So what now? I throw on some spandex, pick a name off a cereal box, and become a superhero?
Yeah. Sure. That's what people want, right? Instant messiah. Powers plus body count equals savior.
But that's not me.
I'm not the heroic type. I don't do self-sacrifice. I'm not risking my life for strangers who'd probably step over my twitching corpse if it meant keeping their Starbucks from spilling. I'm not a hero. I'm just a guy with too much power and not enough impulse control.
I slipped out the side gate while the sirens were still Dopplering closer, stepping over shattered glass and a half-eaten biology textbook. Students were either crying, filming, or arguing over which filter made arterial spray look cinematic. You'd think it was Comic-Con meets Armageddon.
Pathetic.
No plan. No vision. Just chaos in skinny jeans and overpriced sneakers.
And I wish I could stand here and pretend I'm not part of it—but I am. I'm the eye of the storm. The walking, talking middle finger to "keep your powers a secret."
I revealed myself. In broad daylight. No mask. No alias. Just gravity-bending violence and blood-slick pavement. Caught from five angles in 4K.
No take-backs.
And now the world knows what I can do.
Which means people are coming.
Which points to the fact that I'm a fucking retard.
I'm trending. I'm probably already labeled a potential threat, vigilante, or domestic terrorist. Whatever fits best in the headlines. News anchors are probably arguing over how dangerous I am between shampoo ads. [He's a bit narcissistic.]
"Is he a hero… or a hazard?"
Spoiler: It's hazard. It's always hazard. But it's the mystery that sells.
They'll run that footage on a loop. Every channel. Every platform. Hell, they'll probably slow it down, add dramatic music, maybe even a few jump cuts. "Teen Superhuman Saves Classmate From Monster Attack." Real tearjerker stuff.
They'll eat it up. Turn it into a story. A brand.
Me? I'm in the alley behind a gas station a block from school, trying not to puke next to a dumpster, scrubbing blood off my hands with cheap water bottles and a half-torn hoodie.
This wasn't the plan. This wasn't even a plan. I had one job: stay invisible. Keep the freakshow locked up.
But one monster with too many limbs and not enough chill later, and boom—Kaito makes his big debut.
And now I'm public enemy number... well, a number. High enough to get noticed.
They think I've got answers. Like I'm worth following.
They don't know what I am. Hell, I don't know what I am.
All I know is, something's shifted. The ground under my feet? It's not stable anymore.
This isn't the coming-of-age arc. This is the prelude to surveillance vans and satellite coverage. The part where civilians whisper "hope he's one of the good ones" while clutching pepper spray and prayer beads.
There are no good ones.
There are just survivors. And then... there's the cleanup crew.
Beep.
I froze.
Another beep. Sharper. Then the unmistakable clank of an armored truck door swinging open.
Heavy boots hit the pavement behind me. Gravel crunched like bones.
Didn't even need to look.
"This is the police," a voice rang out. Calm, practiced, lying through its teeth. "Keep your hands where we can see them. We just want to talk."
Yeah. Sure.
And I'm just a normal kid having a normal day.
I raised an eyebrow, still kneeling next to the dumpster like I was praying to the God of Discount Bleach. "You always bring five guys and an armored truck to 'talk'? That how it works now?"
The guy didn't flinch. Voice still calm. Still fake. "You're not under arrest. But we need to debrief you. For your safety."
There it was. The lie behind the lie.
"Okay, I believe you. What are you going to do?"
The guy took a step closer, the faint whine of some kind of stabilizer in his suit humming beneath the surface. Real subtle—if you're trying to look like a walking fridge.
"What are we going to do?" he repeated, like he was reading off a prompt card. "Escort you to a secure location. Talk. Figure out what happened. You've been through a traumatic event."
Yes, I believe it is traumatic. Now that every ounce of freedom I had is gone. Well, most of it, I gained from my father being deadbeat; he doesn't care. I haven't seen him for about six years now, Something has changed. I mean, all the work is usually done by the time I get home. The fridge's restocked, the house cleaned, and the clothes washed. Everything but yet he refuses to see me... tough shit.
