "Different? Is that what you call it when we¡ª"

    Shut up shut up shut up!

    His fist slammed into the desk, splintering the wood. The monitor wobbled.

    See? Even you can''t control it. The power wants out.

    "I didn''t mean to..."

    Of course you didn''t. You never do. But I do. And I''m getting stronger.

    We''re all getting stronger. Even little Zack here, though he fights it¡ªIt took him so long just to hear us.

    The chair spun toward the window. City lights blurred below.

    "Lance could help us. His ability¡ª"

    Lance is nothing. We''ll crush him when the time comes.

    Unless he crushes us first.

    Fingers dug into the armrests, metal groaning. No one can touch us. Not anymore.

    Tell that to the last guy who tried.

    "What last guy? What did we¡ª"

    Shhh. Don''t worry your pretty little head about it.

    The office lights flickered. His reflection fragmented in the glass.

    "I want to go home."

    We are home. All of us. Together.

    Together? That''s rich coming from the one who tried to jump ship and run off with Lance.

    Lance was... an experiment. Something new to play with. But his mind was like tissue paper.

    And we¡¯ll break him the same.

    "No¡ªno, don''t hurt Lance¡­ he''s just trying to help-"

    Help? He wants to help everyone at Elena¡¯s little playgroup. Like we''re broken.

    Poor little Lance. Always trying to save everyone.

    Not for long. Changes coming. Big changes.

    "What changes? What did you do?"

    Laughter echoed off the walls. What did WE do, you mean.

    "Please, I don''t want¡ª"

    What you want doesn''t matter anymore.

    The chair creaked again. The screen went dark.

    "None of us get what we want. Not really."

    Speak for yourself. I''m having a blast.

    His hands pressed against his temples. "Make it stop..."

    It''s never going to stop. This is who we are now.

    Who WE are. Remember that, Zack.

    The office fell silent except for ragged breathing.

    "What... what happens now?"

    Now? Now we get stronger. Whether you like it or not.

    And anyone who gets in our way...

    The rest was lost in static.

    ***

    [Day 20]

    Lance lay on his bed, throwing a tennis ball at the ceiling in steady rhythm. Up. Down. Catch. Up. Down. Catch.

    Diego and Vicky did not learn energy cycling. The session had left them drained - more than Lance expected given how little they''d actually managed to manipulate their arma. Still, exhaustion meant something was happening. Progress, maybe.

    They''d been too wiped to train the next day, but the day after showed promise. Vicky claimed she could feel the arma now, even if she couldn''t direct it. Diego was... different. His arma cycled chaotically, flowing without purpose or pattern. He couldn''t seem to sense it at all, but those random surges translated into lightning-fast strikes that caught Lance off guard more than once. It was enlightening¡ªLance had grown too dependent on sensing arma to predict attacks rather than watching actual movements¡ªwho knew.

    At least he''d managed to disrupt Vicky''s heat once with Dark Resonance¡­ sooo it works. Small victories.

    If only he knew how to activate it on purpose when he actually needed it. That''s where having a mentor would come in handy.

    Unfortunately, Rick remained out of reach - he¡¯d forgotten to ask for a phone number, and Maverick Munson might as well have been a ghost online. A shame, since Rick could''ve taught energy cycling better than Lance ever could.

    Wren''s continued absence worried Vicky, though Diego kept insisting she was fine. Lance hoped he was right.

    But for now, things were... quiet. No support group drama. No calls from Durham PD. His apartment had stayed clean these past few days. He could finally breathe.

    Yesterday''s training was even more brutal than the first one, meaning Diego and Vicky needed another recovery day - complete arma depletion required deep sleep to replenish, as Lance knew too well. Yes, he could finally breathe¡ª

    [Arma Integration Protocol - Observational Directive #3]

    Subject: Lance Lawthorn

    Path Analysis: Antihero classification confirmed

    Primary Objective: Evaluate arma energy utilization in group influence scenarios. Secondary Objective: Assess subject''s ability to identify and counteract hostile arma interactions.

    Parameters:

    - Location: St. Michael''s Cathedral

    - Situation: Mass influence through arma-enhanced vocal resonance

    - Time Constraint: Duration of evening service

    Data Collection Priorities:

    1. Analyze resistance to mass influence techniques

    2. Document effectiveness of counter-manipulation abilities

    3. Study arma signature variations in group settings

    Note: This directive contributes to ongoing research on arma-human influence mechanics and group dynamics.

    Phone in hand. [5:38 PM]. Messaging app.

    Lance: Anyone else get a directive about St. Michael''s?

    Diego: nah man nothing here

    Diego: wait you got one??

    Vicky: No directive

    Vicky: What does yours say?

    Lance: Mass influence testing. They want to see how I handle arma manipulation in crowds.

    Diego: dude that sounds sketchy af

    Diego: like what if everyone starts going all children of the corn or something

    Diego: and then youre just there like trying to not get possessed and everyones singing creepy hymns

    Vicky: Shut up Diego

    Vicky: Lance don''t go alone

    Lance: I¡¯m going. I''ll handle it.

    Vicky: I want to come but I literally can''t move

    Vicky: Everything hurts

    Diego: same bro im like a corpse rn

    Diego: pretty sure my arma is in a coma

    Lance: It''s fine. Church crowd should be manageable.

    Vicky: Text us if anything feels wrong

    Vicky: I mean it

    Lance: K

    Diego: dont die bro

    He was already out the door.

    The streets were still as empty as ever, though Diego had been right ¨C a few businesses were starting to reopen. He passed a new smoke shop and made a mental note of the Thai restaurant next door for dinner after the church visit.

    Picking up his pace, Lance covered half a block in three strides, water spraying in his wake. Rain pelted his face, but did he noticed? No. As always, his anxieties outpaced his supernatural speed, spinning theories about what awaited him at St. Michael''s.

    Why a church? The question nagged at him as he dodged a startled pedestrian. And why so many people? The pandemic should have kept crowds to a minimum, yet his directive mentioned a packed service. Something felt off.

    In. Out. In. Out. Breathe.

    He forced himself to slow down, both physically and mentally. The last thing he needed was to arrive at the cathedral in a panic. Lance ducked into an alley, taking a moment to collect himself. He closed his eyes, internalizing the steady rhythm of raindrops hitting the ground around him.

    Energy cycling came naturally now, almost instinctive. His arma recharged, replenishing what he''d spent on his mad dash across the city. As his reserves filled, a familiar clarity settled over him. Whatever awaited him at St. Michael''s, he''d face it with a clear head.

    Lance emerged from the alley, moving at a brisk but human pace. The cathedral''s spire loomed in the distance, a dark silhouette against the stormy sky. As he approached, he saw a steady trickle of people entering the building. Too many people. Even a group this size violated pandemic restrictions.

    Something''s definitely wrong here.

    He joined the small crowd, letting himself be swept along by the flow.

    Inside, the air was thick with incense and... more. An electric charge that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Lance took in everything as he searched for anything out of place.

    "My brothers and sisters in Christ, we gather here today to experience true unity. True peace." The priest''s voice rolled through the cathedral. "Think of how divided we''ve become. Think of how alone you''ve felt. But you''re not alone anymore. You''re here with us. With me. Let my voice guide you to that deeper connection we all seek."

    The pews were packed, shoulder to shoulder - at least fifty people crammed into the space. No social distancing, no NARS precautions, no unease. Just an eerie uniformity in the congregants'' blank expressions. Lance felt a pressure building in his head, a subtle push urging him to relax, to let go, to join the collective.

    "Feel the weight of your worries lifting. Feel the barriers between you and your neighbor dissolving. We are one congregation. One body. One mind. Let go of your doubts. Let go of your fears. Let go of everything that separates you from the person sitting beside you."

    Fuck that.

    He bit down hard, focusing on cycling his energy to create a barrier against the invasive force. Three assumptions flashed through his mind: this had to be the foreign arma the Directive warned him about, he could shield his brain by flooding it with his own arma, and the attack was targeting his neural pathways. If this is brainwashing, that makes sense... right? RIGHT? The pressure eased, but didn''t disappear entirely. Lance settled into a pew near the back, feeling his muscles relax one by one against his will¡ªeven his Adaptive Limbs seemed to quiet down, his Saltatorial ability dissolving like sugar in hot coffee, all while the insidious compulsion tried to worm its way into his mind.

    The priest stood at the altar, his voice resonating with unnatural power. His voice carved through the church as visible waves of arma that pulsed outward.

    "The Lord speaks of unity. Of coming together as one flock. But we''ve strayed so far from that vision. We''ve built walls. Created divisions. Isolated ourselves. Tonight, we break down those walls. Tonight, we become what we were always meant to be - truly unified. Truly connected. One mind. One purpose. One will."

    He¡¯s our arma user, alright. He had felt enough arma to know - this was the real thing.

    If only finding our killer were that easy. But as he thought that, another idea popped into his skull. Wait, could this be our killer? He dismissed the notion with a shake of his head. Let¡¯s hold off on assumptions¡­

    His head felt heavy. His hands too. He eased up from the pew, moved forward three rows, and studied the priest from his new vantage point. The man''s eyes were unfocused, glazed over like everyone else in the cathedral. Is he being controlled too? Lance wondered. Or is this all him?

    He moved up another row.

    Now, Lance could make out more of the cathedral''s details through the haze of arma. Dark water stains crept down the stone walls like fingers, and the vaulted ceiling disappeared into shadow above the hanging brass chandeliers. A statue of St. Michael stood guard behind the altar, looking crooked and unstable¡ªLance wouldn''t be surprised if the recent tremors had weakened its mounting. Its bronze sword pointed downward ¨C straight at the priest, Lance noted with grim amusement.

    "Don''t resist this gift. Don''t fight against this blessing. Let it flow through you. Let it join us all together,¡± the priest intoned, his voice seeming to press directly against Lance''s thoughts. ¡°Feel how much lighter your burden becomes when you share it with us. Feel how much clearer everything becomes when you let go of your individual struggles and join our collective peace."

    The rail-thin priest gripped the pulpit, shoulders hunched forward as he gripped its edges. When he opened his mouth to speak, Lance wasn''t sure if it was one of his abilities or what, but he could almost see the sound waves rippling from the man''s throat ¨C distortions in the air tinged with pale gold arma that spread out over the congregation. The energy moved with too much precision to be accidental. So he''s not being controlled, Lance thought, watching each calculated movement. The priest knew exactly what he was doing.

    Lance leaned forward. Perfect. He was within range.

    [Human Psion (1st Evolution)]

    He''d never seen that classification before - probably one of hundreds swimming around in the Arma Integration databases. Psion? Like mind controller? The thought confirmed his suspicions, and a cold weight settled in his stomach as he remembered Mack crawling through his thoughts, leaving oily fingerprints all over his mind. He''d need Dark Resonance for this. And as if responding to his thoughts, the ability flashed a warning:

    [Dark Resonance detected hostile arma signature]

    ©¸©¤Unable to disrupt foreign arma influence - insufficient resonance strength

    Yes. He could see it. He couldn¡¯t do anything about it yet, but through Dark Resonance, Lance could see how it all worked - like lines of code executing in real time. The priest''s chant created a root frequency that branched into dozens of individual signals, each one probing and adjusting until it found the right wavelength for its target. Every time someone''s resistance dropped, their signal stabilized into a steady pulse. A program running on human brains. He watched new connections form with each word, spreading through the crowd like a network coming online.

    Good, now neutralize it! Dark Resonance, GO! Or whatever¡ªFuck. The words barely formed in his head when the organ pipes behind him erupted into sound, the vibrations slamming into his back and scattering his concentration.

    "Together, we will know true harmony. Together, we will experience perfect understanding. Together, we will become something greater than ourselves. LET GO. JOIN US. BECOME ONE WITH US."

    Turned out, flooding his brain with his own arma did not shield him.

    His body stopped. He swayed gently with the rhythm of the priest''s words. Around him, people nodded and murmured in agreement, leaning toward each other like old friends. He wanted to move forward, but his body sank back instead. The wood bench pressed against his back as he fought against his own relaxing limbs. He could still move - if you called dragging yourself through syrup moving.

    Is this my world now? Mental warfare every other week? That was his last coherent thought before succumbing completely to the intense calm. He''d faced death before, stared it down with a cocky grin and a witty quip. But his life wasn''t in danger here. This was violation. This was his body betraying him, becoming a prison of flesh and bone. For once, he was the one being appropriated.

    The priest''s litany droned on, each syllable a hammer blow against Lance''s mental defenses. He couldn¡¯t make out the words anymore, but he wanted them. Somehow, needed them.

    Lance''s heart thundered in his chest, the only part of him still responding to his commands. He tried to focus on that rhythm, using it as an anchor to keep himself from drifting into the sea of collective consciousness surrounding him. But even that felt like it was slipping away, his pulse slowing to match the synchronized breathing of the congregation.

    That stubborn heartbeat bought him a moment of clarity.

    Dark Resonance, come on! He screamed the thought, willing the ability to activate, to disrupt whatever hellish frequency was holding him captive. Nothing. The ability remained dormant, leaving him helpless against the psychic onslaught.

    How can I make it work, damn it?

    Sweat gathered at his temples. He couldn''t wipe it away. Couldn''t scratch the maddening itch it left behind. Every nerve ending seemed hypersensitive, aware of the slightest sensation - the brush of fabric against skin, the cool air from the vents, the press of the person next to him.

    This isn¡¯t brainwashing, it¡¯s bodywashing. The priest might have his emotional brain in a stranglehold, but Lance''s logical mind remained untouched. And that meant there was a way out.

    He fought each motion even as his body obeyed. The rising - he made it take six seconds instead of two, muscles trembling with the effort of that tiny rebellion. The clapping - arhythmic, just slightly off-beat, enough to draw irritated glances from those nearest him. The kneeling - an inch higher than everyone else, thighs burning as he strained against the downward pull. His fingers refused to interlace properly during prayer, remaining awkwardly splayed. When they sang, he kept his voice a half-step behind the congregation. Small victories that cost him everything to achieve, but each one reinforced the same truth - he wasn''t completely under control. Not yet.

    The priest''s voice grew louder, more insistent.

    "Your doubts are fading. Your resistance is crumbling. Soon, you will know the bliss of true oneness."

    A haze settled over Lance''s thoughts, gossamer threads of foreign consciousness weaving through his own. Memories settled behind his eyes - but were they his? Fragments of other lives, other experiences, bleeding through the weakening barriers between minds. A child''s laughter. The ache of arthritis in aging joints. The thrill of a first kiss. The bitter sting of rejection.

