Ronin Wells
There were days Ronin Wells woke up with his fists already clenched.
It wasn't on purpose. He didn't ask for the tightness in his chest, or the quiet rage that sat behind his ribs like a loaded spring. But it was there, always. Coiled. Waiting. And most days, he did everything he could to keep it buried.
Because when it got out, people got hurt.
Ronin was twenty, a lanky kid with knuckles rougher than his sneakers. A Black American son of Detroit, transplanted to New York at thirteen when his mom got a job cleaning offices in Midtown. She raised him alone, and barely. He didn't blame her. Not when she worked two jobs and still came home with swollen feet and a whisper for a voice. Not when she flinched at sudden noises. Not when her eyes seemed to ask him not to become someone she'd have to be afraid of.
He tried. God, he tried.
Now he went to community college uptown, majoring in "nothing yet." He worked part-time at a gym and spent the rest of his time trying not to get into fights.
The irony, of course, was that everyone thought he wanted them.
People saw him as a storm waiting to happen. It was the way he carried himself. Too quiet. Too still. When he did speak, it was clipped. Controlled. Like if he let the words go too loose, they'd cut someone.
He didn't have many friends. But he had one.
CJ.
Corey Jackson was the only person who saw through the mask. They met in high school detention, bonding over their mutual hatred of school security guards and stale vending machine snacks. CJ was funny, loud, annoying as hell. But he never judged Ronin. Not even after that one time he blacked out during a fight with a senior and woke up standing over the kid's bleeding face.
CJ had helped him clean the blood off his knuckles. He never asked what happened.
October 12th
The day started hot, humid like the city was sweating through its shirt. Ronin hated heat. Made his skin itch. Made people act wild.
They were walking through the Bronx after class, arguing like they always did. CJ wanted to go into the city to check out some underground beat battle in Harlem. Ronin didn't. He wanted to go home, shower, maybe play 2K until his brain turned off.
"Yo, you never wanna do anything," CJ said, tossing his Snapple bottle in a trash can and missing by a foot.
"Because I don't like crowds," Ronin muttered.
"You don't like people, period."
That struck too close. Ronin stopped walking. "You don't get it."
CJ turned around. "Then explain it to me. You think I like walking on eggshells every time you go dark?"
Ronin blinked. Something behind his eyes shifted.
"You think I want to be scared of my best friend?"
Ronin took a breath.
Then CJ pushed him. Not hard. Just enough.
And Ronin snapped.
The Fight
It wasn't a fight. Not really. Fights had rules. This was chaos.
One moment they were standing on the sidewalk. The next, Ronin had CJ against a wall, his fist pulled back like a hammer. CJ punched back, catching Ronin on the jaw. Blood sprayed. Ronin stumbled. Then he roared.
A sound not quite human left his throat.
He tackled CJ into a parked car. The alarm went off. A crowd started forming. Someone shouted. Ronin didn't hear them.
He blacked out.
The Explosion
White.
That was the only word he had for it.
A bloom of light swallowed the world. A sound like every scream ever swallowed in a single breath.
And then he was flying.
Twenty meters. That's what the cops would later say. Launched into the air like a ragdoll. Landed on his back. The asphalt cracked beneath him.
CJ hit the ground harder. They said he was in a coma.
Ronin woke up two days later in a hospital with no bruises. No broken bones. Just a ringing in his ears and blood under his fingernails.
The nurse called it a miracle. He called it a mistake.
The Skyfall
The first time his power awakened fully, it wasn't in a fight.
It was in his bedroom.
His mom had been arguing with the landlord downstairs. He heard her crying. Something in him snapped.
Then blackness.
When he came to, he was in the sky.
Thousands of feet up. Wind screaming. Clouds ripping past.
He didn't know how he got there.
Didn't matter.
He fell.
The city rushed up to meet him. Lights became pinpricks. Then shapes. Then buildings.
He slammed into the ground behind an abandoned train station. The earth cratered beneath him.
When he crawled out, his clothes were barely torn. His hands were glowing. And the concrete? It had melted.
He ran home.
His mom never asked about the dust on his shoes.
Control
Over the next few weeks, Ronin experimented. Alone.
He'd get angry. Focus on the heat in his gut. Let it rise.
Sometimes it worked. Sometimes he just broke shit. Once he woke up four blocks away with blood on his shirt that wasn't his.
He checked every news report. No casualties.
He still wasn't sure if that made it okay.
CJ was still in the coma.
Ronin visited twice. The first time, he just sat there, staring. The second time, he spoke.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I don't know what I am anymore."
CJ didn't respond. Machines did.
Moral Dilemma
The city was changing. People were talking. About powers. About survivors. About the explosion that wasn't just an accident.
Ronin kept quiet. But the guilt grew.
He started keeping a notebook. Every time he blacked out, he wrote what he remembered. What he felt. Clues to who he became.
He wasn't sure if he was trying to solve a mystery.
Or write a confession.
Some nights, he dreamed of fire. Of his mother screaming. Of CJ's voice saying, You never wanted to be helped.
And always, he woke up shaking.
Because maybe the monster wasn't a power.
Maybe it was just him.