Chapter 3
The psychologist's office was nothing like what you see in the movies. No couch, just two comfortable armchairs, a coffee table with a box of tissues, a bookshelf, and a large abstract painting on the wall—an tangle of blue and purple strokes. The woman across from me looked to be in her sixties. Behind her thin-framed glasses, her eyes held none of the pity I had already grown used to.
"Hello, Diego. My name is Sarah Connelly. Principal Davis asked me to work with you, to help you return to a normal life."
"Can you bring people back from the dead?" The question slipped out on its own, sharper than I'd planned.
She didn't even blink. The shadow of a sad smile touched her lips. "No, Diego. No one can do that. But I can help you learn to live with this loss."
"And what makes you think I haven't learned?"
"Because people who have learned don't usually break their classmates' fingers," she replied simply. "Let's start there. Why did you do it?"
I shrugged. "He provoked me."
"I know that. Do you regret what you did?"
"I don't know."
"How so?"
"I don't think people really regret their actions. They regret the consequences. If someone robs a bank and doesn't get caught, he's probably not going to be tormented by regret while lying on a beach with the money. But if he gets twenty years—he'll regret every second. The consequences of my decision haven't caught up to me yet, so I don't know if I should regret it."
She looked at me for a long time, her gaze was perceptive. "That is a very adult and a very cynical thought, Diego. Perhaps even correct, in a sense. But we're not talking about a hypothetical robber. We're talking about you and the anger you felt. If you don't find another outlet for that force, it will start to destroy you from the inside."
"Find an outlet for the anger." The phrasing seemed odd, but I didn't point it out.
"Alright, let's change the subject," Sarah put her notepad aside. "What do you think of your new classmates?"
"Nothing special. Same as anywhere else, just more erudite."
"The fact that you used the word 'erudite' instead of just saying 'smart' tells me that you are quite erudite yourself," she allowed herself a small smile at the wordplay. "Do you have any hobbies, Diego?"
"I used to draw sometimes."
"And? Did you like it?"
I thought for a second, trying to find the words. "Not really, it just... came easily. The lines fell where they should, the shadows found their own place. But I didn't feel... anything. No joy, no excitement. It was like I wasn't the one drawing, my hand just knew what to do. I guess that's what they call talent."
"Do you believe in the concept of talent? I wouldn't expect someone like you, who sees the world in such cynical tones, to believe in something so ephemeral."
"Hm, strange question, but yes, I do. For example, I'm pretty good at drawing, as I said. And that's despite never having studied art textbooks or taken classes. So, I guess talent is when something comes to you without much effort."
"You think you're pretty good at drawing. Art is subjective; it's impossible to judge on some universal scale. Maybe in your eyes, the drawings are quite good, but to someone else, they're just cute doodles. Have you ever considered that others might see your work completely differently?"
"You're probably right," I said slowly. "But isn't a psychologist's job to build up a patient's confidence, not to say... well, what you just said?"
She laughed. "I got the impression that words like that wouldn't get to you. You like dialogues like this, don't you? Use these two weeks to find something that truly captivates you, something that will become your hobby. And start thinking about a goal, something you'll be willing to work hard for. We're done for today."
She stood up, signaling the session was over. "Take care, Diego."
"Goodbye," I replied, and walked out.
---
The apartment smelled of beer. Mateo was lying on the sofa, watching some sports show on TV. He followed my path from the door to my room with his eyes. "So, how was your first day of school?" he asked, not looking away from the screen.
"Since when do you care?" I tossed over my shoulder, already entering my room.
He shrugged and said nothing, taking a swig from his bottle. It was clear he'd asked the question purely out of politeness, to observe some ritual known only to him.
In my room, I fell onto the bed and pulled out my phone. The superheros.net forum was alive with activity. I scrolled through the thread titles. "Stark Industries' Accounts: Where is the 'Charity' Money Really Going?" "Spider-Man Spotted in Queens Again - Eyewitness Video." "Disappearances at the Docks: Police Are Baffled. A New Wave of Kidnappings?" "Official US Senate List of Dangerous Mutants!"
I don't know what I want. I don't know who I want to be or what to do with my life. But I know one thing for sure. I have a power inside me that's begging to be let out, and it needs to be tested. Tonight, I will go out onto the streets of New York.
---
The night accepted me without any questions. A cheap black hoodie, nondescript jeans—my wardrobe was perfect for blending into the shadows of Brooklyn. I pulled a simple medical mask over my face and pulled the brim of my cap down almost to my eyes. The mirror reflected a character from a crime blotter. It was just what I needed.