    Lance''s breathing slowed, matching the rhythm of those around him. His eyelids grew heavy, the urge to close them nearly overwhelming. It would be so easy to let go, to surrender to this ocean of shared experience. To lose himself in the comfort of absolute belonging because now he knew with complete certainty that every single muscle in his body belonged to the priest and there wasn''t a fucking damn thing he could do about it.

    No.

    Not everything, he realized with sudden clarity. Not every muscle. There was another part of himself that remained untouched by the priest''s hypnosis.

    He doesn''t know, Lance realized. Of course he doesn''t know. A part of Lance twitched, writhed, pulsed, itching to be used.

    Following instinct, he began cycling his arma. The arma felt sluggish, resistant to his commands.

    Slowly, agonizingly, he felt the current begin to move. A droplet at first, then a steady stream.

    With every other muscle claimed by the priest, his power had but one path left: Morphoplasm. And so it pooled within the baseball-sized, black mass on the back of his shoulder, building pressure like water in a blocked pipe. Using Diego''s problem as his solution.

    The substance stirred, responding to the influx of energy. Lance pushed harder, forcing more and more arma into the confined space. It hurt. Then it really hurt. Then it went beyond hurt. His shoulder felt ready to burst. Still, he kept going, pouring everything he had into this desperate gambit.

    "Your resistance is futile. Allow your personal struggles to fly away. Become one with us. LET GO!"

    Lance ignored the words, focusing instead on the growing pressure of his contained energy. The Morphoplasm strained against the force, but held. More pressure. More energy. Until...

    [Warning: Internal arma pressure exceeding safe threshold]

    [Dark Resonance detected hostile arma signature]

    ©¸©¤Source: Internal pressure anomaly

    ©¸©¤Activate defensive protocols? Y/N

    Yes.

    The dam broke. Dark Resonance surged through his system like a tidal wave, and everywhere it touched, the priest''s control shattered. Lance''s body became his own again, one piece at a time, radiating outward from his shoulder through his entire frame. First his neck, then his spine, then limb by limb until the last traces of foreign influence burned away.

    He stood, muscles trembling with returned autonomy, and for the first time since entering the cathedral, took a breath of his own choosing.

    "So that''s how it works. Mental intrusion creates false control signals, just like phantom pain. Dark Resonance just needs to recognize them as threats,¡± Lance breathed, the words meant only for himself.

    Dark Resonance. Lance had always suspected it wasn''t something he could just switch on and off like Pain Nullification. More like an automated defense system that kicked in when certain conditions were met - like the pressure building in his shoulder just now. His strongest ability was also his most useless one, at least until it decided to wake up and do its thing. Typical.

    He could feel it working now, a constant disruption field that pushed back against the priest''s compulsion whenever it tried to seep back in.

    He rolled his shoulders, savoring the simple pleasure of voluntary motion.

    Now what? He inspected the cathedral, considering options - not that many came to mind. The priest was still at the pulpit, and the congregation remained locked in their trance, swaying gently to his words. If Lance moved too suddenly, he''d give himself away. If he stayed too still, he''d lose his chance. And like hell I''m letting him try that mind control crap again.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

    This prophet was clearly dangerous, his ability to control minds a threat to everyone in the city. But was he the killer they''d been searching for? Lance couldn''t be sure. Either way, he couldn''t let this continue.

    A primal instinct demanded to reach out and appropriate the priest''s power. It would be so easy. One touch, and he''d have a new ability in his arsenal. Mind control - the ultimate offensive weapon.

    No. He wouldn''t stoop to that level. This wasn''t just irresponsible; it was dangerous. Who knew what long-term effects this psychic manipulation could have on these people?

    He sensed the familiar disruption, Dark Resonance at the tip of his fingers. Ready to cancel out other forms of arma. This time he was sure he could do it. If he could just...

    Screw it, let¡¯s try it.

    Carefully, he reached out and touched the shoulder of the woman next to him. Nothing happened. He frowned, concentrating harder. The energy within him surged, and suddenly he felt it¡ªa connection forming between them. Through that link, he could sense the priest''s command, a sickly golden thread woven through her consciousness.

    ¡®Snap¡¯

    Dark Resonance flowed through the connection and severed the thread as the woman blinked rapidly and the vacant expression on her face gave way to confusion.

    "What... where am I?" she whispered.

    It worked. Well, that was easier than expected.

    Decision made, Lance moved.

    He brushed past an older lady standing next to his first target, letting his hand graze her sleeve. Another spark of Dark Resonance passed through the contact, and another glazed expression cleared.

    "But ho¡ª" she began. However, Lance was already moving to the next person.

    One by one, he weaved through the pews, touching people as discreetly as possible. With each contact, he felt the drain on his energy reserves. It wasn''t much individually, but it added up quickly. By the tenth person, his hands were trembling from the arma expenditure.

    "The time has come to show your devotion through your generous offerings, as we build something greater than ourselves."

    Lance touched a man with a patched tweed jacket. He stumbled back, shaking his head.

    "Your worldly possessions hold you back from true enlightenment, from perfect unity with your brothers and sisters."

    His shoulder bumped the teenager with neon-green braces. She gasped, spinning in place.

    "Release your material burdens and embrace our collective purpose. Let your wealth serve our higher calling."

    His hand found the shoulder of a woman wearing three different floral prints. Her eyes cleared as she clutched her purse tighter.

    "Together we will build a new foundation through your faithful contributions."

    He grazed the arm of a man with a crooked bowtie. The man''s mouth formed a silent ''oh''.

    "Give freely, give completely, become one with our sacred mission."

    A woman with mismatched earrings¡ªgold hoop on her left ear, silver pendant on her right¡ªgrabbed his leather jacket as he passed, her fingers slipping off the material.

    Whispers began to ripple through the crowd. Confused murmurs grew louder.

    "Your sacrifices will be rewarded a thousandfold in our new world order." The priest''s sermon turned frantic, sensing the disruption in his flock. "Stay with me, my children! Don''t let doubt creep in!"

    The elderly man with the whistling hearing aid was next. His confusion turned to anger as the influence broke.

    Each contact broke another thread. Each broken thread weakened the priest''s hold. Each step brought Lance closer to the altar.

    On the next row, a man with thick, wavy blonde hair¡ªstyled upward and slightly messy¡ªgrasped Lance''s arm. Black-framed glasses, knuckles white from gripping. "Thank you, brother," the young man breathed.

    Arma user, no doubt. No time.

    He reached the halfway point of the congregation when disaster struck.

    The cathedral erupted.

    Phones out. Screens glowing. Emergency calls.

    An elderly man, newly freed from the priest''s control, stood up suddenly.

    "What in God''s name is going on here?" he bellowed.

    Shit.

    "Everyone please remain seated¡ª"

    Whispers turned to voices turned to shouts.

    "What''s happening?"

    "Where am I?"

    "¡ªpolice are on their way¡ª"

    "Return to your seats, my children¡ª"

    Footsteps. Creaking wood. Doors opening.

    People began to stand, voices rising in confusion and anger. Some stumbled toward the exits, while others turned to confront the priest.

    The priest''s voice cracked. "Please, maintain order¡ª"

    Lance stumbled, caught himself on the side wall, and saw the system message.

    [Alert: Arma Energy Diminishing. Energy Reserves at 50%.]

    We''re good, he thought while pushing off the wall. Last row, then the priest.

    But what would he do with the priest once this was over? Turn him in? To whom? The police were barely functioning in the wake of NARS. And explaining any of this would just make him look more suspicious to Detective Yamada.

    "Who dares disrupt our unity?" If the priest had noticed Lance''s work, he didn''t show it.

    Five more. Three. One.

    Done.

    Lance emerged from the final row onto the massive red carpet¡ªa crimson path that stretched from the entrance straight to where the priest stood gripping his pulpit.

    "You!" From his podium, the priest thrust his hand toward Lance, rings glinting on every finger. "God gave me this power to unite them! Can''t you see? In this broken world, I was chosen!"

    "Ugh, shut up already," Lance growled. Not only was the religious ranting getting old, but Dark Resonance kept picking up the arma laced through every word¡ªa constant hissing that felt like steel wool scraping the inside of his skull.

    Phones flashed everywhere. A hymnal hit the floor. Someone screamed about demons. A child was crying. The cathedral doors slammed against stone walls as people fled.

    Lance coiled, ready to move, ready to strike, ready to end the priest¡¯s¡ª

    ¡®Whoosh¡¯

    Something shot past him on both sides, pale and stretchy, like pulled taffy. The things whipped through the air, arching up behind the priest. They were arms, impossibly long, wrapping around the statue of St. Michael.

    Lance whirled, caught a flash of blonde hair and glinting glasses in the back row. Of course.

    Behind the altar, the bronze figure of the archangel began to ricket back and forth as people pushed their way out of the cathedral. The pair of super-stretched arms wrapped around the statue tightened, veins bulging out with strain. The tension built until, with a final, violent tug, the whole sculpture came crashing down.

    As if in slow motion, a ton of bronze plummeted, sword first, straight toward the pulpit.

    The first point of contact was the priest''s collar, the blade shearing through flesh and bone with ease. A spray of blood erupted, painting the altar and the stone floor and the panicked people in the front row who were clawing over each other to escape in a grim, crimson hue.

    The sword continued its deadly arc, splitting the priest from collar to navel with a wet rip. Intestines spilled across the marble floor like uncoiled rope, steam rising where they hit the cold stone. Blood and bile pumped from severed arteries as the priest''s body separated, his spine snapping like brittle wood. His eyes, still wide with shock and horror, stared lifelessly as the halves of his torso slumped apart with a sound Lance wished he could unhear.

    Screams filled St. Michael''s like a chapel whose congregation just watched their priest get cut in half. Disturbingly long arms snapped back. Police sirens wailed outside. Red and blue lights bounced off stained glass.

    What the actual...

    Lance stood rooted in place while his brain desperately tried to process what just happened along with wondering if he should chase the killer or help the crowd or run from the cops or call Diego and Vicky or do literally anything besides stand there like an idiot, but before he could decide, something grabbed his jacket and yanked him sideways through a side door as he realized with horror that it was the same elastic arm that had just split the priest in half.

    The mind control priest was dangerous, but this was different. Watching someone get literally torn in half wasn''t the same as breaking their psychic control - and it would''ve been so easy to handle this without turning the cathedral into a slaughterhouse¡ªhe had the toolset. But this... this was Preston¡¯s hired gun all over again. The wet sounds. The way death didn''t look anything like the movies. How a body could just... come apart.

    "Jesus fucking Chri¡ª¡±

    His throat tightened as phantom copper filled his mouth, that same taste from when he''d killed his attacker. He''d told himself that was different - self-defense, no choice, heat of the moment. This was calculated. Deliberate. The blonde guy clearly had no problem with collateral damage, given how many phones had recorded the whole thing.

    First priority: figure out who this stretchy-armed killer was and what the hell he wanted, before anyone else ended up in pieces. He couldn''t afford another frozen moment like this - not with a killer who could turn statues into guillotines.

    [Human Shifter (1st Evolution)]

    Makes sense, Lance thought. He remembered scrolling through ArmaTalk a few days ago, after getting Morphoplasm, reading post after post about Shifters. Zoe had broken it down pretty clearly - their type revolved around the arma infusing itself into cellular structure, granting the ability to alter physical form." Stretchy arms? Textbook Shifter stuff.

    Lance dug his fingers into the elastic arm that was pulling him toward the exit. With a grunt, he yanked hard, using his enhanced strength to force the stretchy limb to slacken. He could do it right now - one touch and he''d have the killer''s power. He could already see the purple-tinged arma flowing through the stretched tissue, just waiting to be appropriated. Was taking someone''s power against their will any better than the priest''s mind control?

    Fuck it.

    Core Power: [Appropriation (Alpha II)] activated

    ©¸©¤Target: [Human Shifter (1st Evolution)]

    ©¸©¤©¤Assimilation in progress¡­

    Taking this guy''s ability would keep everyone safe until he figured out what the hell was going on. If the stretchy killer turned out to be harmless, Lance could always return the power later with Redistribution - he''d done it before.

    Error: Target resistance detected

    ©¸©¤Unable to establish arma connection

    ©¸©¤Assimilation failed

    ©¸©¤©¤[Required parameter not met: Target consent = false]

    The stretchy limb suddenly retracted with a sharp snap, nearly taking Lance''s jacket with it.

    "Dude, what the fuck was that?" The blonde man''s voice echoed from the shadows.

    Lance stared at his hand as the error message faded. Since when had target consent been a variable? Every power he''d taken... Diego had begged him to take his ability. Zack had practically shoved his power at him. Even the Morphoplasm - its previous owner had entrusted it to him. He''d never tried to take power from someone who didn''t want to give it up. Now this changed how he would approach threats.

    "Sorry, I... I panicked," Lance stammered, his heart in his throat. "We need to move. Now."

    Sirens and screams intensified outside, but him and the other arma user leaped over the remains of St. Michael''s bronze leg and ducked through a back door behind the altar.

    "This way," the blonde man hissed, grabbing Lance''s sleeve and pulling him toward a narrow corridor.

    They ran.

    Saltatorial kicked in, but he forced himself to match his companion''s pace. He couldn''t afford to lose track of the man who''d just bisected a priest.

    "I''m Lance," he panted as they rounded a corner.

    "Owen," the blonde replied, not breaking stride.

    They burst through the sacristy door into the rainy night. The alley behind the cathedral was mercifully empty.

    "Keep going," Lance urged, glancing over his shoulder.

    Owen nodded, his glasses fogging slightly in the damp air.

    They sprinted down the alley, scattering standing water with each step as questions piled up in Lance''s head, but survival took precedence. They needed distance. Safety.

    Three blocks later, Owen slowed to a stop, hands on his knees as he caught his breath. Lance leaned against a brick wall, but he could have run another five miles.

    "I think... I think we''re clear," Owen gasped.

    "What the hell happened back there?" Lance grunted, still wary.

    Owen''s face fell. "I... I got a directive. Didn¡¯t you get one too?"

    "Directive?" Lance knew all too well what Owen meant, but this was a chance to gauge how much the guy knew about what was happening.

    "Yeah, you know. The messages. The missions."

    "I see. What did your directive say?" Lance kept his voice neutral.

    "It said to go to the cathedral. To stop whatever was happening there. I didn''t know..."

    His words stopped, and Lance caught the exact moment Owen realized he''d just cut a man in half.