But I got used to it. You can only scream into a locked door so many times before you start treating silence like background noise.
I stared at fridge-man with the deadpan of someone who'd just been asked if they wanted to be waterboarded or electrocuted—"secure location" my ass. You don't bring a powered exosuit to a therapy session unless you plan on needing restraints.
"Alright," I said, standing up straight and brushing gravel off my knees. "Let's go with you to this 'secure location.'"
Maybe then, I can see how much bullshit he's made up of.
I stared at the guy across from me. Helmet off now, revealing a face that looked like it had seen a few wars and didn't enjoy any of them. Not local cops. Not feds either.
"You're not police," I said flatly.
He didn't answer.
"You don't have to say it," I added, voice dry. "I can smell the alphabet soup from here. CIA, NSA, IRS. You boys got too much funding and not enough conscience."
Still nothing. Just a look. Analytical. Clinical. Like he was cataloging threats per square inch of my face.
The truck rolled on in silence. No windows. No idea where we were heading. Which meant I wasn't supposed to know. Which meant I really didn't like where this was going.
"So," I tried again, "is this the part where you flash a badge with a logo I've never seen and say something ominous like 'national security' or 'you're not the only one with powers'?"
He glanced at his tablet, then back at me.
"You'll find out soon enough."
Great. Vague threats and vague destinations. Just how I love spending my Friday afternoons.
I leaned my head back against the cold wall of the truck, the inhibitor cuffs still pulsing faintly against my wrists. I could feel my powers pressed down like someone sitting on my lungs. Not gone—just suppressed. Ticking underneath the surface like a buried landmine.
"You guys ever think about asking nicely?" I muttered. "Y'know, less kidnapping, more 'can we please have a word'? It might cut down on the property damage."
No answer. Just that stoic, dead-eyed look again.
Right. Brick wall. With a clipboard.
The ride dragged on. Ten minutes? Twenty? Time got fuzzy when your anxiety was tap dancing in your ribcage.
Eventually, the truck slowed. A hiss of hydraulics. A heavy door grinding open.
The soldier gestured. "Out."
I stepped out into a loading bay. Bright lights. Sterile. Armed guards flanking every corner. And beyond that—elevators, steel corridors, and a vibe so classified it probably had NDAs stapled to the walls.
The Pentagon.
No signage. No insignia.
Just power humming beneath concrete and steel.
This wasn't some cop shop.
This was something else entirely.
And I was the newest problem on their clipboard.
"Where the hell am I?" I asked, voice low.
The soldier didn't miss a beat.
"You're here to meet someone. He wants to talk."
I narrowed my eyes. "What, no waterboarding first?"
"No need," he said, not even pretending to joke. "You already gave us all the footage we need."
He turned and walked.
And I followed.
Because whatever this place was…
…I had the distinct feeling I just got drafted into something way bigger than me. Pfff, fuck no. What kind of bullshit's that?
The soldier didn't say a word as we walked. Not a word about where we were going, not a word about what they were planning to do with me. Just the sound of our footsteps echoing off the metal walls like a countdown.
When we reached the door at the end of the hall, he stopped and punched a code into a keypad. The door slid open with a soft hiss, and I couldn't help but raise an eyebrow. "Fancy."
The soldier didn't respond. He motioned for me to step inside.
I hesitated for a second—what exactly was I walking into? Was it an interrogation room? A holding cell? Some kind of state-of-the-art mind-control chamber? I couldn't rule anything out at this point.
But curiosity had already taken over. I stepped through the door and into the room.
Inside, a man sat at a desk, fingers steepled in front of him. The first thing I noticed was his age—not quite old, not young either. He had the kind of face that looked like it had been through a lot of shit and didn't really care to talk about it. His suit was sharp—probably custom-tailored to make him look important. But it wasn't the suit that made my skin crawl. It was the way his eyes didn't blink when he looked at me.
"Sit," he said, his voice low but authoritative. "You must be tired from the ride."
