The birthday cards lay unopened, their glitter peeling at the corners. Torn wrapping paper curled like wilted petals on the floor, and the only gift that mattered was clutched tightly in her arms — a teddy bear with one ear half-torn, its button eye missing.
Xyla sat on the edge of her bed, legs dangling above the cold wooden floor. Seven years old, skin pale as moonlight, her tiny chest rose and fell with quiet wheezes. The dark green braids that ran down her nape barely moved as she stared out the dusty window, her body still but eyes searching. She wore a grey shirt two sizes too big, purple shorts, and a black handkerchief tied snugly around her throat — the pirate skull on it grinning like it knew something she didn't.
"I wish Mom was here," she whispered, voice barely audible over the creak of the house.
From somewhere deep within the halls came a sound — low, guttural. A growl.
Xyla flinched.
Not again.
She stood, hugging the bear tighter, and tiptoed toward the door.
---
The hallway was cold and cluttered, littered with papers that fluttered in the breeze from a cracked window. The scent of old books and faint chemicals filled the air.
Xyla leaned into the doorframe of her father's lab, heart pounding.
Inside, chaos had found a home — papers scattered across the floor, filing cabinets left open, diagrams pinned to the walls. An x-ray of a human spine stood out — but something wasn't right. Something was... extra.
In the center of the room, a large transparent chamber pulsated softly. Inside it, asleep but not peacefully, lay a lynx — massive, unnatural, and breathing slow as stone. Nearby on a counter, a syringe of amber liquid glowed faintly under the harsh fluorescent light.
At the far end, hunched in a chair like gravity was winning, sat Dr. Ken Harrow. His white coat was smudged, his eyes rimmed with sleeplessness.
He looked up. A tired smile softened his features.
"There you are," he said, standing slowly.
From a drawer, he retrieved a small wrapped box. He knelt before her, tore the paper, and revealed a sleek, silver watch with a glowing blue timer.
"Happy birthday, sweetie," he said gently. "Your mama would be proud of you."
Xyla smiled faintly as he strapped it to her wrist.
Then came the coughing — violent, sudden. Her body trembled as she gripped the teddy bear harder.
Dr. Harrow's face changed. He grabbed her wrist, eyes narrowing. Beneath her skin, faint green veins curled like smoke.
"You're getting weaker."
He cupped her face, and his voice turned soft. "This... this will make you better."
He injected the amber liquid into her arm.
She winced. Then... silence. A long, slow breath filled her lungs. Her eyes widened.
"I can breathe..." she said. "I feel okay now, Papa—"
Dr. Harrow pulled her close, relief washing over him like rain after a long drought.
"You're safe now. It's over. You're cured."
The watch on her wrist glowed gently.
Peace settled like dust in the room.
Until it cracked.
A hairline fracture bloomed across the lynx's chamber. Then another. Xyla pulled away from her father.
"Papa...?"
The veins in her arms shimmered amber. Her right eye turned red. Her body trembled.
"Papa—! It hurts!"
"No, no—!" Dr. Harrow scrambled for an antidote. He injected half of it, hands shaking.
But it was too late.
Xyla convulsed. Her small body bent backward, the watch on her wrist blinking wildly.
The lynx stirred. Then its eyes opened.
"RUN, XYLA!" her father shouted.
She couldn't move.
"PATRICIA!!" he screamed toward the hallway.
A woman stormed in — stern face, loyal eyes — grabbed Xyla and ran.
Behind them, the glass chamber exploded.
Xyla screamed, twisting over Patricia's shoulder. Her father's voice echoed down the corridor:
"Take care of her! GO!"
"Papa!!" she screamed.
But the lab doors slammed shut behind them.
And the world went black.
---
She woke with a gasp — older, 22 yrs old, choking on silence. The alarm on her wrist screamed 7:00 AM. Xyla's chest heaved like something heavy had just sat on it.
She sat up in bed, sweat clinging to her skin. The same braids now reached past her waist, a tangle of memory and motion.
Her fingers grazed the timer on her wrist. Still glowing. Still warm.
She exhaled, rubbing her face. "Still ticking," she murmured. "Still me."
In the bathroom, she stared at her reflection. Her left eye: soft green. Her right: glowing faint red.
"Oh yeah..." she whispered, brushing her teeth lazily. "Still there."
She got dressed — pink collared shirt, ash grey trousers, and finally, the familiar black handkerchief. She tied it snugly around her head, covering the red eye.
"One freaky eye at a time."
---
By the time she reached the self-care hospital on her beat-up green bike, the city had fully woken. The sign on the hospital flickered weakly, like it couldn't decide whether to work today.
"Hey! Pirate! Stay away!" a woman shouted inside.
Xyla paused, boots clunking across the lobby floor.
A cleaning lady stood armed with a broom.
"You got the scarf... and the eye..."
Xyla raised her hands. "It's me — Xyla. Just need a new lens, not here to plunder."
The woman squinted, then lowered the broom. "You scared me half to death. Thought you were one of those street mutants."
"Technically..." Xyla muttered, "not wrong."
---
In the ophthalmology wing, Dr. Yara adjusted the lens machine.
"Let's take a look."
Xyla hesitated before removing the scarf.
Red eye exposed.
Dr. Yara didn't flinch.
"Still sensitive?" she asked, fitting a custom contact into place.
"It's... manageable. Just freaks people out."
"You're not people. You're you."
---
Outside the clinic, Xyla was adjusting her bag when a scream cut through the air.
A boy — maybe six — stumbled into the street.
A car screeched.
She moved before she thought. Wind in her veins. Time slowed.
Then — contact.
She spun with the boy in her arms, skidding to safety. Her heart thudded like a drum.
"You okay?" she asked.
The boy hugged her. "You're my superhero!"
Xyla blinked, stunned. Then smiled.
A woman — the boy's mother — ran toward them, tears in her eyes.
"How did you move so fast?" she asked breathlessly.
Xyla could only shake her head. "I... don't know."
---
She tried to slip away unnoticed. But a video was already being uploaded. A crowd had seen. Phones had captured it all.
Another label. Another day.
"Not today," she muttered later, wiping down tables at the café. "No freak show."
That was before the rogue boys came in, armed with sticks and empty threats.
By the time she was done flipping, kicking, blocking, catching, and pinning them to the floor — without spilling a single cup of coffee — the entire café was silent.
Then came the phones. Then came the questions.
Then came the clicks.
"Hi," she said awkwardly. "Please don't tag me."
---
Outside, as she duck-walked down the sidewalk with bags of food in hand, laughter and praise buzzed around her. Teenagers were already replaying the fight on their phones.
"She's like a superhero."
Xyla shook her head, half-smiling. Then she saw it.
A billboard.
The Monarch Legends.
Four of them — glamorous, posed, impossibly cool.
Front and center — Zeke Monarch.
She scowled.
"Ugh," she muttered. "I need to relax my head."
But across the street... a girl in a black hoodie stood watching.
Fingers tapping on a phone. A soft, sheepish smile.
Then she vanished into the crowd.
Xyla's breath caught.
"A spy this time, huh?"
She ran after her.