    "Look," Lance said. "That priest was controlling people''s minds. You stopped him." He left out the part about there probably being less violent ways to do it. Then again, he had just learned people needed to consent to having their powers taken - so maybe the priest couldn''t have been stopped without force after all.

    ¡°I¡¯m just a construction worker.¡± Owen''s face twisted. "But I killed him. I fucking cut him in half."

    "You saved those people," Lance insisted. "If you hadn''t stopped him, who knows what he would have made them do?"

    Silence stretched as rain pattered against the pavement, washing away the blood on their shoes. Lance noticed a dark stain on his sleeve and tried rubbing it away with his thumb. Another person had just died in front of him. It was necessary, he told himself. Someone who could make anyone do anything they want - no prison could hold someone like that. Not really.

    "You were a hero tonight, Owen," Lance said quietly. "Remember that."

    Owen let out a choked sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "Hero? You''re the hero, Lance. You saved those people. I just..." He scrubbed roughly at his face. "I just killed someone because I was so fucking angry. He was in my head, making me... and I just couldn''t..."

    Lance looked away, giving Owen a moment. Emotions weren''t exactly his strong suit. Better to focus on the problem they could actually solve.

    "How long have you been getting the directives?" Lance asked, trying to change the subject.

    "A couple weeks, maybe? At first, I thought I was going crazy. But then I started meeting others like me. People with... abilities."

    "Same here,¡± Lance said. ¡°Have you gotten other types of system messages?"

    ¡°What do you mean by that, like other directives?¡±

    For less than a second, humor passed over Lance''s features. ¡°Not like that. Don¡¯t worry about it. There''s something else I''ve been wondering. What path were you assigned?"

    "Oh yeah, path of the Hero."

    Lance focused on Owen''s pulse, trying to detect any sign of deception. The heartbeat seemed elevated, but he had no idea if that meant anything - for all he knew, Owen''s heart was still racing from sprinting three blocks.

    Still, something about the construction worker felt genuine. Though after splitting a priest in half, Lance doubted the system would let Owen keep that path classification for long.

    "Listen, you should get out of here. Lay low for a while."

    "Why?"

    "Because someone''s hunting people like us. People with arma."

    "Is that why you''re asking all these questions?"

    "Just trying to figure out who''s on what side."

    "And what side are you on?"

    "The side that doesn''t want any more dead bodies." Lance straightened his jacket. "Be careful with those directives. They''re not always what they seem."

    "Yeah." Owen''s response got lost in the rain. "I thought I could help, but I¡­ I got that tonight.Thanks, I guess."

    Lance watched the guy with the rubbery arms disappear into the rain and the inevitable system message appear across his vision.

    [Arma Integration Protocol - Observational Directive #3 Complete]

    Subject: Lance Lawthorn

    Path Analysis: Antihero classification confirmed

    Analysis:

    - Successfully identified mental manipulation threat

    - Demonstrated strategic information gathering

    - Showed restraint in ability appropriation attempt

    [ERROR: Arma Frequency Destabilized]

    [WARNING: Integration Protocol Forcibly Terminated]

    [System malfunction - Directive results incomplete]

    [Ability augmentation mapping failed]

    [Accumulated arma energy dissipating...]

    "Are you kidding me?" Lance snarled at the empty alley. There went his chance at a new ability. Perfect end to a perfect night.

    ***

    Preston watched the cathedral from his black Aston Martin, rain droplets accumulating on the windshield. His fingers drummed against the leather steering wheel as another group of sheep filed through those ridiculously embellished doors. The directive had promised a convergence of arma users here, but he knew the real reason he''d come.

    He''d been born into wealth, groomed for greatness from the cradle. Who was Lance to deny him what was rightfully his?

    Every time they''d crossed paths, Lance had looked down on him. At BioNova, treating him like some spoiled brat. Disrespecting him during the first directive. At the warehouse, embarrassing him in front of other superpowered beings. The memory made Preston''s fingers curl into his palms, manicured nails leaving crescents in the flesh.

    "You''re nothing," Preston whispered, his breath fogging the tinted window beside him. "Just some nobody who got lucky."

    But luck wouldn''t save Lance forever. Preston could feel the difference now - the raw power thrumming through his veins, growing stronger each day. Soon, he''d show Lance what real power looked like. Soon, he''d wipe that self-righteous look off his face. Very soon all will be right.

    With a premeditated set of nimble movements, Preston climbed to the cathedral''s shadowed alcove and he watched as Lance freed more of those mind-controlled sheep from the priest''s influence.

    A muscle twitched beneath Preston''s left eye as he watched Lance work his way through the congregation. Each person Lance freed was another reminder of their last encounter, of Lance''s dismissive words: "Want to quit while you still have all your teeth?"

    The memory sent a hot flush crawling up Preston''s neck. His reflection in a stained window showed a face he barely recognized - features sharp with hatred, pupils contracted to pinpoints. Good. Let the anger fuel him. Let it feed the thing growing inside him, the power that would finally put Lance in his place.

    Preston smiled as he watched the statue slice through the priest like butter. Clean. Efficient. No hesitation - exactly how he would have handled it. He leaned forward as screams filled the cathedral, his attention shifting to the blonde man with the stretchy arms who''d just torn the priest in half. Interesting. Very interesting.

    Another of Lance''s little friends? Had to be. The fool always seemed to collect strays. Whatever. At least that guy knew how to get things done, unlike some people. Preston''s lip curled as he spotted Lance standing there like an idiot, frozen in place while chaos erupted around him. Seriously? This was the same loser who''d gotten lucky against him twice? What a joke. While every other person was actually doing something, their so-called tough guy couldn''t even move. Pathetic. Maybe next time they fought, Lance would just stand there and make it easy for him.

    "You think you''re so special. But I''ve seen what you really are - a thief. A fraud. And when I''m done with you..."

    The rain caught Preston¡¯s bared teeth as his prey disappeared through a secret door with the priest-killer. This changed things. Of course Lance would be connected to the arma killings - probably playing hero while bodies piled up across the city. His father''s business contacts had mentioned the deaths, but Preston never thought he''d catch proof this easily. Now he had something real to use against the self-righteous prick.

    "Run while you can," Preston whispered to Lance''s retreating form. "It''ll make breaking you so much sweeter."

    He retreated back into his car and followed Lance from the cathedral - tracking arma signatures made stalking almost too easy. And now, he found himself presented with an unexpected opportunity.

    Alone.

    Isolated.

    Vulnerable.

    The perfect chance to teach Lance a lesson he''d never forget.

    Preston''s hand hovered over the door handle, itching to spring into action. But no, he couldn''t rush this. Patience had never been his strong suit, but he''d learned the hard way that acting on impulse often led to disaster. He needed a plan, something foolproof that would leave Lance broken and humiliated.

    Physical violence was tempting, but too risky. Lance had proven himself surprisingly resilient in their previous encounters. No, this required a more subtle approach. Something that would strike at the very core of Lance''s being, leaving him shattered and alone.

    A cruel smile, along with an idea, began to take shape. Lance''s friends could be useful - especially that girl who never shut up at the warehouse. His family had a connection at Durham PD, building a case against Lance would be easy. All it would take was a few well-placed hints, some evidence linking him to tonight''s murder. He''d strip away everything Lance cared about, piece by piece, until there was nothing left.

    Preston checked his watch, annoyed. Screw playing it smart - he wanted payback now. Every second he sat here was another second Lance got away with acting better than everyone else. Who did that guy think he was, anyway?

    Preston cranked up his wipers in frustration. Where was that arma-stealing freak? If he''d lost him now... Preston''s hand tightened on the steering wheel. The leather creaked, metal groaning beneath his grip until the wheel warped inward. No way. Nobody got the better of him and walked away. Nobody.

    Preston''s gaze flicked to the rearview mirror, catching sight of his target. His hand found the door handle. Your time is up, Lance.

    [Arma Integration Protocol - Observational Directive #3 Complete]

    Subject: Preston Calloway

    Path Analysis: Path of the Sovereign classification confirmed

    Analysis:

    - Failed to engage with identified threat

    - Demonstrated passive observation rather than action

    - Showed preference for personal vendetta over directive objectives

    [ERROR: Arma Frequency Destabilized]

    [WARNING: Integration Protocol Forcibly Terminated]

    [System malfunction - Directive results incomplete]

    [Ability augmentation mapping failed]

    [Accumulated arma energy dissipating...]

    ***

    Another young soul lost to rage.

    Such raw emotion, such unfocused anger - it reminded him of other talented students who''d lost their way.

    Rick''s fingers traced idle patterns in the rain-slicked door handle before pulling it open and sliding into the passenger seat.

    Preston''s body went rigid, hands clenching the warped steering wheel. "How did you¡ª"

    "Get in? The same way you tracked Lance - by following the arma signature." Rick settled into the leather seat, brushing water from his sleeve. "Though I must say, yours burns rather... distinctively."

    Preston''s jaw worked silently, tendons standing out in his neck.

    "Get out."

    "Come now, is that any way to treat a fellow performer?" Rick''s smile carried the warmth of stage lights. "We''re all playing our parts, aren''t we?"

    Preston''s fist shot toward Rick''s face. The punch stopped inches from impact, Preston''s whole body freezing mid-motion.

    "Interesting." Rick studied Preston''s straining muscles. "Your strength has grown considerably. But strength without purpose is just noise, isn''t it?"

    "What... did you... do to me?" Each word seemed to cost Preston tremendous effort.

    "Just a little trick I picked up in theater. Sometimes actors need help finding their stillness." Rick''s voice took on the measured cadence of a lecture. "You have such potential¡­ Preston, was it? Such fire. But you''re letting petty grudges consume you."

    "You don''t know anything about me."

    "Don''t I? The wealthy heir, trying to find his place in all this chaos. I''ve seen how hard this transition can be for everyone." Rick said softly. "It''s a compelling narrative. But this vendetta against Lance? That''s beneath you, and Lance¡¯s a good friend, so I won¡¯t stand for it."

    "That coward can''t do anything without his little posse to watch his back."

    Rick''s laugh held no humor. "Oh, my dear boy. Honestly, Lance doesn''t need protection. You''re the one who needs saving."

    Preston''s sneer faltered.

    "You see, I''ve been watching Lance. The way his arma flares when he''s cornered. How quickly that polite smile vanishes." Rick leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You should have seen him in group ¨C how casually he''d reach for someone else''s power. Even our therapist started choosing her words more carefully around him.¡±

    Rain drummed against the roof, filling the silence.

    "So this is a warning?" Preston grunted.

    "Think of it as... professional courtesy. Go. Get stronger. Find your purpose. But stay away from Lance until you''re ready for the consequences."

    Rick''s influence released Preston, who slumped in his seat, gasping.

    "And if he can''t control it? His darkness?"

    "Then perhaps we''ll need someone strong enough to stop him." Rick opened the door, pausing halfway out. "Though I do hope it doesn''t come to that. It would be such a waste of potential. Both his... and yours."

    The door closed with a soft click, leaving Preston alone with his thoughts and the endless rain.

    You better stay away from the people I care about.

    A moment later, Rick watched Lance trudge through the rain, shoulders hunched against the downpour. Such powerful abilities, yet still so unaware of his own presence. Like an actor who hadn''t quite found his light.

    "Rough night?"

    Lance spun around, droplets flying from his leather jacket. His stance shifted instantly - defensive, ready. Good instincts, at least.

    "Rick? Didn''t expect to see you here. You catch the St. Michael''s shitshow too?"

    "Tell me about it." Rick studied the slight tremor in Lance''s hands, the way his weight favored his right side. Exhaustion, perhaps. Or a sign that warranted closer attention.

    Something flashed across Lance''s face - concern? Suspicion? Such delightful complexity in every micro-expression.

    Rick watched Lance''s hands ¨C steady now, but the bruised knuckles and faint rusty stains beneath his nails told their own story. Such careful control in his movements. A command performance hiding something raw beneath the surface. But there were... slips. The way his pupils dilated at sudden noises. How his fingers kept twitching toward a weapon that wasn''t there.

    Another one struggling to find their way through this new reality, Rick thought. Just like his students from before.

    ¡°Are you doing alright?¡± he asked.

    "Yeah, but¡­ listen. There''s something I''ve been meaning to tell you.¡± Lance checked both ends of the deserted street. ¡°Someone''s hunting down arma users."

    Rick dipped his chin slightly, cleared his throat, and said, "I know. I''ve noticed fewer faces at group lately. Been doing some digging myself."

    The rain intensified, and he watched it trickle down Lance''s neck, noting how he suppressed a shiver. Always trying to project strength, this one.

    "You know Zack? The quiet one who shares Frank''s body?" Rick paused until Lance showed he was following. "I think there might be another personality in there. Something darker."

    "Makes sense. Frank''s unstable enough already."

    "And I¡¯m not talking about Mack... well, let''s just say there''s more going on there than meets the eye."

    Lance adjusted his footing, water squishing in his shoes. Such obvious tells - he''d need to work on that if he hoped to survive what was coming.

    "We''ve started training together. At Titan''s Den. Learning to control our abilities. You should join us."

    There it was - Lance taking the first step without being pushed. Magnificent.

    "Who''s we?"

    "Diego, Vicky. Trying to get Wren on board too."

    "The quiet girl?" Rick raised an eyebrow, genuinely intrigued. "She''s training with you?"

    "Haven''t been able to reach her, actually. But we want her there."

    "Titan''s Den, you said?"

    "Yeah, it''s a gym nearby. Owner''s cool, knows about our situation."

    "I''ll drop by tomorrow then. Hope I can be of help." Rick pulled out his phone, grimacing at the cracked screen as he handed it over. "Mind if we exchange numbers? Just in case anything comes up."

    "Thanks, Rick. And see you tomorrow."

    "Stay dry."

    ***

    [2:47 AM]

    The numbers blurred together on Mitsuki''s tablet, swimming in her vision like koi in murky water. She''d been lying in bed for hours, case files spread across her comforter. They held all the answers. If only she knew which questions to ask.

    Lance Lawthorn.

    Her eyelids fought to close as she studied his photo for the hundredth time. The image showed him leaving BioNova''s glass tower, caught in profile by their security cameras. Nothing remarkable - just another face in the flood of enhanced individuals seeking treatment. But something in his expression made her skin prickle. That slight curve at the corner of his mouth, like he knew a secret no one else had figured out yet.

    Her bedroom fan clicked with each rotation, marking time like a metronome. Tick. Evidence folder. Tick. Witness statements. Tick. Crime scene photos. Each revolution bringing her no closer to proof.