I climbed out the window and onto the fire escape. So, if I'm actively looking for trouble, there's no better place than the shipping docks. That's where I headed.
Before I touched the ground, I decided to test a theory. My force fields were mobile. I could create them at a distance, give them shape. Did that mean I could fly inside them?
I stopped on the landing of the fire escape, formed the outline of a vertical capsule in front of me, and stepped inside. The first attempt to take off failed—the construct didn't move, as if it were welded to the floor. I pushed harder, pouring all my concentration into the barrier. The transparent walls around me filled with a thick purple light, and I felt the ground begin to pull away.
I was inside a cocoon that I could control. Everything broke against it, so I felt no wind. I rose above the rooftops, and the night-time panorama opened up before me. The geometry of the streets, threads of light from the lamps, firefly-cars crawling along the arteries of the roads. The thrill of this silent flight was narcotic.
When I began to slow the capsule, my body, which had retained its initial velocity, continued to fly forward, and I slammed into the front wall. My personal protective shell, which I always keep active, acted like a battering ram. There was a crack, and the purple capsule shattered into fragments of light.
In the next second, I was falling. Wind battered my face, the ground rushed to meet me. Strange, for some reason my personal shell was letting the airflow through... No time to figure it out. I threw out my hands and wove a pale-purple barrier in the air, angled towards the ground, like a ramp.
My body began to slide down the structure. The force shield enveloping me took the path of least resistance: instead of punching through the ramp like it did the first capsule, it made my body slide along it. This only worked because the ramp itself was strong enough to withstand the initial impact. The ramp acted as a springboard, launching me back into the night sky. At the peak of my trajectory, in a brief moment of weightlessness, I created a new capsule around myself. And again, I slammed into its front, but this time it held, as my speed was low enough.
"Whew," I exh. "Gotta be more careful."
I moved deeper into the port area. The skeletons of cranes were black against the dark sky. I deliberately walked with a relaxed gait, playing the part of a lost passerby looking for directions. I didn't have to wait long.
A woman's scream, short, as if cut off mid-cry. It came from a narrow passage between two warehouses. I quickened my pace and turned into the dead end without hesitation.
The scene was almost theatrical. Two men were holding a woman. She wasn't struggling, but rather just letting herself be held. My appearance didn't surprise them. One of them, stocky, with a sparse beard, lazily turned his head toward me. "Easy there, champ. Came to save the girl?" There was no threat in his voice, just boredom.
The second man, taller and thinner, was silent. He just took a step to the side, clearing my view. The situation was transparent. The woman was bait, I was the intended victim. But something was wrong. These two didn't look like street muggers. No nervousness, no hunger for profit in their eyes. It looked like they were just at work. Unmarked clothes, short haircuts, military posture.
"Show me your hands. Slow," the second one commanded.
The woman, who had been feigning fear, sighed heavily and rolled her eyes. "Let's get this over with," she muttered under her breath.
The first man smirked and pulled out a gun. "On your knees. Hands behind your head. Now."
I obediently followed the order, kneeling on the dirty asphalt. My thoughts were working quickly and clearly. Option A: Neutralize the three of them. With my powers, that's easy. But what then? Call the cops? How would I explain how I beat them? It would attract unwanted attention. And most importantly, I wouldn't learn anything. Option B: Play their game. Let them take me. If this isn't a simple mugging but a targeted capture, that means I'll be passed up the chain. And then I might be able to find out who they are, who they work for, and most importantly—if they have others. Others like me.
And at that moment, kneeling at gunpoint, I felt not fear, but a strange, almost inappropriate calm. It was growing into an explorer's excitement. Before, this situation would have paralyzed me with terror. Now, with power, I saw it as an interesting adventure, like the first level in an unfamiliar game. I was genuinely curious what would happen next.
Cold plastic of disposable zip-ties tightened around my wrists. They searched me—not roughly, but methodically, like at a checkpoint. The man doing the search frowned when he found no phone, wallet, or even keys in my pockets. He shot a brief, questioning glance at his partner, but the other man just gave a slight shrug. Apparently, their victims' oddities weren't part of their job description.
They led me silently through a dark labyrinth of containers and brought me to one that looked no different from the rest. A heavy steel door slid open with a screech, and I was unceremoniously shoved inside. The outside world ceased to exist.