Tired? Maybe. But not of the ride. Tired of all this bullshit.
I gave him a long, appraising look before I shrugged and flopped into the chair across from him. The cuffs still tingled on my wrists, holding me back like a dog on a leash.
"So," I said, leaning back in my chair, "who are you, and why do you want to 'talk' to me?"
The man didn't smile. "I'm not here for small talk. You've caused quite a stir in the last 24 hours."
I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, I've noticed. Funny how the internet's more interested in the footage of me cracking some monster in half than the part where my life just got turned into an episode of 'What the Hell Just Happened?'"
He leaned forward slightly, his fingers still pressed together. "You're a very unique individual, Kaito Arakawa. You're not like the others we've encountered."
"Others?" I scoffed. "What is this, some superhero registry or a secret government cult? You want to get me on your 'team' or something?"
He ignored my sarcasm. "We're not interested in controlling you. But you're a variable now, Kaito. You're out there, and that makes you valuable."
"Valuable, ain't there an old saying that says that all lives are valuable? Don't tell me you got no morals."
"You misunderstand," he said, his voice almost a whisper now, like he was speaking to a child. "It's not about your value as a person. It's about your potential. The laws you manipulate—they could alter the course of everything. You could change the world, Kaito."
I snorted, leaning back in my chair as the cuffs pulsed again. "Yeah? Change it into what? A dumpster fire with a side of overreach? I'm not your weapon, buddy. Whatever your 'potential' is, I'm not signing up for your evil mastermind gig."
The man's eyes narrowed, and for a second, the air in the room thickened. He didn't speak for a moment, just studied me, like he was debating whether to keep talking or toss me in a cell and call it a day.
Finally, he leaned forward again, his fingers steepled in front of his face. "We're not asking you to be anyone's weapon, Kaito. We're offering you a chance to understand what you've become. To control what you have. To stop being reactive. You're already a threat to those who can't understand your abilities. But if you learn to harness them—if you learn to control them—you could be more than just a loose cannon."
A slight pause. "You could be someone who decides the future."
"Yeah, guess what. I've already got it under fuckign control, or else, how the hell would I split that lizard bitch into atoms?"
"Splitting a lizard monster into atoms doesn't prove control," he said coolly, tapping his fingers against the table in a rhythm that could've been a countdown. "It proves power, yes. But control? Not yet."
I couldn't help but grin. "You really think I need a lecture on control?" I leaned forward, making sure the cuffs rattled as I moved. "The only thing out of control here is how much you're overestimating the 'danger' I pose. I'm not your answer, man. I'm just trying to keep my ass off the radar. And now you've thrown me into your little super-soldier recruitment drive. Good job."
The man didn't react. Not the tiniest flicker of a smile or a frown. Just that damned calm, calculating look.
"You're right about one thing," he said, his voice flat, "you are underestimating your potential. And that's why we're here."
"Underestimating? Okay, I'm the greatest dude to ever walk the surface of Earth, and Jesus barely stands a chance against my potential. Is that enough estimating?"
The man's eyes flickered, but his face didn't change. "Confidence is a good start, Kaito. But you're not seeing the bigger picture."
"I don't need all the bullshit. Just call your boss, you're clearly not in charge, not with these shitty persuasion skills."
"You're-" He began.
"HEY!" I shouted. He flinched a bit.
"Bring your fucking boss, will you?" I asked.
The man across from me opened his mouth to respond, but before he could spit out another word salad of veiled threats and hollow reassurances, the door behind him hissed open.
He shut up. Mid-syllable. Like a dog hearing its master's footsteps.
That told me everything.
A new figure stepped into the room, flanked by the kind of silence that felt designed. He wasn't flashy—gray suit, no tie, clean-shaven with tired eyes and a posture that said "I've seen worse, but this still sucks."
The aura, though?
That was new.
Cold, precise, surgical. Like a scalpel had learned to walk and started paying taxes.