    Something was off, but she knew it was him. The same way prey knows a predator is watching - some primitive instinct that bypasses logic and screams danger. But instinct wouldn''t hold up in court.

    Her fingers traced the timeline she''d constructed, dates and locations forming a spider''s web across her tablet screen. Every death connected back to him somehow, through the support group or BioNova or those mysterious "directives" she kept hearing whispers about. But the connections were gossamer-thin, dissolving the moment she tried to grab them.

    A car alarm wailed somewhere in the darkness outside. Mitsuki''s hand jerked, scattering papers across her bedspread. Her neck muscles coiled like steel cables as she stiffened, her back going rigid. Was someone out there?

    Stop it, she chided herself. Now you''re getting paranoid.

    But that''s what he did, wasn''t it? Made you doubt yourself. Made you question every shadow, every coincidence, until you felt crazy for suspecting anything at all.

    Mitsuki pulled up the warehouse incident report. Twelve more dead in the ashes. She added them to her mental list alongside Rony McMullan, Thaddeus Walsh, and Ryland Kestrel. Fifteen victims in total - all men, all found in fires, all confirmed arma users.

    The fan clicked again. Tick.

    She thought back to the support group, to Lance''s reaction when Dr. Rodriguez mentioned his Appropriation ability. The rhythm of his breathing changing, revealing something harder underneath. Now she understood why. He wasn''t just uncomfortable talking about his power - he was hiding what it could really do. Steal abilities from other arma users, drain them until nothing remained.

    "It has to be you," she whispered to his frozen image. "I just can''t prove it yet."

    The familiar tension headache crept up her neck, spreading tendrils of pain across her skull. The one that claimed her every day since the NARS nightmare began. She needed sleep. Needed to look at this with fresh eyes.

    But every time she closed her eyes, she saw Lance''s face. Saw that careful mask he wore, hiding something darker underneath. Like watching a tiger pretend to be a house cat - the disguise was good, but if you looked closely enough, you could see the predator''s true nature bleeding through.

    The fan clicked once more. Her tablet dimmed to save power.

    Tomorrow, she told herself. Tomorrow she''d find the proof she needed. Tomorrow she''d stop him before the body count rose. She didn¡¯t know if it was her instincts talking, but tomorrow would reveal the truth.

    For now, all she had were theories and shadows and that gnawing certainty in her gut that said she was hunting something far more dangerous than she''d first believed.

    The numbers on her clock blinked: [3:33 AM]

    Sleep wouldn''t come easy tonight. Not with Lance loose.

 Thirty: Beautiful Morning

    [Day 21]

    "No, you''re right. I understand now." A pause. "Thank you for helping me¡­"

    The time was [7:48 AM] and everything was perfect.

    Sunlight streamed through the blinds, painting golden stripes across the room. He stretched, relishing the absence of pain or stiffness. Another day alive.

    He swung his legs off the bed, toes sinking into plush carpet. The world felt different today. Brighter. Cleaner. Like someone had scrubbed away the grime of the past few weeks.

    Whistling, Lance pulled on his underwear, socks, jeans, gray t-shirt, and the black leather jacket that framed his personality. He packed his duffel with careful attention¡ªevery item in its place, everything he needed for today.

    The morning sun caught his face as he stepped out of the building. Perfect weather for what lay ahead. Time to show everyone at Titan''s Den what he could really do.

    Outside, the city pulsed with life. Birds chirped. Cars honked. People laughed. Lance breathed deeply, savoring the crisp morning air. His enhanced senses picked up a thousand tiny details¡ªthe thrum of light traffic, the rustle of leaves in the breeze, the scent of fresh bread from a nearby bakery. He''d treat himself to one of their sandwiches after he was done at Titan''s Den. A reward for a job well done.

    He set off at an easy jog, reveling in the smooth mechanics of his body. No pain. No fatigue. Just pure, effortless motion. The sidewalk flew beneath his feet as he wove through the sparse Sunday morning crowd.

    A couple walked hand-in-hand, lost in each other''s eyes. An old man tossed crumbs to eager pigeons. A group of kids raced by on skateboards, whooping with joy.

    It had been a long road, but the city was finally coming back to life after everything that had happened.

    Lance''s grin widened. This. This was what he''d been fighting for. Normal people living normal lives, untouched by the chaos of arma users and shadowy conspiracies.

    The walk to Titan''s Den felt longer today, but he didn''t mind.

    He picked up the pace, letting his legs stretch out. Reality seemed to shift a few degrees left of normal as he tapped into his enhanced speed. Not enough to draw attention, but enough to make his body buzz like a live wire.

    He''d never taken this route before, but he liked it. He''d have to remember this way.

    The familiar fa?ade of Titan''s Den loomed ahead. Lance slowed, not even winded from his run. He pushed through the doors, breathing in the comforting smell of sweat and rubber.

    "Morning, champ!" Marcus''s powerful timbre took over the lobby. "Ready to crush it today?"

    Lance flashed a thumbs-up. "You know it, big guy. Let''s see what these muscles can do."

    Today wasn''t about training to fight some nebulous threat. Today was about pure, simple joy. Today was about something bigger. He could feel it humming through his veins, this sense of purpose. Everyone would see what he was capable of. He''d show them all.

    As he placed his bag down, Lance caught sight of himself in the lobby¡¯s mirror. He paused, studying his reflection. The man staring back at him looked... happy. Genuinely, unreservedly happy.

    When was the last time he''d felt like this? Before the NARS pandemic? Before BioNova and gene therapy and arma abilities? At Qualtech?

    He shook his head, banishing the somber thoughts. No use dwelling on the past. Today was about living in the moment, embracing the here and now.

    Marcus ambled over to him, all natural muscle and earnest concern. No enhancement, no powers - just an ordinary man doing his best to help others. That''s what this world needed more of. Real people living honest lives, not twisted by abilities they were never meant to have. Through the chaos, Marcus approached¡ªthe same trainer who''d helped dozens of regulars perfect their form, celebrate their personal records, push through their doubts. Such simple, meaningful work. But Marcus couldn''t understand what needed to be done. How could he? He''d never felt power coursing through his core, never known the weight of responsibility that came with it. Lance smiled as the gym owner drew closer. After today, everything would be clearer.

    "Hey, Lance. You good? You seem... off today."

    "Never better."

    "You sure? Because you''re acting kind of weird."

    "Just focused. Got a lot to accomplish today."

    "That''s what I mean. You never talk like that. ''Accomplish?'' Since when do you say stuff like that?"

    "I promise I''m fine, Marcus. Better than fine."

    "If you say so."

    "I do say so."

    "Right... well, I should probably check on that leg curl machine. Someone said the weight stack''s sticking again."

    "Of course. Go ahead¡ªOh, is Diego in?"

    "Yeah, he''s at the deadlift platform.¡±

    ¡°Great. Thanks,¡± Lance said.

    ¡°O¡­kay.¡±

    A few early morning regulars dotted the lobby, checking in or warming up. Marcus had disappeared down the hallway to fix that machine. Through the glass walls, Lance could see others already deep into their routines¡ªlifting, running, pushing themselves toward simple, ordinary goals.

    "Hey Lance! Hitting arms today?"

    "Something like that." Lance kept his smile easy as Sarah waved from behind the front desk. Before NARS, she kept stealing glances at Brad over by the pull-up bars, who remained completely oblivious to her crush. She''d just started back at work two days ago or so. He remembered her mentioning she got the Vital Pharmaceuticals gene therapy¡ªthe Zurich treatment, if he recalled the news right. No reported side effects yet. But he could feel it: arma lying dormant inside her, like a seed waiting for the right moment to sprout.

    He set his duffel on one of the wooden benches. The zipper''s sound was lost in the thrum of workout music and clanking weights in the other room. His movements were casual, unhurried. Just another member grabbing his gear.

    His hand closed around cold metal. The sharp chemical smell hit him first, then the weight of the gas can.

    "Lance? What are you..." Sarah''s voice trailed off as she spotted what he was holding.

    Her words grew more strained with each syllable, each sound had climbed higher in pitch as he continued his task.

    He pulled out the second can, then the third. His smile hadn''t changed at all. Not even when Sarah''s fingers froze over the keyboard.

    "Lance, what are you doing with those?"

    He unscrewed the first cap with mechanical precision, his movements fluid and purposeful. The toxic sweetness of gasoline filled his nostrils as he began pouring, leaving a glistening trail across the lobby''s rubber flooring.

    "Just making some improvements to the place." Lance''s voice was light, cheerful even, as he worked. Like he was telling her about a new paint job.

    Sarah gripped the edge of the front desk. "What¡ªwhat are you¡ª" She coughed, doubling over. "Lance, that''s gasoline."

    "I know! Isn''t it great?" He beamed at her, continuing to pour with casual efficiency. "Everything''s going to be so much better after this."

    Sarah''s hand inched toward the phone. "You need to stop. Right now."

    But Lance was already there, plucking the receiver from her grasp with gentle care. "Oh, we can''t have any interruptions. This is important work." He unplugged it, still smiling that vacant, pleasant smile.

    "Lance, stop!" Sarah backed toward the door, her voice shaking. "You''ve lost your mind!"

    "Actually, I''ve never felt more like myself!" He started on the second can, humming under his breath. "You''ll understand soon. Everyone will."

    The fumes made Sarah''s eyes water as she edged toward the emergency exit. Lance just kept grinning at her, methodically working as if burning down their workplace was just another item on his to-do list.

    When he struck the match, the flame looked tiny and insignificant against the gym''s vast space. Time seemed to stretch as it fell, end over end, until it hit the fuel-soaked floor.

    The fire caught with a ¡®whoosh,¡¯ racing along the trail of gasoline. Heat bloomed instantly, and Sarah¡¯s cough became screams as flames climbed the walls with supernatural speed. Smoke began to fill the lobby in thick, choking clouds.

    Through the haze, footsteps approached from the weight room. "Bro, Marcus said you were acting wei¡ª" Diego''s voice cut off. "Fuck, fuck, FUCK!"

    The inferno''s roar drowned out everything else.

    Diego grabbed the fire extinguisher from the wall, yanking the pin out. The white spray seemed pathetically small against the spreading inferno. ¡°Come on, come on,¡± he mumbled frantically, sweeping the nozzle back and forth. The flames just ate through the foam, climbing higher.

    Lance stood with his hands in his pockets, a tune forming on his lips. Some pop song from the gym''s playlist¡ªhe couldn''t remember which one. The heat felt pleasant against his skin, like standing in warm sunlight.

    "What the fuck, Lance?" Diego rasped. "Help me put this shit out!" The empty extinguisher clanged against the floor as he threw it aside. Smoke stung Diego''s vision as he squinted through the murk.

    Lance observed The Beast through the inferno, a narcotic calm seeping into his bones. Everything felt right, simple. Clear. He stepped forward, unhurried, through his burning creation. The voice in his mind hummed with approval.

    Diego backed away. "Man, what are you¡ª"

    Lance moved. One moment he was watching Diego scramble backward, the next his palm connected with The Beast¡¯s chest. The energy surged through him, natural as breathing, and released with a crack of displaced air. Diego flew backward, crashing through the rack of merchandise. Hoodies and shirts scattered around him like confetti, catching fire instantly. Lance smiled as Diego gasped for breath among the burning clothes, his eyes wide with betrayal.

    The man on the floor had lurched to his feet, clearing the fuzz out of his skull while Lance moved toward him again.

    Sarah was gone¡ªhe hadn''t noticed when she''d left, hadn''t cared to notice. After all, tigers don¡¯t concern themselves with the matters of ants.

    Sweat rolled down his neck, the heat growing fiercer. Oh, how he missed Impervious. Now he lifted his hand, joints popping, ready to end this properly.

    "Wait¡ª" Diego croaked. Then Lance''s fingers crunched into his friend¡¯s tank top. Fabric tore as he lifted The Beast clean off his feet. The kick connected with a wet thud, sending him sprawling across the lobby. Through the smoke, Lance saw him crash into the counter, heard the register burst apart. Bills fluttered through the air, coins bounced off the burning walls with sharp pings. The Beast slumped behind the wreckage with a gurgle, disappearing into the smoke.Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

    Past the mess of the front desk, a voice drifted up.

    "What the fuck¡¯s wrong with you?"

    Lance watched the smoke curl around him, transfixed. "Still conscious? You¡¯ve gotten this sturdy in two days?"

    "Mack? That you in there?"

    "Sorry to disappoint. Just Lance."

    A string of curses floated through the hellscape. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."

    "Fine... I''ll come to you."

    The sprinklers finally sputtered to life, their weak spray doing little against the inferno. The water turned to steam before it could reach the floor. Behind him, shapes moved in the weight room¡ªMarcus and the others, trapped behind a wall of flame that had consumed the entryway.

    He''d always respected Marcus. The man could have been exceptional if he''d had access to arma, instead of spending his days teaching scared kids how to stand up straight, how to defend themselves. Lance remembered him spending hours with that skinny teenager last month, teaching proper form, building confidence. Such a waste.

    Unlike Diego, who''d had every advantage, every opportunity to grow stronger. He''d even tried to give away his power to Lance, as if arma were some burden to be shed. Before today, Lance had never seen him this desperate before. His friend''s voice was hoarse, barely carrying over the crackle of burning merchandise. It made Lance sad, in a distant way, that Diego''s arma hadn''t progressed further. He should have been stronger by now.

    "What happened to the directive? You were fine yesterday."

    Through the flames, Marcus shouted something. Probably ordering everyone to the fire exit. Smart. Lance felt a flutter of approval¡ªeven without arma, Marcus had good instincts.

    "Still me, Diego." The water beaded off Lance''s shoulders as he moved forward. ¡°It¡¯s just evolution, brother.¡±

    "Evolution? You''re burning down our fucking gym!"

    Lance paused, considering this. The peaceful warmth in his mind made everything so simple, so clear. "I suppose I am."

    Beyond the counter, he heard Diego shifting position. Metal scraped against tile¡ªprobably reaching for something to use as a weapon. Acting like he hadn''t evolved past civilian reflexes. Even after three weeks of powers, and attributes, and system messages, and enhancements, and arma.

    The Beast exploded.

    Faster than Lance expected. His legs shifted and pulsed, growing dense with muscle as he charged. A dumbbell flew at Lance''s head. A distraction. Lance tilted his head, letting it pass. But Diego had already closed the distance.

    The kick caught Lance in the ribs. Diego''s calf had swelled to twice its normal size, dark veins pulsing beneath the skin.