There were about nineteen people inside. They had been here long enough for apathy to have erased most emotions from their faces. A girl in a once-fancy club dress sat hugging her knees, rocking back and forth. Next to her, a man in an expensive suit lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling with a vacant gaze. There were others—a student, a laborer, a couple that looked homeless. My arrival earned only a few indifferent glances. I was just one more object in this cage.
I let my eyes adjust to the dim light and broke the silence. "Can anyone explain what's going on?"
Most of them ignored me. But a dry cough came from a bunk in the shadows. An elderly man with gray stubble and deeply sunken eyes slowly turned his head toward me. He studied me for a long time, as if trying to read something on my face. "Your voice is too calm, kid. You're either a fool, or... a cop."
Several heads immediately turned to me. A faint hope flickered in a couple of pairs of eyes. "Not a cop," I replied, looking straight at the old man. "Just want to understand the layout."
The hope in their eyes died as quickly as it had lit. The girl in the club dress whimpered. The old man coughed again, this time a wracking, full-body cough. "Layout's simple," he exhaled, once the fit had passed. "We've been here ten days, maybe eleven. The days blur into one long, stinking dream. We've got no idea why we're here. Once a day, that little window opens"—he nodded at a small slot in the door—"they pass us water and some tasteless paste. That's it."
I scanned the container. It wasn't just a metal box. There were bunks along the walls, exactly twenty of them. In the corner was a chemical toilet, and next to it, a tank of drinking water with a pump. The ventilation grate near the ceiling was welded shut; air was apparently piped in through some hidden vents. This place had been prepared for long-term confinement.
And there were exactly twenty bunks. Nineteen occupied, and one empty—until I arrived. So, they weren't just grabbing random people; they were assembling a set. And I was the last piece. Whatever they had planned, it was supposed to happen very soon. I walked to the free bunk at the far end of the container and sat. The others resumed their quiet existence, sinking back into apathy. But for me, the wait was different. I wasn't a victim awaiting my fate. I was an observer who had taken a front-row seat for the show. I just had to wait for the curtain to rise.
The wait ended suddenly, around three in the morning. The heavy container door slid aside, letting in the cold dock air. "Out, one at a time. No sudden movements," the voice outside was businesslike.
The prisoners, stumbling and squinting, trickled out. They were met by three mercenaries in tactical gear, rifles at the ready, their faces indifferent. Behind them, in the half-light, stood five others, but they were different. Dressed entirely in black, but it wasn't fabric, it was some kind of matte material. They held no weapons, but their very stillness was far more unsettling than the mercenaries' guns.
The lead mercenary gestured toward the silhouette of a cargo ship at the pier. "Everyone on board. Move it."
The panic, which had been smoldering, began to ignite. One of the prisoners started to cry quietly. A ship was a point of no return. This had gone too far. I had to act here and now. I took a step forward, deliberately separating myself from the crowd. "Just out of curiosity," my voice was steady, "where are we sailing? And who are the guys in black?"
The lead mercenary slowly turned his head, irritation crossing his face. He raised his rifle, aiming at my chest. "Too many questions, kid. You don't need to know. Now walk where you were told."
Realizing I wouldn't get answers from him, I held out my right hand and focused. The air around the three mercenaries compressed and began to form a sphere. They didn't immediately understand what was happening. One of them pulled the trigger. A burst of automatic fire slammed into the barrier. The bullets, deforming, plopped uselessly onto the asphalt. The realization that they were facing a mutant came at the same time as the terror.
Not giving them time to recover, I thrust my other hand out toward the five in black, creating another barrier. And then I began to compress the first one, the one holding the mercenaries. The sphere shrank in diameter, relentlessly crushing the three men into each other and onto the ground. But with the second group, things went wrong. As soon as the barrier closed around them, they just... vanished. The shadows at their feet stretched unnaturally, blackened, and pulled them in, leaving nothing but empty asphalt. I instinctively dropped the useless barrier.
My own shadow stirred. It arched, taking on volume, and from it, as if from black water, one of the figures emerged. A short blade glinted in its hand, aimed at my throat. Reaction outpaced thought. I didn't have time to dodge or raise a new barrier. The only thing I could do was densify my personal force field to its limit. There was a quiet screech as the blade stopped a millimeter from my skin. I backhanded my free arm, aiming for the opponent's head. But he moved with inhuman speed. He dodged the blow, stepped back, and his body began to sink into the shadow of a nearby container.