The first guy—Clipboard McLoyalty—stood up straight like a cadet at roll call. Didn't salute, but might as well have. "Director," he said.
Director?
Well, shit.
"Hey, Director...?" I asked.
"The name's Cecil Stedman, kid. And I gotta tell you, you have a lot of anger for someone with world-bending powers. But I know who to pair you up with anyway. She'd fit perfectly with you, since her powers are, in a way, similar."
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
"And you got a dirty mouth."
Cecil didn't sit.
"You're angry, you're reckless, and you've got a god complex trying to figure out what kind of god it wants to be," he said. "But beneath all that attitude and trauma, you've got potential."
"Yeah, heard that one already. Try a new pitch. Maybe throw in a coupon."
Cecil gave me a flat look. The kind you learn from decades of bureaucratic trench warfare and seeing too many kids with eyes full of fire and heads full of shit.
"You think you're special, Kaito?"
"I am special."
Cecil raised an eyebrow. The corner of his mouth twitched like he was deciding whether to be amused or annoyed. "You're always this combative, or is it just government facilities that bring out the best in you?"
I scoffed, leaning back as the inhibitor cuffs buzzed gently, like a mosquito with authority. "You put a leash on someone and act surprised when they bite. Cute."
"Not a leash," Cecil said flatly. "A precaution."
"Yeah, well, I'm allergic to collars."
"Noted," Cecil muttered, voice bone-dry. He started pacing slowly, not nervous — more like a guy walking around a puzzle, deciding which edge to crack first. "You think this is about control. About keeping you under someone's thumb."
"I know it is."
"No," Cecil said, voice sharp now, a scalpel instead of a sigh. "It's about mitigation. You went loud, kid. Not just loud — biblical. You folded a monster like a paper swan. In public."
"That was my school, I had to save people, didn't I?" I asked.
"And I'm glad you did, this brought me to you. You have a god damn Pacific Ocean of potential, kid."
"And now," Cecil continued, stopping his pacing to look directly at me, his gaze intense, "that ocean is splashing on everyone. People are scared. Governments are twitchy. And things are going to get a whole lot messier if someone doesn't try to steer the damn boat."
"And you think that someone is you?" I asked, skepticism dripping from my tone. "Last I checked, government agencies weren't exactly known for their gentle touch."
"Sometimes," Cecil said, his voice softening slightly, "the only way to stop a flood is to build a dam. We're not trying to control you, Kaito. We're trying to prevent chaos."
"And what exactly is your plan here?"
"My plan," Cecil said, his voice measured, "is to offer you a choice. A choice you didn't have in that alley. A choice beyond running or being locked away."
"Bold of you to assume you can lock me up or that I would be running."
"Fair point," Cecil conceded, his gaze unwavering. "Perhaps 'managing a volatile situation' would be a more accurate assessment of our capabilities and your… current disposition."
He steepled his fingers again, his expression unreadable. "Regardless of whether you choose to run or stand your ground, the reality remains: you've announced your existence in a world that is increasingly hostile to surprises. Especially surprises that can fold monsters in half."
He leaned forward slightly. "My plan involves offering you an alternative to being hunted, studied, or weaponized by less scrupulous entities than the Global Defense Agency."
"And you think the GDA isn't interested in weaponizing me?" I shot back, the skepticism still thick in my voice. "Please. You've got 'weaponize' tattooed on your forehead in invisible ink."
Cecil didn't flinch. "We are interested in understanding and, yes, potentially utilizing your abilities for the defense of this planet. But there's a crucial difference between a weapon and a soldier. A weapon is controlled. A soldier is trained, guided, and ultimately makes their own choices within a framework."
"We offer you the framework. The training. The understanding. The choice of whether or not to be a soldier in a war you've already stumbled into."
"Okay, what the fuck are you like actually talking about? Bitch, we ain't in World War Three. I don't have a war. The only war I'm fighting here is the urge not to vaporize these 'inhabitors'."
I disabled the structural integrity of the inhibitors, then poof, they fell apart like dust.
"So, this is my final answer, so lock it in. No."