    New trick? Lance questioned. Adaptive Limbs at work. Maybe there¡¯s some potential after all.

    A normal person''s bones would have shattered from the force. But Lance wasn''t normal anymore. Shifting the Morphoplasm to catch the blow, hardening it to steel - it was like swatting away a toddler''s punch. Instinct and reflex, nothing more.

    ''Shit,'' Diego gasped. His overpowered leg crumpled, bones cracking as it met the hardened black piece of flesh. He stumbled back, dragging his useless limb. Bone jutted through torn skin, leaking blood.

    Lance brushed his hand over where the kick had landed. Nothing. Not even a bruise.

    "That was good," he said. "The quad growth - I didn''t expect that. But you''re still thinking like a martial artist." He stepped forward, water from the sprinklers running down his face. "Should have gone for the throat."

    Diego''s other leg swelled, muscle and sinew expanding. He launched himself backward, putting distance between them. His broken leg had already started shrinking, becoming spindly, minimizing the damage. Smart. But not smart enough.

    "You taught me that move," Diego said through gritted teeth. "Remember? That day you showed up early to train¡ª"

    Lance struck. His fist connected with Diego''s jaw before he could finish the sentence. The man flew sideways, crashing into the wall hard enough to crack the plaster. He slumped to the floor, spitting blood.

    "Different lesson today," Lance said.

    Diego¡¯s leg dangled beneath him and he tottered and sagged down on to his good knee. After a heartbeat, his working leg¡ªLance watched it grow ridiculously large, impossibly large, monstrously large. Then Diego was moving, faster than before dragging himself towards his opponent with explosive force from his single enhanced limb.

    Lance almost missed the movement. One moment Diego was three steps away, the next he''d stopped dead in front of Lance, so close their chests nearly touched. Then Diego''s head snapped forward.

    ¡®Crack¡¯

    The headbutt caught Lance square in the face. The force of it - powered by that monstrous leg - sent Lance stumbling backward. His vision blurred, the serenity in his mind stuttering for the first time. He spat, blood and¡ª

    What the fu¨Cfu¨C

    Strands of Diego''s hair caught between his teeth.

    He wiped the hair from his mouth with a grimace. "That''s more like it," Lance said, shaking his head to clear it. Blood dripped from his nose, splattering on the wet floor. The sprinklers had finally tamed the inferno, steam hissing where water met flame, leaving only Diego''s ragged breathing.

    But Diego wasn''t done. His good leg pulsed again, muscle fibers stretching the skin tight. Ready for another burst of speed.

    Lance probed his jaw, working it side to side. At least his teeth were all accounted for. Fresh blood dribbled down his chin. "Alright, this is getting annoying."

    Activate Pain Nullification? Y/N

    Yes.

    The pain vanished instantly. Lance rolled his shoulders, settling into a fighting stance. "There. Now this shouldn''t be a¡ª"

    [Dark Resonance detected hostile arma signature]

    ©¸©¤Warning: Foreign arma manipulation detected

    ©¸©¤©¤Source: Neural pathways compromised

    ©¸©¤©¤©¤Initiate disruption sequence? Y/N

    Sure, why not? he thought. After all, I should be pure of mind and body.

    Initiating disruption sequence¡­

    [Dark Resonance disruption failed]

    ©¸©¤Unable to counter hostile arma influence

    [Ability adaptation detected]

    ©¸©¤Neural defense merging with energy disruption

    ©¸©¤©¤New neural pathway forming¡­

    He raised an eyebrow at the nonsensical set of messages marring his vision, then shrugged. Everything felt right - the calm certainty, the absolute control. He was unstoppable, invincible, perfect. And if Diego couldn''t see that, well... some friends just couldn''t handle your success.

    Integration complete

    ©¸©¤New mode unlocked: [Neural Purge]

    ©¸©¤©¤Neural Purge: Ability to detect and eliminate foreign influences from neural network

    [Neural Purge initiating system cleanse]

    ©¸©¤Detecting neural contamination

    ©¸©¤©¤Purging foreign arma influence

    ©¸©¤©¤©¤Neural network restored to baseline

    Lance blinked rapidly as the truth hit him. The peaceful stupor shattered, leaving him standing in a half-burned gym with the taste of blood in his mouth and his best friend ready to take his head off.

    The gasoline fumes. The flames. Diego¡¯s¡­ leg.

    "Oh god." The words came out rough. "What did I do?"

    He knew where he was now. The gym where he''d trained with his friends, practicing Krav Maga late into the evening. The lobby was unrecognizable - soggy brochures floated in black puddles, membership forms reduced to ash. Scattered bills and coins lay everywhere, knocked loose from the broken register, and the front desk''s wood veneer had bubbled and peeled away. He pressed his hands against what remained of the counter and doubled over, coughing up smoke, watching sweat drip into the sludge of water and ash and blood at his feet.

    "Diego I''m so¡ª"

    The kick caught him square in the nose. Lance sprawled backwards into the pool of his failures.

    "Lance?"

    More blood trickled down Lance''s face as he sat up slowly, hands raised.

    "Yeah. Yeah, it''s me. Really me."

    "Bullshit."

    "Just listen,¡± said Lance. ¡°Please."

    Diego''s leg tensed, ready to strike again. "Why should I?"

    ¡°Man, is this arma shit, you know what it does. It wasn¡¯t me. But I¡¯m in control now.¡±

    ¡°Hermano, look at this place.¡± Diego lowered his leg slightly, but his stance remained defensive. "The real Lance wouldn''t do this."

    "I know," Lance said. "Something took over. I couldn''t fight it."

    "Stay where you are."

    Lance remained on the floor, hands still up. Water from the sprinklers dripped down his face.

    "How do I know you won''t flip again?"

    "It won''t happen. I can fight it now. Block it out." Lance wiped blood from his nose. "But I still need help."

    His friend¡¯s superpowered limb slowly began to shrink back to normal size.

    "You broke my leg."

    "I know. I''m sorry. God, Diego, I''m so sorry."

    "Was it Frank¡ªMack, whatever up there?"

    "No¡ªmaybe. I don¡¯t know. It was the killer. I¡¯m sure. Rick said it¡¯s Frank."

    Memories hit Lance one after another, each making him feel sicker. The gasoline. The match. Diego flying across the room. He held his tongue, fighting the urge to vomit.

    It happened again¡­

    Lance''s knees gave out. He hit the flooded floor hard, sending dirty water splashing across the area. All those hours training with Diego, learning to channel his strength just right. All that work controlling his abilities, measuring each punch, holding back just enough. And for what? He''d nearly killed his best friend, anyway. Thrown him through a wall like he was nothing.

    His fist slammed into the water. More splashes, more ripples in the grey puddle around him. He''d thought having power meant protecting others. Instead, he''d kept hurting people every chance he got. Owen''s long arms cutting the priest in half flashed through his head. Owen did it out of anger. Was every arma user destined for chaos?

    The water soaking his jeans was freezing, but he didn¡¯t feel it. Something had to change. He couldn''t keep pretending he had this under control.

    "I keep screwing up, Diego..." His tears cut trails through the soot on his face. "But I''ll make this right."

    The Beast stared at him for a long moment, jaw working like he was chewing through his thoughts. He slumped back against the ruined counter, wincing as he adjusted his broken leg. A grunt of pain, then that familiar exhale Lance had heard a thousand times during their heaviest sets. ¡°Mierda, me lleva la chingada este cabron.¡± The sound of The Beast pushing past his doubts.

    "Yeah, you are a mess." The broken leg dragged as he scooted closer. "But I''ve seen worse."

    "Not sure about that." He wiped his face. "This is pretty bad¡ªI''ll¡­I¡¯ll face the consequences.¡± Lance glanced up at the charred ceiling, where metal beams sagged under melted insulation. Smoke still curled from blackened patches of drywall. ¡°But right now, we need to get out of here. The building''s not stable."

    As if to emphasize his point, a loud crack echoed through the lobby. Both men looked up to see a support beam near the ceiling start to buckle.

    "We need to move," Lance said urgently. "Now."

    Another groan from above. Metal giving way.

    Diego tried to stand, his left leg trembling. Too slow. Lance reacted - one fast motion and his friend was over his shoulder. A grunt of protest from The Beast, but he was already running.

    Smoke burned his lungs. He leaped over the scorched bench. Through the lobby. His 24% of Saltatorial placed him at the doors.

    The first beam crashed down behind them.

    Lance burst onto the street, squinting in the morning glare. He made it five steps before setting Diego down against a lamp post. Just in time - the sound of Titan''s Den collapsing behind him filled the street, a thunderous crescendo of metal and concrete giving way.

    The last brick fell into silence just as the first siren shattered it¡ªan ambulance''s cry, then another, then police cruisers and fire trucks, their urgent wails converging from every direction.

    "I need to go."

    "Like hell you do. You just said you''d face consequences."

    "And I will. But that psycho''s still out there."

    Diego''s teeth clicked as he tried to find a better angle against the lamppost. "Let the cops handle it."

    "We¡¯ve been through this, Diego. Look around."

    Red and blue lights bounced off the smoke rising from Titan''s Den. A chunk of ceiling crashed down somewhere inside.

    "Look at what he made me do. What happens when he mind-controls the entire force? What then?"

    Diego stayed quiet.

    "Can you take care of this mess for me? With the gym?"

    "Take Vicky with you, at least."

    "Just texted her. No answer. Besides..." Lance glanced at the ruined gym. "After what just happened, we can''t risk..."

    ¡°Okay, fine¡­ I¡¯ll trust you.¡± Then Diego squinted at Lance''s face and grimaced. "Jesus. Your nose is all sideways."

    Lance probed the damage, fingers coming away bloody. "That bad?"

    "Pain blocker thing still on?"

    "Yeah. Can''t turn it off. Not now. I¡¯ll lose control if I do."

    "Okay¡­¡± Diego bit his cheek. ¡°How are you even gonna find him?"

    Lance pressed his palm against his temple. "His face''s... blurry. But I know where he is."

    The images were there, distorted and hazy like a bad TV signal. Last night. This morning. Being trapped in his own head, watching his body move without permission. Not like with the priest - this was worse. Complete helplessness. Complete silence in his mind. Just that artificial tranquility telling him everything was fine while he screamed inside.

    His hand shook at his temple. He dropped it quickly.

    "You good?"

    "Yeah, I¡ª" Lance''s voice cracked. He swallowed hard. "No. I''m not."

    "Talk to me."

    "I couldn''t..." Lance stared at the ground. "He was just... everywhere. Inside." His voice went raw. "And I felt... I felt¡­ I can still feel where he..."

    Diego''s breath hitched as he tried to lean forward an inch. "So maybe don''t go after him alone?"

    Diego, I¡¯m going to kill him, he didn¡¯t say to his best friend.

    Lance pushed it down. Deep down. Deal with it later.

    Instead he took in the damage: The Beast¡¯s eye swollen shut, burns streaking his cheek, lip split and oozing. His leg... Nothing had changed. Since getting his powers, all he''d done was hurt people. He''d have to face that. But right now, for the first time, he actually wanted to hurt someone. And he would.

    "Lance¡ª"

    "I''ll bring back Chinese food."

    Through the smoke and chaos, Lance disappeared into the city.

 Thirty-One: Grateful Dead

    Detective Mitsuki''s cursor hovered over the ''export'' button. Fifteen hours of surveillance footage, compressed into a three-minute highlight reel of dead ends. She''d started marking timestamps with band names instead of numbers. The 6AM segment was now labeled "Grateful Dead," which felt appropriate.

    Sullivan cleared his throat from her doorway. His tie had a coffee stain shaped like Florida, and he kept touching it like he thought no one would notice.

    "Got a minute?"

    "Not really." Her fingers drummed against her mouse pad. "Still reviewing the St. Michael''s incident. And would you believe it¡ªLance Lawthorn was there. Again."

    "The captain wants you at Memorial Heights."

    Mitsuki worked her tongue into her cheek. "I''ve got three active cases, plus whatever happened at the cathedral. Why¡ª"

    "Girl came in yesterday. Captain thinks it might connect to Erik''s cases."

    Her hand stilled on the mouse. "The missing girls?"

    "Yeah."

    Mitsuki''s shoulders slumped as she glanced at the case files spread across her desk. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, evidence of too many late nights. "How long has she been there?"

    "Brought in around midnight. Doctor says she''s stable enough to talk now."

    "And Erik can''t handle this because...?"

    "Stress leave, remember? Look, I know you''re swamped, but captain specifically asked for you on this one."

    A sigh escaped her as she reached for her jacket. The fabric felt heavier than usual as she shrugged it on. "Text me the room number. I''ll head over now."

    "Already did."

    Mitsuki gathered her notepad and pen, movements slow, but precise despite her exhaustion. "Sullivan?"

    "Yeah?"

    "Next time lead with ''missing girls case'' instead of ''got a minute.''"

    She stepped out of the precinct and immediately threw up her hand to shield her eyes. The December sun blazed with unexpected intensity, flooding the parking lot with a brightness that felt like a personal attack on her sleep-deprived brain. She squinted at the cloudless sky, grumbled ¡°Someone needs to remind the weather it''s supposed to be winter,¡± and fumbled for her sunglasses in her jacket pocket. She fished through an old receipt, a paper clip, and finally found the hard plastic frame.

    Priorities, she reminded herself. The Lawthorn case could wait. A living, breathing victim took precedence over her obsession with connecting the dots.

    Delivery trucks dotted the main thoroughfare, surprisingly numerous for midday. Mitsuki opted for the side streets, her fingers tapping an impatient rhythm on the steering wheel. The car''s AC sputtered weakly, barely cutting through the humidity. A grocery store''s parking lot sat half-empty as she passed, a reminder of how things had changed.

    The cathedral footage kept playing behind her eyes. Lance had been easy to spot, standing dead center in the nave like he owned the place. But that other one, the younger man¡ªshe couldn''t deny what she''d seen: his arms had stretched, actually stretched, like rubber bands snapping forward. A year ago, she would''ve blamed it on tampered footage. Now she just added it to her growing list of things that shouldn''t be possible but were.

    She flipped on the radio, hoping for a distraction. Instead, she got another reminder of the world''s descent into chaos.

    "...and in other news, scientists are still baffled by the sudden appearance of individuals with superhuman abilities. Experts warn..."

    ¡®Click¡¯

    Silence.

    Memorial Heights General Hospital was past the next light.

    She pulled into its parking lot, circling twice before finding a spot.

    Halfway through the lobby, she realized she''d forgotten to lock her car. She stopped, then kept walking¡ªher gun was in her shoulder holster anyway, and she wasn''t planning to be here long.