At that moment, the rising wail of police sirens carried from the distance. The ninjas froze mid-attack. They said something quickly to each other in... Chinese? And without hesitation, one by one, they dove into the darkness, disappearing completely. That was dangerous. I had severely underestimated the risks.
Silence fell, broken only by the groans of the three mercenaries pinned to the ground by my sphere and the frightened whispers of the other prisoners. They were looking at me like a savior. "What am I supposed to do with you?" I asked the helpless bodies in the barrier.
In that same second, two patrol cars flew around the corner, bathing everything in blue and red flashing lights. Two cops jumped out of each car. Four guns were immediately aimed in our direction. "POLICE! DON'T MOVE, HANDS UP!" came the standard order.
A few of the prisoners gave joyful shouts. The woman in the club dress even sobbed in relief and quickly raised her hands. But I didn't share their joy. The entire fight, from my first step to the ninjas' disappearance, had taken a minute at most. How did they arrive so fast? One car, randomly patrolling the docks and hearing shots—maybe. But two? Two cars, arriving simultaneously, as if summoned by a call no one had made. This was more like a second wave.
I did the same thing I had done to the mercenaries, who were already unconscious, pinned to the ground. The space around the cops compressed, pressing them to the asphalt. "What are you doing?!" the woman in the dress screamed. "They're here to help us!"
"Really? Think about it. How could they get here so fast? And by the way,"—I nodded at the immobilized mercenaries—"while I'm busy, take the guns from those guys. It'll be bad if they have rifles in their hands when they wake up."
I walked over to the nearest cop, who was lying face down, trying to lift his head. "Damn mutant!" he rasped, spitting dust. "We'll start with you," I replied.
I didn't remove the barrier completely, just freed this cop enough to search him, while giving him no chance to get up. My own protective shell was still active, so I wasn't worried about a surprise attack. The search yielded interesting results. A pack of cigarettes, a standard smartphone, and... another phone, an old, button-operated one. "Why does one guy need two different phones?" I asked aloud, mostly to myself. "Okay, what's the PIN?"
"Go to hell," he hissed. I just grabbed him by the hair and slammed his face into the asphalt. Once. "I'll ask again." He was silent, breathing heavily. Strange, is he more afraid of his boss than of me? Or is this loyalty?
I turned the phone over in my hands. I decided to try the most standard combination imaginable. 0-0-0-0. The screen unlocked. I barely managed to hold back a chuckle. "You really are an idiot, aren't you?" I opened the call log. The last call was about an hour ago, an unsaved number. Without thinking, I hit redial.
After a few rings, someone answered. The voice was male, calm. "Was there a problem?" I tried to imitate the cop's rough tone. "Yeah, some mutant messed up the shipment. What's the plan, boss?"
There was a pause on the other end. Did I blow it? Finally, the voice spoke again. "Why did you call me 'boss'?" "Because I work for you," I answered, knowing the game was up. Another pause, heavier than the last. "Who is this?" "I'll answer if I hear an answer to my question first," I countered, holding the phone to my ear. "'Why did you call me boss?' Sounds like you're just a middle manager. You're a pawn too, just a higher-ranking one?"
A humorless chuckle came from the other end. "And you, I take it, are the 'mutant' who messed up the shipment. Curious. You just assaulted officers of the New York Police Department. Do you seriously think you can just walk away?"
"I'll deal with that. I'm more interested in the ones who can hide in shadows. Who are they?" Another pause. "And what did they do when you showed up?" "They ran."
"'The Hand.' A clan of assassins." "Imagine that. I didn't think you'd give up your partners so easily." "The fact that you were able to pull this off is entirely their fault. We have no intention of taking the loss alone." And he hung up.
Whoever I was talking to had, without a second thought, written off both the failed ninjas and his own men. He didn't try to save them; he was just gathering information on the new variable—me. Now I had a much more mundane problem. Four corrupt cops, three mercenaries, and nineteen terrified witnesses. I couldn't just leave them all here. What a mess.
I walked over to the cop I'd taken the phone from. "What's your captain's name?" The cop was silent, staring at the ground. "Don't make me repeat myself. I'll find his name online anyway." "Stacy. Captain George Stacy." I nodded and headed for one of the patrol cars. The radio on the dashboard was hissing, occasionally breaking through with snippets of police jargon. I'd never used one, but the principle seemed simple. Press to talk, release to listen.
