I'm sitting on my bed when it happens.
One moment my arm still aches—dull, tender, like a bad bruise—and the next… it doesn't.
I blink.
I flex my fingers.
I rotate my wrist slowly, expecting pain to flare up again, but there's nothing. No resistance. No soreness. Just… normal.
Too normal.
I slide off the bed and carefully move my arm, lifting it over my head. Still nothing.
I glance at the clock on my nightstand.
One hour and thirty-four minutes since I slammed into the door.
"…You're kidding," I whisper.
I open my door and step into the hallway. Emma is already there, sitting cross-legged on the floor, staring at me like she's watching a magic trick that hasn't finished yet.
"You're moving your arm," she says.
"Yeah," I answer slowly. "It stopped hurting."
She jumps to her feet and grabs my arm, turning it side to side, inspecting it like a scientist who forgot personal space exists.
"It was all purple and gross," she says. "And now it's just—normal."
"I noticed," I mutter.
Her eyes shine.
"That's SO COOL."
Before I can respond, she runs back into her room and launches herself onto her bed, bouncing hard.
"Okay," she says seriously, arms stretched out. "If you got powers, maybe I got powers too."
I lean against the doorframe, smiling despite myself. "Emma, that's not how—"
She squints in concentration, staring at a lamp on her desk like she's trying to intimidate it.
"…Move," she whispers.
The lamp does not move.
She groans, flops back onto the bed, then immediately springs up again.
"Okay, different test."
She jumps again. And again. And again.
"Trying to fly ?" I ask.
"Yes," she answers without shame. "Or levitate. I'll take either."
I laugh. I can't help it.
The sound feels strange coming out of me—lighter than it should be after everything that happened.
Down the hall, though, the mood is very different.
My parents stand in the kitchen, whispering to each other like they don't want the walls to hear.
"He healed in under two hours," my mom says quietly.
"That's not normal," Dad answers. "None of this is normal."
They look at me when I enter the room.
Not with anger.
Not with fear exactly.
More like… they're watching a bomb and trying to guess when the timer hits zero.
I hate that look.
"I'm fine," I say, trying to sound casual. "Really."
Dad forces a nod. Mom smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes.
—---
The days that follow blur together.
And somehow, they're the most alive I've ever felt.
I start slow. Walking. Jogging. Timing myself between the mailbox and the end of the street.
Every movement feels charged, like my body is holding back a storm.
The first time I really let go, it's in the backyard.
I close my eyes.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
And then I step forward.
The world snaps.
Sound drops away like someone turned a dial to zero. The air thickens. Colors sharpen so much they almost hurt. A bird mid-flight freezes above the fence, wings suspended.
A fly hangs motionless in the air, legs twitching but going nowhere.
My heart is still beating.
I can hear it.
Everything else… stopped.
I open my eyes slowly.
"Oh," I whisper. "Wow."
I take a cautious step.
Then another.
I walk around the yard, awe replacing fear. I wave my hand in front of the frozen fly.
Nothing changes.
With a grin spreading across my face, I break into a run.
The neighborhood becomes a blur of stillness and motion—cars locked in place, leaves frozen mid-fall. I sprint down the street, laughing breathlessly, energy roaring through my veins like liquid lightning.
I don't feel tired.
I don't feel human.
I feel right.
When I finally slow down and let the world catch up again, I'm back in the kitchen.
My parents are still at the table.
Dad's spoon is halfway to his mouth.
Mom's cereal is hovering just above the bowl.
Milk hasn't even dripped yet.
I stand there, breathing hard, heart pounding, eyes wide.
"…Morning," I say.
Time slams back into place.
Milk splashes into the bowl. Dad's spoon clinks against his teeth. Both of them freeze, staring at me like I just appeared out of thin air.
Dad slowly lowers the spoon. "Barry."
"Yes ?"
"…When did you get back inside ?"
I swallow, electricity still humming under my skin.
"Well...now "
Silence.
Emma bursts into laughter from the hallway.
I look at my parents—really look at them—and my excitement softens.
Their fear is real.
Earned. In a world like this, powers don't mean miracles.
They mean danger.
I clench my hands, feeling the power coil inside me, waiting.
' I won't let this turn me into a monster.
I won't let it take them from me. '
I will become something better.