    The receptionist didn''t look up from her computer when Mitsuki approached the desk. "I''m Detective Yamada. Here about the Jane Doe from last night."

    "Of course, Detective. Room 218." She typed something quickly. "Just need you to sign in here," she said, sliding a visitor badge across the counter.

    Mitsuki spotted the coffee machine next to the gift shop and veered toward it. She brought her phone up to the scanner, waited for the beep, then jabbed at the touchscreen:

    ESPRESSO > DOUBLE SHOT > QUANTITY: 2.

    The display blinked cheerfully:

    "YOUR BARISTA BOT IS BREWING!"

    She watched both cups fill, thinking about how she''d been awake since yesterday afternoon because Captain Longley had been ready to shelve the arma user investigation. But then another body had landed on their desk and now they were up to fifteen victims plus the priest from the cathedral which made sixteen except he hadn''t burned like the others while the security tapes kept showing impossible things until her eyes felt like they were full of sand. And now here she was getting hospital coffee since there was a Jane Doe who might have answers for a different case.

    She downed the first cup in three gulps, barely tasting it, then crushed the paper cup and tossed it in a nearby bin. The second one she''d save for later.

    Keeping the coffee from spilling while pinning her leather notebook between arm and ribs, Mitsuki climbed to the second floor, her purse bumping against the case file until photos of missing girls started sliding free.

    218 was halfway down the hallway, past a cleaning cart and an empty wheelchair. Mitsuki knocked, getting coffee on her knuckles as she tried to keep more photos from slipping out.

    Erik''s missing persons cases - she''d only skimmed through them ten minutes ago, sitting in her car in the hospital parking lot. Nine women in two weeks, most of them regulars at the downtown shelters and soup kitchens. The outreach workers had been the first to notice the pattern: familiar faces vanishing from their usual spots. Then three college students disappeared, and suddenly the captain was talking about task forces and joint operations. But they had nothing solid - no bodies, no witnesses, just a growing stack of photos and descriptions. And now a Jane Doe shows up, alive, matching¡­ well, maybe matching one of those descriptions.

    Since there was no answer after her standard twelve-second wait, she opened the door to 218.

    The room was dim, curtains drawn to block the cheerful day outside. A small figure huddled beneath starched white sheets, looking impossibly fragile.

    "Hello," she said, keeping her voice gentle. "I''m Detective Mitsuki Yamada. Is it alright if I ask you a few questions?"This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    The girl turned her head slowly. Dark eyes met Mitsuki''s. Group therapy. Back corner. Never speaking. ¡°Wren?¡± The name came out as a question.

    ¡°Wren Adler?¡± She lowered her coffee cup to the bedside table. "I''m not sure if you remember me from¡ª"

    Detective.

    Mitsuki jerked back, turning toward the door.

    "Hello?" The hallway was empty. Had the nurse followed her in?

    I''m sorry. I didn''t mean to startle you. The thought wasn¡¯t Mitsuki¡¯s. The voice had come from... inside her head? She grabbed the edge of the bed to steady herself.

    "Did you just¡ª"

    Yes. I''m sorry. Speaking is... hard these days.

    Mitsuki counted her breaths, palm pressed flat against the bedrail. Twenty-one days of impossible things, and now this¡­ "Okay. Okay. This is... new. But we can work with this."

    Wren''s eyes darted to the window, then back. He makes the noise stop. All the voices. But then there''s only his voice left.

    "Who makes the noise stop, Wren?"

    The Manager.

    The Manager? Mitsuki echoed. The girl''s digits twisted in the sheets. Her breathing quickened. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.

    Mitsuki needed to change the subject. "Take your time."

    Mother helped me get away. From the dream. But he''ll find me again.

    Mitsuki pulled the visitor''s chair closer, moving slowly. "Can you tell me about the dream?"

    Wren''s whole body went rigid. The water glass on her bedside table rattled.

    "We don''t have to talk about that right now."

    You don''t understand. He''s collecting us. The ones who can hear. The ones who can... do things.

    The missing persons file suddenly felt very heavy in Mitsuki''s lap. "These other girls... they''re like you, aren''t they?"

    Yes.

    "Where are they being kept, Wren?"

    Wren pulled her knees to her chest. I can''t go back there.

    "You won''t have to. I promise. But they might need help, like you did."

    I want to help them.

    "Can you tell me where to find them?"

    Wren''s fingers twisted in the sheets. I can show you.

    Streets flooded Mitsuki''s brain¡ªconcrete and glass rising up from nothing. Numbers and signs blurred past faster than she could process. More images came rushing: door numbers, exit signs, pipe markings, each lasting just long enough to burn itself into her memory before the next one took its place.

    Her skull pounded with each new image: a towering building, service entrances, stairwells leading down, underground passages stretching beneath it, corridors branching like veins under the city. Her head felt like it would split open.

    "Stop!"

    The images vanished. Mitsuki blinked, realizing she''d risen halfway out of her chair.

    I''m sorry. I''m so sorry. I forget that it''s... different for people who aren''t used to it.

    "It''s okay." Mitsuki''s voice came out hoarse. "I know where that is. We''ll find them."

    Please help Mother.

    Mother? Mitsuki thought.

    Yes. Please save her.

    Questions would have to wait. Right now, she needed to move before the mental map dissolved completely.

    Her shoes squeaked against the hospital linoleum. A nurse pushing an empty wheelchair sidled along the wall to let her pass. Her phone was already in her hand as she pushed through the exit doors.

    "Pick up, pick up." Captain Longley''s phone went straight to voicemail.

    She tried Sullivan next while starting her car. Same result. Her knee bounced on the pedal as she waited for a family to cross the parking lot.

    The borrowed images were already starting to fade like a dream. Street names slipped away with each passing minute. She needed to move. Now.

    "This is Detective Mitsuki. Get a message to Captain Longley. Possible location of missing girls. Sending coordinates." She rattled off cross streets to the station receptionist while merging into traffic, cutting off a silver hatchback.

    Red light. Another red light. Wren''s directions blurred more with each delay. She took three wrong turns before the right street names clicked.

    Ten minutes felt like hours. The building''s glass facade caught the winter sun, twelve stories of reflecting windows. She left her car between two delivery trucks in the back alley, keeping it in ready mode for a quick exit. Her feet remembered the route before her mind did. Past the maintenance vehicles, down the service stairwell marked "Authorized Personnel Only."

    The service door wasn''t locked. That detail nagged at her. Protocol said wait for backup, but Wren''s directions weren''t like normal memories¡ªa dream becoming harder to remember with each second.

    Mitsuki drew her gun, holding her phone''s flashlight in her other hand. The beam caught pipes running along concrete walls, their shadows dancing as she moved. Water dripped somewhere ahead. The tunnel split three ways.

    She checked each corner with her flashlight¡ªdoors, ceiling, floor drains¡ªmarking ways out if she needed them.

    Left it was. Something in her gut¡ªor maybe an echo of Wren''s vision¡ªtold her that was the way.

    Her breath echoed off the damp walls as she crept forward. Her heart pounded in her ears, drowning out the steady drip of water from somewhere ahead.

    Left. Right. Another left. The tunnels twisted like a labyrinth, each turn indistinguishable from the last. Doubt gnawed at her. Had she made a wrong choice?

    She tried Sullivan one more time. One bar of service. No answer¡ª

    A faint sound stopped her in her tracks.

    Whimpering.

    She killed her flashlight, plunging the tunnel into darkness. Her eyes strained against the inky black as she listened. There it was again. Barely audible, but unmistakably human.

    Mitsuki inched forward, one hand on the wall to steady herself. The rough concrete scraped her palm raw as she felt her way along. The whimpering grew louder, punctuated by hushed whispers.

    She whipped around the corner and jerked to a halt.

    A sliver of light spilled from beneath a rusted metal door. Mitsuki''s fingers tightened around her gun as she approached. The whispers ceased.

    Silence.

    She took a deep breath, steeling herself for whatever lay beyond. With her free hand, she grasped the handle and pulled.

    The hinges groaned in protest.

    Light flooded the tunnel, momentarily blinding her. As her vision adjusted, three figures came into focus. Huddled in the far corner of a small, bare room, they stared at her with wide, terrified eyes.

    Her police training couldn''t stop her hands from shaking. She recognized them instantly from the case files. Lydia Falk. Imogen Rook. Nia Langston.

    She scanned the room first¡ªall corners, all doors¡ªbefore lowering her weapon.

    "Police," she said softly, holstering her gun. "More officers are coming. Stay quiet and do exactly what I tell you when they get here."

    The girls didn''t move. Their gaunt faces and hollow cheeks spoke of days without proper food. Dirty, torn clothes hung loosely on their emaciated frames.

    Mitsuki''s mental grid expanded square by square as she catalogued the scene. No beds. No bathroom. Just cold concrete and a single, flickering bulb dangling from the ceiling.

    Monsters. She''d seen murder scenes gentler than this.

    She pushed the anger down, focusing on police procedure. "I''m Detective Yamada. We''ve been looking for you."

    Nia, the youngest at barely seventeen, spoke first. "Is... is he gone?" Each word came out small and careful, like Nia was testing if it was safe to speak.

    "Who?" Mitsuki asked, kneeling to appear less threatening.

    "The one who burns people," Lydia answered, her words laced with fear. "The Manager won¡¯t want you here."

    The Manager again. Mitsuki had reviewed every recent case file. Not once had that title appeared in any of the reports.

    Imogen sat against the wall, hands restlessly traveling from her knees to her arms to her face and back again.

    There, on the far wall. The same symbols she''d stared at for weeks in the Oakwood maintenance room photos. Arrows pointing north, crosses inside circles, those strange rippling lines. Her pulse quickened. The one who burns people. Could this be her arsonist? Fifteen victims in three weeks, all burned beyond recognition. And now these girls, these symbols...

    "He''s not here," Mitsuki assured them. "You''re safe now. We''re going to get you to safety."

    She reached for her radio, only to find dead air. The concrete walls must be blocking the signal. She''d have to get them to the surface before calling for backup.

    She checked her phone again. [8:19 AM]. A text lit up her screen.

    Sullivan: At gym scene. Total chaos here. Will send backup when cleared. Watch yourself.

    "Can you walk?" she asked.

    Nia and Lydia nodded hesitantly. Imogen remained motionless, her eyes now fixed on a point beyond Mitsuki''s shoulder. ¡°We belong here. We belong here. We can¡¯t leave.¡±

    It suddenly got cold and Mitsuki''s hand moved to her gun before she consciously registered the threat.

    Footsteps.

 Thirty-Two: Early Checkout

    Lance staggered through empty streets, each step automatic. Blood and ash coated his tongue. His memories splintered and reformed¡ªdestruction, running, more destruction¡ªbut he couldn''t piece them together. His body kind of knew where to go even if his mind didn''t. Or maybe not.

    Where am I going? he asked his brainwashed self as if it would suddenly provide the answer.

    Silence was his only response.

    He knew only that he had to keep moving, had to reach his target¡ªwhatever it was.

    Pedestrians gave him a wide berth, eyeing his disheveled appearance and blood-stained clothes with a mix of unease and concern. Their fear meant nothing to him. His sights had narrowed to a pinpoint, fixed on the mysterious destination tugging at the edges of his consciousness.

    Left here. Now right. Straight ahead.

    He obeyed his gut, weaving through alleys and side streets he''d never seen before, but remembered feeling ¡®right.¡¯ The city flew past him, streets melting into an urban maze. His senses caught fragments - whispered conversations, exhaust fumes, rumbling subways that had just reopened beneath his feet. The world was hollow, empty except for his mission.

    How long have I been walking?

    Minutes? Hours? Time had lost all meaning. [8:20 AM] Light spilled over rooftops, carving the city into light and dark. His legs ached, his lungs burned from lingering smoke, and his system displayed: ''arma reserves at 50%''. But he couldn''t stop. He wouldn¡¯t stop. He would find him.

    Finally, he rounded a corner and froze.

    Like a monolith, his destination rose before him while his vision cleared into sudden recognition.

    The Durview Hotel.

    This... this is where I woke up?

    Soft sheets. The smell of room service coffee. A view of the city skyline from high above. The events of this morning became clearer each second.

    Vicky! Lance crashed through the entrance, shoulder-first through shattering glass. The automatic doors hadn''t opened fast enough.

    His momentum carried him into the vast lobby, his half-burned boots sliding on marble. The chandeliers hung dark overhead¡ªmaintenance must have forgotten them¡ªleaving the space wrongly dim.

    The concierge stiffened as Lance drew near. To his credit, the woman''s professional demeanor held firm.

    "Welcome back, Mr. Lawthorn," she said with a slight bow. "I trust you had a... productive morning?"

    "You know me?" Lance asked, wary of his surroundings.

    "Of course, sir. You''ve been our guest since last night."

    Last night¡­

    Lance turned to stone. His mind stumbled over missing hours, missing memories. How much had the killer taken? And why did this woman act like he belonged?

    He made his way to the front desk. The concierge looked up.

    "Mr. Lawthorn, how may I assist you today?"

    "I..." Lance''s throat felt dry, his tongue leaden. "I need to get into my room."

    ¡°I¡¯m afraid that¡¯s not possible. You¡¯re not supposed to be here.¡±

    The woman made no sense. Before Lance could question her¡ª

    ¡®Ding¡¯

    The elevator doors slid open.

    Movement caught in his periphery. A glimpse of striking hair. Disheveled. Blonde. Pink-tipped. Vicky stepped out.

    "Lance?" Her voice wavered. "You shouldn''t be here."

    ¡°Yeah, I was just told that.¡± He took a step towards her, but she flinched back. "Vicky, what''s going on? Are you okay?"

    Her neck twisted¡ªleft, right, up, searching the lobby¡¯s shadows. "You were supposed to follow The Manager''s instructions.¡±

    The Manager? Lance''s mind raced, trying to piece together the fragments of his memory. He''d never heard of anyone called The Manager before. Could this be the killer he''d been hunting? But Rick had said Frank was the killer. Unless... Frank was the Manager. Or maybe just another psycho inside Zack, like all the others.

    "What instructions?" he demanded. "Vicky, I don''t remember anything. I woke up here this morning, and then¡ª"

    "Stop!" she hissed, her eyes wide with fear. "Don''t say another word. They''re listening."

    Lance''s instincts kicked into overdrive. Everything in the lobby became a threat. The cameras in the corner, the concierge''s too-steady gaze, the woman whose mop kept scrubbing the same spot over and over.

