**Chapter 4 — A Quiet Room**
Andrew lay stretched out on his bed, staring up at the ceiling with half-lidded eyes. The faint hum of the light fixture above his head was the only sound, uneven and steady—the kind of noise you barely notice until it becomes part of the silence. He began counting cracks in the plaster, one, two, three… but the numbers blurred together, lost in his mind.
His room was… normal.
Posters of heroes from comics and games peeled at the edges, their confident faces frozen in time—heroes who always knew when to fight, when to stand tall, when to win. A small shelf crowded with schoolbooks he barely touched and a cluttered collection of game cases he knew by heart. His controller was nearby, thumb-worn from years of endless play. Clothes were slumped over a chair like they'd given up on being organized.
Nothing in this room suggested that just hours ago, the outside world had shattered.
Concrete had flown through the air. Buildings had fallen, and chaos had erupted in the streets.
Andrew exhaled slowly, feeling the dull ache in his back—more a reminder than pain. Something had hit him hard enough to matter, but he was okay. At least, physically.
The door creaked softly.
His mother stood there, arms crossed. She wasn't angry—never angry—just worried. The lines around her eyes looked deeper tonight. She looked smaller, or maybe Andrew just noticed it now.
Behind her, his uncle Derick leaned against the wall, relaxed but alert. His posture was casual, yet every inch of him seemed to belong anywhere and nowhere at once. Eyes sharp and steady, he observed everything with quiet intensity.
Andrew pushed himself up onto his elbows.
"So… I can't go with my friends for social work?" he asked cautiously, hesitating as the words left his mouth.
His mother sighed, a soft, tired sound.
"Andrew—"
"I want to help," he cut in quickly. "I'm fine. The doctor said there's no injury." His voice was a little too loud, a little too eager. He hesitated again. "I don't want to just sit here."
Derick spoke before his mother could respond.
"Helping doesn't always mean running toward danger," he said evenly. His calm tone cut through the tension. "Sometimes it means knowing when to stay still."
Andrew's fingers curled into the bedsheet.
"But people got hurt today," he said softly. "If everyone just stays home, then what?"
The question hung in the air, heavy and unanswerable.
Silence.
His mother looked at Derick, then back at Andrew. Her voice was fragile when she spoke.
"You already helped," she said softly. "You saved that girl. That's enough for one day."
Andrew turned his face away, jaw tightening. The word *enough* echoed unpleasantly—like a door closing, a finality he didn't want.
Derick stepped closer, slow and deliberate. His eyes narrowed slightly—not in anger, but in calculation, like he was assessing how much truth a sixteen-year-old could handle.
"Still," he said quietly, "the fact that you stood there… didn't freeze…"
He paused, as if choosing his words carefully.
"That matters."
Andrew looked up, eyes searching.
For a moment, Derick's gaze flicked to Andrew's unmarked, ordinary hands—no burns, no cuts—and then back to his eyes.
The room felt smaller. The air grew heavier.
Andrew felt it—something unseen, a whisper of presence that made his skin crawl. This wasn't just about a fight or a broken window. Something else was watching.
This wasn't the end of the conversation.
Derick straightened.
"Rest for now," he said softly. "We'll talk later."
Later meant tonight, or maybe not. Maybe when Derick decided Andrew was ready.
Andrew nodded, though his chest felt tight.
His mother lingered a moment longer, studying his face as if committed to memory. Then she reached out, brushed his hair back gently, and opened the door.
The click of it closing sounded final.
Andrew lay back down, staring at the ceiling, but this time, he couldn't count the cracks.
Across the city, in a tower of steel and glass, floodlights illuminated the night sky. A massive symbol burned into the darkness: *Z.*
Inside the Project Z headquarters, the air was cool and sterile. Screens lined the walls, flickering with shifting data—satellite feeds, destruction images, paused frames of chaos.
Sara stood before them, tablet in hand, eyes scanning the figures on the screen.
"Crazy Bouncer," she muttered, voice tight. "Below average rank. Excessive kinetic output. Zero restraint."
She swiped the screen.
"Dancer of Death," she continued, frowning. "No formal rank. Technique-based. Efficient—but not exceptional."
Her brow furrowed deeper.
"Not the kind of fighters who should've breached a school perimeter."
A shadow moved behind her. A man stepped out of the darkness—clad entirely in black, no insignia, no rank markers. Even among Project Z personnel, he looked apart.
They called him the *Golden Hunter.*
"Doctor Blade," Sara greeted cautiously.
The name carried weight. Files on the screens closed automatically, access restricted.
"He's constantly active," the Golden Hunter said, voice calm but tense. "And unlike them… he plans."
Sara's jaw tightened.
"He's preparing something," she said. "Something large enough to destabilize regions."
"Wars," the Golden Hunter corrected.
Sara didn't argue.
"We find him," she said, voice firm. "Before he moves."
The Golden Hunter nodded once.
Neither of them spoke what both were thinking: that time was already slipping away.
Back in his room, Andrew lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
The city's glow seeped through the window, distant and indifferent. Somewhere out there, life went on—unaware, unbothered.
Andrew flexed his fingers beneath the blanket. They trembled slightly.
He remembered the weight of the girl in his arms. The sound of the brick hitting his back. How his body had moved before fear could take control.
That part scared him most—that something had changed.
And whatever had noticed him—wasn't done yet.