The generator hummed like a tired heart.
Roman sat against the bunker wall, arms wrapped around his knees, eyes still red from the nightmare. Cold sweat clung to his skin, and the taste of ash hadn't left his mouth.
Every time he blinked, he saw it again—the flames, the ropes, the agony that wasn't his but felt like it had carved itself into his bones.
His sleep had been anything but peaceful.
This time, the nightmare had thrust him into someone else's life. A man Roman had seen once in a headline, another forgotten casualty buried beneath corruption and silence.
He hadn't thought about him in months—maybe years—but his soul had. And Looking Back at Times had answered.
The man had been a civil servant, just another anonymous worker at the Local Government Finance Office. Quiet, unnoticed, but meticulous. The kind of person who kept receipts, cross-checked figures, and, unfortunately for the people skimming funds, refused to look the other way.
He had discovered a trail of corruption—billions siphoned off, funneled into accounts that led to powerful names. He reported it to the Corruption Eradication Commission, Othernesia's institution specializing in corruption cases.
Then came the phone call.
A man claiming to be police. Polite, professional. Said they wanted to meet. Just to "follow up" on the report. They arranged a dinner at an upscale restaurant near his apartment. It was elegant. Safe. Too safe.
The man ordered a drink.
It tasted off.
Darkness came next.
A sack over the head. Rough hands. Screams. The world collapsed into cracked ribs and blood on the floor.
He was mocked, broken, spit on by the very people he had tried to expose. They laughed while they tortured him—like it was entertainment. When his body was too weak to scream anymore, they soaked his head in gasoline and lit the match.
The last thing Roman saw through the man's eyes was his own body—charred and swaying gently from a rope.
He woke up gasping, back in the bunker, the scream still caught in his throat.
The memory of that news article surged through his mind. The case had sparked brief outrage. Then silence. The police had "investigated" for weeks, but no arrests were made. Eventually, the entire case was closed. Insufficient evidence. No witnesses.
No justice.
It had angered him then. Now, it enraged him in a way that felt personal. Because he hadn't just remembered the man's pain—he had lived it.
Roman looked up. Misha stood across the room, arms crossed, watching him without expression.
He told her everything.
Not for sympathy. Not even for answers. Just to speak it out loud, to force it into words. The bunker felt too small, too quiet, and the weight of the nightmare still pressed on his chest.
He didn't expect her to say anything. But after a long silence, she did.
"Tell me the ending again."
Roman hesitated, then repeated the last part—the sack, the torture, the burning, the rope.
She nodded, slowly. A glint passed through her usually vacant eyes. "You finally detached."
Roman frowned. "Detached?"
"When you used Looking Back at Times," she explained. "You weren't you in that moment. You lived through someone else. You didn't just watch the past—you became part of it."
He sat up straighter, suddenly alert. "So I… did it right?"
"Yes, but not on purpose. This time was a coincidence—triggered by emotion, memory, or both." Her voice remained calm, clinical even.
"The next step is learning how to detach intentionally. If you can do that, you'll be able to go anywhere… and find any information you want. Past events, hidden truths, even buried secrets."
Roman's heart thudded. "That's possible?"
"It is," she said. "But it won't be easy. What happened tonight was luck. The kind you can't count on."
Roman's thoughts raced with the implications. But before he could ask more, Misha continued.
"For now, that's not our priority."
She was thinking ahead—but not saying a word.
Roman pulled himself upright, rubbing the tension from his neck.
"So… what now?" he asked. "Do I just wait for another nightmare?"
Misha turned. "No, like I said before, that's not our priority."
Her answer came too quickly. Too deliberately.
Her words were a knife. Cold. Precise.
"You always know what's coming," Roman muttered. "You knew what that knife would do. You knew I'd use the power. You knew I'd wake up screaming."
Silence.
"You brought me here for a reason," he added. "You're planning something."
She finally looked at him. "You're right."
Roman blinked. He hadn't expected her to admit it.
"There's more power out there," she said, zipping her pack. "You're going to need it."
"You mean… another super power?"
She nodded. "The one you carry now won't be enough."
Roman crossed his arms. "So what, I just hope someone around me gets jealous again and I steal their power?"
Misha gave the faintest shrug. "Not exactly. But close."
Before he could argue, she turned away. "We need to move. The next ability—your next mutation—is electric."