    He needed to get Vicky out of here, to somewhere they could talk freely. He had to get her to safety. Had to fix this. Had to¡ª

    Force himself to study the situation. To look closer. Pulse points, micro-expressions, whatever experts looked for, but who was he kidding? Just because one had source code didn''t mean one could understand the program. Or maybe... wait.

    Her eyes were unfocused. The fog behind them. The emptiness.

    "Vicky, look at me. Really look at me."

    When she met his gaze, the truth hit with brutal clarity. That vacant expression. He''d seen it before. In his own reflection, hours ago. Whoever this ¡®Manager¡¯ was, his fingerprints were all over her mind just like they''d been all over his.

    Something broke loose inside him. A dark, vicious thing that had been building since he''d first realized his memories were missing. The Manager hadn''t just taken his mind¡ªhe''d taken Vicky''s too.

    No more games.

    Lance knew he''d lost control. Good.

    The Manager, the killer, Frank - the name didn''t matter anymore. If he''d caused so much destruction while holding himself back, what would happen now that he meant to inflict pain? If this was what they wanted him to become¡ªthis thing of rage and revenge¡ªthen fine. He''d show them exactly what they''d created. The mask would come off.

    But first, Vicky. She needs me clear-headed.

    His hypothesis, his analysis, his experimentation¡ªit had all paid off. This Manager had no control over him anymore. But what worked for him wouldn''t work for others. Still, he''d found ways to break people free before. He wondered if the same technique he''d used at the church would work here. Those invisible threads of control he''d severed between the priest and his congregation... would he find similar strings wrapped around Vicky''s mind?

    For weeks they''d trained together, shared meals, talked about nothing and everything. How much of that had been real? How much had been someone else pulling strings? None of that mattered. Not here.

    Lance raised his hand, aiming for the strip of shoulder visible where her sweater had slipped. His movements slow, deliberate, and nonthreatening.

    His fingertips neared her skin, and he felt the arma streams. His own, familiar as breathing. Vicky''s fierce fire beneath the surface. Then the Manager''s. It didn''t belong there, but it had dug itself in deep, wrapped in barbed wire.

    ¡®PAIN¡¯

    Everything went white. His hand jerked back, and he clutched it to his chest. Red welts rose on his palm, blisters forming as he watched. But the pain¡­ that was different. His nullification should have handled the burns. No, this was burning his arma itself.

    Her eyes narrowed. ¡°I see what you tried to do, Lance.¡± Vicky said.

    ¡°I didn¡¯t¡­¡±

    The energy burn scattered his awareness. When his senses steadied, the woman had abandoned her mop, the concierge had stepped from behind her desk. Both moved toward him with synchronized steps.

    Lance backed away. Two opponents he could handle, but Vicky was the real threat. She moved better than Diego now¡ªnever wasting a single motion. Ready.

    He kept his distance. These were arma wielders too. Weak, untrained, nothing like Vicky''s fire. But even weak arma users would shatter if he used too much force. One wrong move and he''d snap bones.

    The concierge lunged. Lance shifted, caught her arm, careful not to squeeze. The other woman circled behind him. His nullification blocked the pain as expected, but he felt the impact tear at the burns from earlier.

    Vicky struck. Fast. Clean. Professional. He barely blocked her fist, felt the impact rattle up his arm. Her Krav Maga had advanced years in minutes, but that wasn''t it. She''d learned Lance¡¯s patterns, knew exactly how he''d move before he did.

    Look for openings, he reminded himself.This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    Two seconds. That''s all he needed. Just two seconds of contact to break the Manager''s hold. But Vicky kept her distance, letting the others press in. Using them as shields.

    Their attacks came in waves. Lance dodged, blocked, retreated. His burned skin cracked at each impact. The two women crept forward, their weak arma signatures rippling at the edge of his awareness. Vicky waited behind them.

    The concierge dashed from the left. The cleaner lunged from the right, mop back in hand. He measured distances, calculated angles. Each heartbeat stretched into the next.

    His hands shot out. Left caught the concierge''s throat. Right found the cleaner''s neck. They thrashed against his grip, legs kicking air. The mop handle slammed into his already broken nose, and boots hammered his ribs, and nails raked his arms, and fists pounded his forearms. Dark Resonance snaked through his palms.

    One. Two. He counted in his head.

    The women sagged in his grasp. He let go. They stumbled back, eyes wide and searching.

    "How long?" The concierge pressed her hands to her face. "The dream... how long was I..."

    "Weeks," the cleaner whispered. "I''ve been dreaming for how many weeks?"

    "Get out. Now¡ª"

    Vicky catapulted forward, a blur. Lance caught glimpses between blocks. Her strikes coming quicker, sharper. Her fist cracked against his jaw. A second strike came before he could recover. Then a third, a fourth, each faster than the last. Five. Six. Seven. The impacts themselves meant nothing without pain, but they were pushing him back, forcing him to give ground.

    He saw Vicky now. Teeth gritted, eyes squeezed almost shut with effort, veins standing out from her neck, blonde strands dancing wild and free. The heat radiating from her skin, the way her arma cycled through her body. She''d learned to accelerate it, push it beyond her usual limits. Her muscles were burning through energy like jet fuel, turning excess heat into raw speed. She''d found a way to match him¡ªdoing with one power what he could only do with three.

    Lance''s guard slipped. Her knee drove into his sternum, launched him backward. The floor cracked under his impact. He tried to stand, to find his center, but Vicky was already there.

    Her face loomed above him, eyes vacant and cold. "You''re making this harder than it needs to be."

    ¡°Hard?¡± A bitter smile crept across his face. ¡°Says the woman who can''t even tell she''s being controlled.¡±

    He surged upward, twisted beneath her guard, fluid as mercury over glass, driving his shoulder into her chest. It knocked her weight off-center and shifted her balance backward, carried her past him as he pivoted to his feet. She stumbled onto one knee, caught off-guard by the sudden reversal, pink ends sweeping forward. His fingertips brushed her cheek as she turned, just for a heartbeat.

    The softness of her skin registered first, but there was no comfort in it. It was a warning. A message his arma could read, that spoke of what they''d done to her. He pulled back as her heat pulsed through his fingers, fierce and beautiful and devastating. It tore into his arma pathways, twisted through his system, sent shockwaves of burning force through his arm. The power rippled up to his shoulder and left his hand trembling with residual energy.

    Morphoplasm twitched, hissing, digging deeper into Lance¡¯s shoulder and blocking Vicky¡¯s zelous energy. That¡¯s it!

    Her fire-charged attacks came faster now. She was learning, adapting with each exchange. A dangerous development. Lance watched her movements. She lashed out again, fist trailing heat through the air. Another strike followed, scorched the marble wall. He slid past her guard and charged forward.

    She countered his first attempt to grab her, then his second. Swift and precise calculations, until they weren''t. The third time he caught her wrist. A temporary hold. Just a moment. It gave him enough leverage to twist her off balance and send her stumbling sideways. The follow-through worked better, a sweeping leg strike that caught behind her knee and dropped her hard against the floor, sending cracks through the tiles beneath. Lance seized the opening and moved in close, ignoring the searing heat on his skin as his arma clashed with hers.

    He shifted and flowed around her counter-attack, like frost across glass, rolling with her momentum. She lunged up, trying to break his hold with a surge of accelerated arma. Before she could complete the movement, Lance was there, arms locking around her shoulders. She thrashed and fought, but it wasn''t enough. Lance''s grip was steady as bedrock, inevitable as sunrise. "I''m getting you back." He forced her down against the cracked marble behind the hotel¡¯s front desk and held firm, fighting the burning waves of her defensive arma. "Just hold still for two seconds."

    She bucked underneath him, clawed at him with her nails, but his weight pinned her and the strikes lacked force. They panted and grappled each other, raw sounds, faces almost touching. A drop of blood from his broken nose slid down, fell inside her mouth. ¡°That¡¯s fucking disgusting,¡± she spat. Her hand shot up and pressed against his face, trying to force him back. Her palm seared his skin with that impossible heat.

    Every point where their bodies met burned with more than heat. His arma leaked away through each contact. Shoulders, chest, legs, everywhere he had to maintain to keep her pinned. Then the message flashed across his mind:

    [Warning: Arma Energy Low. Energy Reserves at 25%.]

    His breath came in ragged gasps. Not from the struggle¡ªVicky was still fighting, but he didn''t register her movements now. This was different. Her arma had grown exponentially since their last encounter, but that wasn''t what made this fight brutal. Every motion required precise control, each hold carefully measured to avoid causing harm. His arma cycled faster and faster within his system, trying to outpace the drain. Sweat beaded on his forehead, dripped down his face despite the burning air around them.

    This ended here. His hand trembled as he lifted it toward her face. Just before his fingers could touch her cheek, Morphoplasm slid down his arm, instinct as natural as breathing. The black mass flowed over his palm, hardened into a protective shell between his arma and her heat.

    This second. With the pain blocked, Dark Resonance could begin its work.

    [Dark Resonance detected hostile arma signature]

    ©¸©¤Invasive control signals identified in [Human Elementalist (1st Evolution)]

    ©¸©¤©¤Initiating disruption sequence...

    Dark Resonance disruption in progress¡­

    Foreign arma influence separated

    [Warning: Disruption sequence incomplete]

    ©¸©¤99.1% of intrusive signals nullified

    ©¸©¤©¤Residual foreign influence detected

    Not enough. Never enough. The thought cut deeper than any of her strikes had. After everything - the burns, the fighting, draining his reserves - he still couldn''t pull her completely free. That last 0.9% might as well have been a chasm.

    Lance''s grip loosened as Vicky''s struggles weakened. He saw the world come back to her in fragments. Her gaze found and pieced together a crack in the ceiling, a window''s edge, a potted plant''s shadow. One, two, three blinks. Time stretched between each one. Four, five, six. Each flutter of her eyelids brought the lobby into sharper focus, washing away the last ten minutes, each detail compiling in sequential order.

    "Lance? What... what happened?"

    "You''re okay now. You''re safe."

    Vicky pushed herself up on trembling arms. Her gaze moved across the wreckage beneath her until she found herself touching the jagged edges of a broken table leg among shattered furniture and scattered ferns ripped from their planters before her brow furrowed in concentration as she reconstructed the missing time.

    "I was... we were..." She swallowed hard, adam''s apple bobbing. "Oh god."

    Lance reached out, hesitated, then let his hand fall back to his side. "Take it slow. It''s a lot to process."

    Her shoulders began to shake, subtle at first, then with increasing intensity. A choked sob escaped her lips, quickly followed by another. Tears splashed onto the broken floor, leaving dark spots on the pale stone.

    Lance knew this moment intimately. The sickening realization as your own actions replay in your mind. Actions that felt right, felt good even, while under someone else''s control. But now each memory twisted like a knife as you understood just how powerless you''d been, watching yourself dance to someone else''s code.

    "I couldn''t stop it," she gasped between sobs. "I tried, but he was everywhere, in every thought..." Her throat closed around the truth. "I remember... everything. Everything I did. Everything he made me..." She wrapped her arms around herself, fingers digging into her shoulders. "I thought I wanted... he made me think I..." Another sob cut her off.

    Lance''s lungs forgot their rhythm, stumbling over each breath. He''d been there, trapped in his own mind while someone else governed his will. But seeing Vicky break down, her usual fire extinguished by the weight of what had been done to her... it set his blood boiling.

    Shatter.

    The sound of breaking glass echoed through the lobby. Lance''s body coiled for another threat. But it was Vicky who had moved, her fist buried in the mirrored wall behind the concierge desk. Cracks forked outward from the impact point, distorting their reflections.

    "That bastard," she snarled, yanking her hand free. Blood carved thin rivers between her knuckles, dripping onto the polished counter. "He made me... made us...for three weeks, Lance. Three. Fucking. Weeks."

    Her eyes met Lance''s, and the raw fury he saw there made him take an involuntary step back. This wasn''t the controlled anger of their sparring sessions or the frustration that sometimes bubbled up during group meetings. This was something primal, something that burned hotter than any fire she could conjure.

    Lance recognized that rage, saw himself reflected in it. They were the same now¡ªboth violated, both made to do things against their will. And like him, she wouldn''t rest until she collected her debt in pain. The need for vengeance had rewritten her base code, just as it had rewritten his.

    "I''ll kill him," Vicky spat, her words laced with venom. "I don''t care what it takes. I''ll find that son of a bitch and make him pay for every second he was in my head."

    But they weren''t the same, not really. Vicky''s words carried a conviction he''d never managed to voice aloud. His own promises of revenge stayed locked behind clenched teeth, hidden even from Diego and the others. He''d survived half a day of that hell. She''d endured weeks. Her fury screamed for blood. His rotted in silence.

    He tried to find the right words to calm her down. But part of him¡ªa darker part he''d been trying to ignore¡ªresonated with her fury. Hadn''t he felt the same way, wanting to hurt the one who''d taken from him?

    Vicky''s hands clenched into fists, tendons standing out like cords along her forearms. The surrounding air shimmered with heat, distorting the lobby behind her. Small objects on the concierge desk - pens, paperclips, a stapler - began to smoke and curl.

    "Vicky, wait," Lance started, but she had already abandoned the front desk.

    She stormed toward the entrance, each step leaving a scorched footprint in her wake. The automatic doors, still damaged from Lance''s earlier break-in, sparked and groaned as she approached.

    "Where are you going?" Lance called after her, jogging to catch up.

    No response.

    ¡°Do you know where he is?¡±

    No response. But he saw her hands. They opened and closed in a steady rhythm. Her arma signature pulsed with each movement, stronger than he''d ever felt it. She was pure instinct now, an animal locked on her objective. All he could do was follow.

    Vicky went around the building. Past the glass facade. Behind delivery trucks. Down concrete stairs. Lance continued behind her, his steps heavy with fatigue.

    She knew. She knew exactly where to go.

    The service door opened without resistance. Underground passages stretched ahead, splitting three ways. His energy cycling sputtered, failing to replenish what he''d lost. But Vicky didn''t hesitate. Left turn. Right turn. Another left.

    Water leaked through cracks in the ceiling, dripping in patterns as Vicky charged ahead. After the morning''s fights, what remained of his boots let in water with each step. Ancient maintenance panels hung crooked from the walls, their rusted edges reflecting the dim emergency lighting. His muscles had gone past exhaustion into a deeper kind of weakness, the kind that came from pushing arma limits too far.