I pressed the button. "I need Captain Stacy, urgently." A second's pause, and then a voice answered from the speaker. "State your call sign and badge number." I pressed the button again. "That's not important. Tell Captain Stacy I have four of his officers hostage. He has five minutes to get on this channel." The radio exploded. Overlapping voices demanded I repeat, clarify, identify myself. I ignored them, placing the radio back on the dash.
The rescued prisoners huddled together a short distance away, watching me. They had seen me dispatch the mercenaries, and now I was threatening cops. In their world, this just didn't compute. Maybe three minutes passed. "This is Captain George Stacy. What are your demands?"
I picked up the radio. "No demands. More like a situation you're going to have to clean up." "I'm all ears," his tone was flat, no hint of irony. "Nineteen kidnapped civilians were in a shipping container. A group of armed men, about to ship them into slavery, was neutralized by me. Your guys showed up suspiciously fast. So I made the decision to... calm them down, too. One of them had an interesting burner phone. I called the last number, spoke to someone who's very unhappy about the shipment being disrupted. Basically, you've got a mess here: corrupt cops, kidnapped people, and me in the middle of it."
There was silence on the other end. Stacy was obviously processing the information. "You've just talked yourself into three life sentences. Assaulting officers, kidnapping... and you expect me to take this on faith over the radio? You mentioned victims. Where are you? Give me a pier or warehouse number."
"I don't know the exact coordinates; I'm not here on a tour. But you should have two patrol cars blinking on your dispatch map. Start there." Another short pause. Stacy was making a decision. "Don't move. We're on our way."
---
Ten minutes. That's all it took for them to respond. At first, it was a scattered wail of sirens, which gradually merged into one. I used the time well. All the weapons—the mercenaries' rifles, the cops' service pistols—I put in one pile. Only one Glock, I tucked into the waistband of my jeans.
The pier was flooded with flashing lights. Men in heavy armor fanned out from the cars, taking positions and raising ballistic shields. Their movements were practiced, economical. I stood in the center of this gathering storm and activated my invisibility. I wanted them to see me, but not be able to identify me. The medical mask, cap, and clothes stayed, but my face, eyes, ears—all vanished. I'd seen some Korean show online where a detective could reconstruct a face from the smallest details. I wasn't interested in finding out if the NYPD had anyone with that talent.
A man in his fifties stepped out from behind the human shield of SWAT officers. Solidly built, with a short haircut. He scanned the scene: the civilians, the bound officers on the ground, the pile of weapons, and finally, his gaze rested on me—a figure with no head. "I'm Captain Stacy. Who was I speaking to on the radio?"
I took a step forward, into the light. Running was the easiest option, but something in me wanted to see this conversation through. "Me."
Stacy tilted his head slightly, studying the anomaly above my neck. "You're under arrest for assaulting a police officer. Drop your weapon, hands behind your back, get on the ground." Dozens of barrels, which had been pointing in different directions, were now all aimed at me. "Mm, I think I'll decline," I spread my hands. "How about this: you ask questions, I answer them. I waited for you, Captain, to pass on information, not to surrender."
"That wasn't a request, it was an order," Stacy cut in. "All information will be entered into an interrogation report, at the precinct. My men will provide you with an escort." I looked at his men. Judging by their tense stances, the "escort" promised to be rough. "Ugh," I let out a sigh. It was a sigh of genuine disappointment. "So I waited for nothing. I was hoping for a more... rational approach. Well, if not, then not."
The air around me shimmered, condensing into a capsule. The police tensed, someone shouted a command. Stacy took a step forward, holding out a hand. "DON'T MOVE!"
But it was too late. My capsule silently lifted off the ground and shot up into the night sky. Shouts came from below, but not a single shot followed. The sky in the east was beginning to lighten, turning a dirty gray. Dawn was approaching. And then a thought hit me: what if I'm being tracked? Not visually, but some other way.
I changed course and landed in an unfamiliar alley several blocks from Mateo's building. I looked around. The street was empty. I quickly stripped naked, hid my clothes and the gun, and memorized the location. Now, completely invisible, I moved toward the apartment. Walking naked through early morning New York was... a strange experience. I was a ghost, watching the city awaken. Everyone was rushing about their business, never suspecting that a completely naked guy was walking a meter away from them. I have to admit, there was definitely something to it.
Reaching the building, I easily climbed the fire escape and slipped into my room through the unlocked window. I pulled on a pair of boxers and collapsed onto the bed. The world outside was starting its day. Mine had just ended.