He frowned. "Electric?"
"It's what we need next," she said. "But the one who has it… he's unstable."
Armenia — Blacksite Command Hub
48 hours before Dorgu's arrival in Othernesia
The command room buzzed with low activity. Fluorescent lights cast a sterile glow over digital screens and holographic maps. Commander Kael stood in front of the largest one, his eyes fixed on a blinking red marker over Othernesia's western coastline.
Roman Ravenscroft. Last confirmed location.
"ETA for the asset?" Kael asked.
A voice replied over the comm, "Two days. Civilian aircraft. Routed through the Zharin Republic for deniability."
Kael exhaled slowly. Good.
Othernesia could not be invaded, not officially. The world still pretended it was a sovereign state. But quiet war didn't need declarations.
Send a ghost. A living weapon.
Let the world think nothing had happened.
Tasik Harbor — Slums
Same Time
Lightning danced on the railing.
A man stood outside a half-collapsed nightclub, cracked neon signs flickering above him. They called him Hex. No one knew his real name. No one cared.
he was kidnapped by a woman when he was a baby.
He had called her "mother" all his life.
She was the only person he remembered from his earliest days—the woman who held his hand when they begged on the streets, who scolded him when he cried too loudly, who stuffed stale bread into his coat and told him to smile at strangers.
Life had always been cruel, but he thought at least she was real.
That illusion shattered one drunken night.
She had come home reeking of cheap liquor, mumbling curses at shadows only she could see.
Her words were slurred, her steps unsteady. He tried to help her lie down, but instead, she grabbed his arm and pulled him close, her breath hot with rage and regret.
"I stole you," she whispered. "You weren't mine. Never were."
He froze.
"What?"
"I took you," she said again, giggling, as if confessing a joke. "From your real parents. You were crying on the porch of some big house. Rich bastards. Thought I could use you to make people feel sorry for me."
She laughed until she choked, then passed out on the floor.
He didn't sleep that night.
His mind spiraled with questions. Who were his real parents? Where was that house? Why had no one looked for him? Could it really be true?
He waited until morning. Waited for her to sober. When she finally stirred, he sat beside her and quietly asked, "Who are my real parents?"
Her eyes snapped open. For a moment, she was silent.
Then came the beating.
She struck him hard across the face, then again, screaming—spitting curses and denials. He stumbled back, confused, hurt, trembling with emotions he couldn't name. Rage, fear, betrayal—they churned inside him like a storm.
And then it happened.
A crackle. A flash.
Sparks burst from his palm, wild and bright.
The woman froze, her eyes wide. Her body seized as the electricity surged through her. The light flickered once. Then silence.
She collapsed to the ground, smoke rising from her twitching hands. The stench of burnt flesh filled the room.
She didn't move again.
When the police arrived, they found a single broken lamp and scorched floorboards. They marked it as an accidental death—faulty wiring, maybe a power surge.
Another casualty in a broken neighborhood.
They never questioned the boy with the hollow eyes standing in the corner.
And he never told them the truth.
He wasn't part of any faction, wasn't sponsored, wasn't famous. He was just… feared.
He has nothing—an ugly face, a misshapen body, a life that was stolen before it began. His power had surfaced when he was fourteen—an erratic, dangerous electrical current that surged through him whenever he got too emotional.
Now, it was part of him.
He started fights for no reason. Zapped power lines for fun. Watched couples pass by and imagined burning them to ash.
But beneath the erratic violence… was a hunger.
Not for power.
For connection.
But no one ever stayed close enough to touch.
The Next Morning — Bunker Exit
The sun had just begun to rise, spilling pale light over the bunker's concrete exterior. Roman stood next to Misha at the top of the stairs, backpack slung over his shoulder. The air felt clearer here, but colder.
He hadn't slept since the nightmare. Not really.
Inside, something still felt… broken. Not in a bad way. Just different. Like a door had been unlocked, and now the wind blew through places he didn't know existed.
Misha didn't look at him.
"We leave now," she said. "You follow my lead. Don't improvise. Don't talk unless I tell you to."
Roman nodded.
She began walking.
Roman hesitated, then asked, "What happens if I fail?"
Misha paused, her gaze fixed on something distant, unreadable.
Then, her voice cut through the silence—cold, precise, and stripped of any emotions.
"You die."