    [Warning: Arma Energy Critical. Energy Reserves at 15%]

    He matched her pace despite his fatigue. His remaining energy refused to cycle. Each superpowered step drained more arma than his failing system could recover. But Vicky marched on, her determined stride carried through the underground maze, marking time like a metronome. Following a map only she could see.

    A sound carried through the tunnels. Human voices.

    Vicky stopped at a large door covered in rust. Light spilled from underneath. Lance steadied himself against the wall, his vision swimming. He''d used too much energy fighting Diego, fighting her, freeing her. Had nothing left for whatever waited on the other side.

    Metal groaned as the door slammed open. Lance followed her into a concrete room lit by a single bulb. Three women huddled in the corner with their clothing reduced to dirt-stained tatters in muted browns and grays. A woman stood between them and the door, her gun already aimed at the newcomers.

    Through his fatigue, Lance recognized her. The detective.

    Was she tracking the Manager too? It didn''t matter. The police couldn''t handle this kind of threat, not when it could turn their own people against them. He''d explain later, if there was a later.

    The three women stared at them with hollow eyes. One kept touching her face, her arms, her knees - never still. Another shrank against the wall as if trying to sink into it. The third just watched, her gaze empty. Lance''s arma sensors picked up four signatures¡ªthe three malnourished women. But the fourth signature didn''t come from Mitsuki. It came from behind them, somewhere in the tunnel. And it pulsed with enough raw power to make his depleted system recoil.

    ''Click-clack.'' ''Click-clack.''

    Heavy steps carried through the walls. Slow. Controlled. Coming closer. Lance''s Energy Classification picked up a familiar resonance.

    There was someone there¡ªbut it wasn''t Frank, nor Mack. Not even Preston.

 Thirty-Three: The Manager

    It was Rick. The man who had taught him to surrender to chaos, to dance with darkness.

    "You..." Lance''s world tilted beneath his feet.

    "Mother!" The cry tore from one of the girls, raw and desperate.

    "They''ve missed you terribly, Victoria." Rick''s voice carried the same warmth it had during their group therapy sessions. "Though I had hoped you''d stay away a bit longer. The show wasn''t quite ready."

    Vicky''s fists burst into flame. "Three weeks. You were in my head for three weeks."

    "And look how much you''ve grown. Your control, your precision. They''re all thanks to our little sessions."

    The girls flattened themselves against the wall.

    One whimpered, "Mother, please."

    Vicky didn¡¯t listen. The moment she saw Rick, something snapped inside her. Her scream shattered the murky room as she launched herself at the drama teacher, hands blazing.

    But the attack never landed. Her strike passed through empty air as her body locked up mid-motion. Lance watched helplessly as paralysis seized her. First her fingers, then her wrists, her arms, like invisible restraints clicking shut joint by joint. The lockdown crawled up her shoulders, down her spine.

    She crumpled to her knees. "No, no, no," she choked out. "Not again. Please not again." She tried to throw another punch, managed to lift her arm halfway before it froze like stone. Again she tried, this time barely able to move at all. Tears spilled down her face as she fought against whatever was left of the Manager''s programming. Weeks of violation weren''t enough¡ªhe''d left something buried so deep that even Lance''s intervention couldn''t eliminate it entirely.

    "I put too much work into you to let you throw it all away like that." Rick sighed, stepping around her frozen form. "You always were my favorite. Such a shame you had to take my Wren from me. A moment of control was all it took."

    He turned to Lance. "Maybe I spread myself too thin. Tsk tsk."

    Fierce, unstoppable Vicky¡ªtrapped in her own body. Two weeks they''ve spent understanding this new world together. Now she knelt broken on the concrete, fighting against chains no one could see.

    And Mitsuki, who''d been searching for Rick from the start. This man had taken everything good and corrupted it. Their trust. Their friendship. Their free will. Enough was enough. He was done.

    "But you, Lance." Rick''s eyes lit up with that familiar, disgusting enthusiasm. "You''re different. The way you break my influence, free the others. It''s beautiful to watch."

    The first girl lunged at Lance, her movements jerky and unnatural. His fingers brushed her arm as he sidestepped. She stumbled, blinked, then collapsed against the wall.

    "I knew from the moment you walked into group that you were different. Such raw talent, such... adaptability."

    Two more girls rushed him together. He caught their wrists, channeled Dark Resonance through the contact. They sagged to the floor, gasping as awareness returned.

    "The others - all so desperate to be heroes." Rick''s hands moved as he spoke, sketching shapes in the air. "Since the day you walked into Elena''s circle, I''ve tried to make you mine. Something always interfered, blocked my influence. But you understand the bigger picture, don''t you, Lance? You know true art is in the transformation itself."

    He kept walking, running on nothing but spite and determination.

    "I''ll be honest, Lance. I had every intention of ending things at the gym this morning. Usually I don''t keep... well, let''s just say you weren''t meant to survive. But watching you there, seeing how you broke free..." He gestured loosely while talking. "I thought maybe I''d finally found someone who truly gets it."

    Another step. The distance between them shrank with each word.

    "The women, I could shape them, perfect them. But the men?" His fingers curled into a fist. "Most just needed a proper send-off. One last moment to shine before burning out."

    Now, Lance stood near enough to see the eager light in Rick''s eyes, the slight tremor in his gesturing hands. The same expressions he''d worn while teaching Lance to control Morphoplasm.

    "Before we continue this touching moment..." Rick nudged Mitsuki forward. "Meet my newest assistant. She may not have abilities, but a detective would be a fascinating role to manage."

    Mitsuki stood rigidly between them, her gun trembling in her grip.

    ¡°Shoot him.¡±

    Her hands shook harder, the gun''s barrel weaving in the air.

    "SHOOT!"

    Her finger slid off the trigger. Rick clicked his tongue. "Seems this one needs more time to settle in."

    Lance didn''t break stride. His fingertips grazed Detective Yamada¡¯s elbow, and Dark Resonance pulsed between them. Her muscles unlocked all at once and she pitched forward, suddenly present in her own skin.

    "The girls¡ª" Her arm found the wall for support. "Help is coming. We''ll get them out." She pushed herself up, made her way to Vicky. "All of you."

    "Always rushing the scene." Rick''s smile never changed. "No appreciation for timing."

    They''d gone through seven days of group therapy. Rick nodding along as they shared their fears, their struggles. Planning which ones to break, which ones to collect, which ones to eliminate. Every reassuring word had been rehearsal. Every supportive gesture just blocking for his twisted performance.

    Guess I never needed to voice my intent, Lance thought. This morning, watching these women huddle in their concrete prison under a three-star hotel, something inside him clicked into place. His rage didn''t need words. It needed completion.

    Morphoplasm swam beneath Lance''s skin, a darkness answering darkness. Travelled down his arm. His fist turned to black steel. And he cycled his arma into it. All of it.

    Rick spread his arms wide. "Come now, surely we can discuss this like¡ª"

    Lance''s fist connected instantly. Rick¡ªthe drama teacher, the Manager, the monster¡ªdidn''t have time to use his arma. Not that it mattered. Neural Purge was always active, and as Lance had expected, Rick had invested everything in mind control. Without it, he was well¡­If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

    Average.

    The blow left nothing recognizable below Rick''s eyes. His mouth, nose, and jaw disappeared into red ruin. Only his eyes remained, darting wildly as his brain tried to process its last moments.

    Rick''s mangled, blood-slick arm jerked upward, searching blindly before finding Lance''s cheek.

    [Dark Resonance detected hostile arma signature]

    ©¸©¤Warning: Foreign arma manipulation detected

    ©¸©¤©¤Source: Neural pathways compromised

    ©¸©¤©¤©¤Initiate disruption sequence? Y/N

    ¡°No.¡±

    WARNING: Hostile arma connection established

    ©¸©¤Neural bridge: Active

    You''re magnificent Take it. Take my power. Make it yours.

    Lance did.

    Core Power: [Appropriation (Alpha II)] activated

    ©¸©¤Target: [Human Psion (1st Evolution)]

    ©¸©¤©¤Warning: Arma signature critically weak

    ©¸©¤©¤Warning: Assimilation from depleting arma signature may have unforeseen consequences

    ©¸©¤©¤©¤Assimilation in progress...

    Assimilation complete

    ©¸©¤New ability acquired. Internalizing...

    New Essence Power acquired: [Neural Dominion (Alpha II)]

    ©¸©¤[Neural Dominion (Alpha II)]: Ability to interface with and manipulate neural patterns

    ©¸©¤©¤[Mode: Emotional Resonance] Appropriated

    ©¸©¤©¤©¤[Emotional Resonance]: Enables subtle manipulation of emotional states through arma synchronization

    Merry Christm¡ª

    Rick''s arm slipped from the nullifier¡¯s face to strike the sweat-slick floor with a wet slap as Lance stepped past the mess of flesh with the steady rhythm of a clock''s pendulum, stopping a few feet from where Vicky knelt. Pieces of her blonde hair had fallen forward, hiding her face. Her shoulders shook with silent sobs.

    "Vicky."

    Her head snapped up at his voice. Tears had carved clean tracks through the dust on her cheeks. Her hands trembled as she pressed them against the concrete floor.

    "He didn''t¡ª" Her voice cracked. "He didn''t even let me mourn her. Valentina died and I... I couldn''t even feel it. Three weeks and I couldn''t even cry for my own sister."

    Lance took a step closer, hand half-raised to offer comfort.

    "Don''t." Her whole body recoiled. "Don''t touch me. Dont!"

    Lance''s hand dropped immediately. He backed away, giving her space while his consciousness splintered to make sense of it. Vicky''s shoulders curled inward and her fingers scraped at the rough floor. Her breath stuttered and caught like a faulty engine, and she wouldn''t meet his eyes. The steady rhythm abandoned Lance as he took another step back, the weight of what he''d done to Rick turning his heart to stone.

    One of the rescued women wedged herself further into the corner, rocking slightly. Another reached toward Vicky but stopped short. ¡°Mother¡ª,¡± Her arm suspended between them, frozen mid-gesture.

    Mitsuki fumbled with her holster''s clip, missing it twice before securing her weapon. She looked at Rick''s body, then Lance, then back to Rick.

    "I don''t¡ª" Mitsuki started. "I don''t know what to do here."

    "Arrest me?" Lance said. ¡°That''s usually how these things go."

    "Is it?" Mitsuki''s laugh held no humor. "Because I''ve spent weeks convinced you were my killer. But it was him. It was always him. I saw his face at the apartments. The notes, the symbols ¨C all of it pointed to someone in theater, but I kept focusing on you because you were always there. At every scene. Somehow involved."

    "Would you rather I''d left you under his control? Left all of them trapped in whatever nightmare he''d wrapped around their minds?"

    "I don''t know." Mitsuki tried to massage away her headache. "God help me, I don''t know."

    Lance studied the detective''s haggard face as she rubbed the dark circles above her cheekbones. He wondered when she''d last gotten a full night''s sleep.

    "You remember Elena Rodriguez?"

    "The therapist? Yes, from the community center."

    "Get her to take Vicky in for a few days. She needs¡­ she needs someone who understands this kind of trauma."

    Vicky''s shoulders had stopped shaking, but she remained on her knees, staring at nothing.

    "And what about you?" Mitsuki asked.

    "You know how to reach me. When you figure out what you want to do with all this¡ª" Lance gestured at the scene around them. "Call me."

    ***

    [Day 22]

    "I already said there''s no use worrying about it. The important thing is you''re both safe now."

    "The gym though..."

    "Insurance''ll cover it. Not the first time something like this happened."

    "For real? When was the last time someone burned down your gym?"

    "''18. Electrical fire. Though I guess mind control and arson is a first."

    Diego leaned forward in his wheelchair. "Speaking of that shit, how''d you break out of Rick''s control, anyway? Like one minute you''re all ''must destroy everything'' and the next you''re normal again."

    "Remember those breathing exercises Dr. Patel showed us?"

    "Bro, are you seriously telling me you meditated your way out of mind control?"

    "Not exactly. More like... you know how phantom pain works? Your brain processes the signals even though there''s no actual damage?"

    "Right. Stub your toe and suddenly it hurts ten times worse than it should."

    "That''s exactly it. Mental control works the same way. False signals your brain processes as commands."

    Marcus crossed his arms. "And you figured this out how exactly?"

    Of course, Lance didn''t mention his actual theory had been a bit more complicated - something about Pain Nullification and Dark Resonance teaming up to play mental bouncers. Not that it mattered now. He hadn''t been able to test it until Rick hijacked his brain and Diego''s punch forced Pain Nullification to kick in. The result? Neural Purge - his brain''s very own firewall against unwanted mental intruders. Dr. Patel would probably call it a ''fascinating breakthrough in neural defense mechanisms.'' Two weeks of getting his brain hijacked had finally paid off.

    "Trial and error, mostly. Lot of experimentation with pressure thresholds."

    "You experimented while mind controlled?"

    "Had to understand how the signals worked. Find the right pressure point to trigger a defense response."

    "Man, only you would turn getting mind controlled into a science experiment."

    "Better than ending up in a wheelchair again."

    "Too soon, hermano. Too soon." Diego''s wheel squeaked as he shifted. "Hey, you heard from Vicky?"

    "She needs time," Lance said.

    "Yeah... yeah, I get that."

    The kitchen went quiet save for the refrigerator¡¯s steady drone.

    Diego tilted back in his wheelchair. "You know what''s messed up? Christmas Day and we''re sitting in your kitchen while the gym''s just ashes."

    "Could be worse. Could be stuck at another one of those company potlucks."

    Diego¡¯s eyebrows jumped. "That bad?"

    "You''re lucky you never worked at Qualtech. Nothing worse than Christmas potluck when Prisha from procurement brought her ''special'' biryani."

    "But I love biryani."

    "Not that one. Pretty sure it counts as biological warfare."

    Marcus drummed his fingers on the counter. ¡°We gonna sit here all day or actually doing this?¡±

    "I mean, technically I am sitting..."

    "Don''t start with me, Diego. If someone had torched my place, you think I''d be sitting here having a beer?¡± Marcus''s fingers stopped drumming on the counter. ¡°And you''re sure this is safe?"

    "Yes, sir," Diego said.

    "Just seems stupid to risk it.¡±

    "I''m freaked out too.¡± Lance stared at his untouched bottle. "But all the tests show once you''ve got the gene therapy, it''s impossible for the alcohol to hurt you. Dr. Patel checked everything herself. And you know I trust her with my life."

    Diego perked up. "She''s never wrong about this stuff."

    Marcus picked up his beer. "Fine. Here''s to... not dying, I guess."