I woke up choking on my breath. Not from a dream. Not from a sound. I just snapped awake, lungs stuttering like they'd forgotten how to breathe.
Everything hurt, but not in the way I expected. Not bruises. Not broken ribs. It was deeper. Like my body had been taken apart and put back together in a way it didn't agree with.
My bed creaked under me as I sat up. Light leaked in through the blinds, gray and useless. My hoodie clung to me like a wet rag—stiff with dried blood. I looked down and finally registered the blood. It was everywhere—on my sleeves, my hands, smeared across my chest like I'd tried to wipe it off and given up halfway.
I didn't move.
Then I saw something shift. A shadow, low to the floor. I turned too fast, nearly tipped over. My balance was off. I caught myself on the wall—and that's when I saw it.
A tail. Black, thin, curling slowly around my left leg like it had been resting there the whole time, just waiting for me to notice.
I froze, not even breathing.
My hand shot to my head. Hair—longer than it should've been. Messier. Thicker. I pushed higher, heart kicking hard against my ribs, and found fur. Soft. Warm. Ears. On top of my head.
I stumbled across the room to the mirror, the cheap one above the dresser I barely used. My legs felt shorter. My center of gravity had shifted.
I reached the mirror and looked.
The person staring back wasn't me. Not really.
The reflection showed someone smaller, pale-skinned, black-haired—shoulder-length, jagged, uncombed. My eyes were still green, but sharper. Brighter. Almost glowing. And those weren't human ears. They twitched—real ears, furred, black, flicking subtly at sounds.
I looked too soft. Too smooth. Not like a different person—like someone had drawn me again but changed their mind halfway through.
Then I saw the collar.
Black leather. Thin. Sitting snug around my neck like it had always been there. A tiny tag hung from the front, shaped like a cat's head. I touched it. It was real. Cold.
I stepped back from the mirror and almost tripped. Slid down the wall and pulled my knees up. The tail followed, resting against my leg like it was trying to be comforting. Or smug. Or both. I couldn't tell.
I stayed there for I don't know how long. My mind didn't settle. It kept replaying what happened—only in pieces. The alley. The sounds. The pressure in my head. That thing in my hand. The weapon with teeth.
I wasn't sure how much of it I imagined. I wasn't even sure this was real. But I could feel the floor. The seams of my clothes. The air against my skin. Everything had weight.
My chest felt tight, like something was curled up inside it. I tried to focus. If it was a power—if that was really what happened—I had to be able to feel it again. Pull it back.
I closed my eyes and searched inward. Reached for that pressure I felt when it all went wrong.
Nothing.
Again. I concentrated harder. Thought about the alley. About fear. About the heat in my hands.
Still nothing. Just silence inside.
Like whatever part of me did that had shut down.
Or like it wasn't mine to begin with.
I opened my eyes, throat dry. The only thing I could think of was that it had pulled from something—or someone—close. The thoughts. The ideas. They weren't mine. I didn't create them. They bled into me from somewhere else.
And last night… my mom and sister were the only people nearby.
A knock hit my bedroom door. I jumped.
"Adam?" my sister called. Her voice, muffled but sharp. "You up?"
I didn't answer.
Another knock, faster. "You're gonna be late. Mom said to wake you up."
Panic kicked me straight in the chest. I looked down at myself, at the tail still wrapped around my leg, at the ears twitching involuntarily. I couldn't open that door. No way she could see me like this.
"I'm sick," I called out. My voice cracked—higher than usual. I cleared my throat and tried again. "I feel like crap. I think I've got a fever."
A beat of silence. Then: "Okay, gross. Don't cough on anything. Tell Mom yourself."
I listened to her footsteps fade down the hallway.
My hands were still shaking. I peeled off the hoodie and shirt. Beneath them, my skin was pale and unmarked. No bruises. No swelling. No cuts. Like the beating never happened. Like I'd dreamed it.
But I hadn't.
I remembered every sound.
I looked down at the clothes in a pile by the bed. Covered in blood. Still damp in places. No way I was putting those back on.
I dug through my closet. Tried on everything. Nothing fit. Pants too long. Shirts too loose. I looked like a kid in a donation bin. The body I'd woken up with didn't match the clothes I used to own.
I checked the laundry hamper outside my room. My sister's stuff was mixed in. I grabbed the first clean things that would fit. A hoodie—black, soft, worn down with a faded skull on the chest—and a pair of black shorts that didn't slip off when I moved.
They fit.
I didn't care how that looked. They fit, and that was enough.
I pulled the hood up and sat on the edge of my bed. The minutes dragged. My phone buzzed once. I checked it. Nothing important. No one asking where I was. No missed calls.
They should've been home by now.
I waited.
No knock.
No voice.
No door opening.
The silence stretched too long.
Eventually, I tried to focus again. That feeling from before. That weight behind my ribs. I dug for it, like pulling on a splinter deep inside. Nothing happened. I didn't even get a flicker.
Whatever had triggered my power—if that's what it was—it wasn't responding.
And I didn't understand any of it.
I stood and walked a slow loop around my room. Sat again. Rested my forehead on the dresser. Tried to remember what the weapon had felt like. That strange heat in my palm. The texture of it—flesh and metal. Teeth.
That hadn't been an accident. It felt… built. Shaped.
Made from ideas.
Not mine.
The knock came late.
Not my sister's voice this time. Not my mom'sThe front door.
I opened it Two officers stood in the hallway. One older, one younger. The older one had his hat in his hands.
"You Adam?" he asked. I nodded.
"There was an incident earlier," he said. "Downtown. A fight. Enhanced types involved. A lot of damage."
I heard the words, but they didn't land.
"A building caught fire. Collapsed. Some fatalities."
No. Not them. Not this.
"Two victims were… identified by dental records. I'm sorry."
I don't remember what I said. I don't think I said anything.
I closed the door.
Walked back to my room.
Sat down on the floor.
The apartment was quiet. Empty.
My hands wouldn't stop shaking.
And in the mirror across the hallway, just for a second, I thought I saw something else looking back. Watching.
Not me.
Not anymore.