Carl Creel learned early that the world had a way of reminding him who he was supposed to be.
Concrete under his boots, steel in the walls, the dull hum of a city that never stopped grinding forward—he felt it all even when he tried not to. Every surface whispered to him, tempting him. Inviting him to become something harder, heavier, more dangerous.
So he kept his hands in his pockets and his head down.
The city he chose didn't even make the news most days. That was the point. A place where buildings weren't made of reinforced alloys, where docks didn't gleam with experimental tech, where nobody looked twice at a big man with a scarred face and a posture that suggested he'd rather be anywhere else. It was quieter than New York, smaller than Chicago. Ordinary.
Carl rented a second-floor apartment above a closed-down tailor shop. The stairs creaked like they might collapse under him if he wasn't careful. He liked that. Wood was forgiving. Wood didn't ask him to become something else.
Most days, he worked construction under a fake name—*Carl Cross*, nothing clever. Honest labor. Honest exhaustion. It helped drown out the memories: the fights, the sirens, the thrill he'd once chased like a drug. Absorbing Man, they'd called him. Like he'd been proud of it.
He wasn't proud anymore.
What he was, mostly, was tired.
The mechanic shop was three blocks from his apartment, tucked between a laundromat and a bakery that smelled like sugar and burnt coffee. Carl didn't mean to go in the first time. His truck just started making a noise that sounded expensive, and experience told him ignoring it would only make things worse.
The bell above the door chimed when he stepped inside.
"Be right with you," a voice called from the back. Young. Calm. Not rushed.
Carl stood awkwardly near the counter, hands still in his pockets. The shop was cluttered but clean—tool racks neatly arranged, oil stains scrubbed instead of ignored. A radio played softly somewhere, an old rock song Carl almost recognized.
Then Dylan West appeared, wiping his hands on a rag.
He wasn't what Carl expected, though he didn't know what he *had* expected. Dylan was lean, dark-haired, with grease smudged on his cheek and a faint smile that looked more habitual than confident. His eyes flicked up, took Carl in—his size, his scars—and didn't flinch.
"What can I do for you?" Dylan asked.
Carl cleared his throat. "Truck's making a noise."
Dylan smiled a little wider. "They usually do that right before they stop working altogether. Let's take a look."
There was something disarming about him. Not loud or overly friendly, just… open. Like he didn't feel the need to fill silence for the sake of it. Carl appreciated that more than he wanted to admit.
While Dylan checked the engine, Carl leaned against the shop wall—careful to stay human, careful not to let his power react to the metal beneath his fingers. Dylan talked as he worked, not prying, just small observations. Weather. The bakery next door. The fact that Carl's truck had seen better days.
"Been in the city long?" Dylan asked.
"Not really," Carl said.
"Yeah," Dylan nodded. "You've got that look."
Carl stiffened. "What look?"
"Like you're still deciding if you're gonna stay."
Carl didn't answer. Dylan didn't push.
That was how it started.
Over the next few weeks, Carl found excuses to come back. A tune-up that didn't need doing. A question he could've googled. Sometimes he just stood in the shop doorway and watched Dylan work, the methodical confidence of someone who knew exactly where they fit in the world—even if they didn't talk about it much.
They talked more, slowly. Dylan told him about growing up in the city, about inheriting the shop from an uncle who'd believed in fixing things instead of replacing them. Carl lied by omission, offering half-truths about moving around a lot, about doing work he didn't stick with.
He never mentioned the powers.
Because powers ruined things.
Carl had learned that the hard way.
It happened one night after closing. Dylan was locking up when three men stepped out of the alley across the street. Carl recognized the look instantly—predatory, familiar. One of them said his old name like a curse.
"Creel," the man sneered. "Thought you could disappear?"
Carl's chest tightened. His past, catching up with him like it always did.
Dylan froze. "You know this guy?"
Carl didn't answer. He couldn't risk it. Not here. Not with Dylan watching.
The fight was fast and brutal. Carl kept his power on a leash, absorbing only what he had to—brick, asphalt—enough to survive, not enough to lose control. He moved them away from the shop, away from anything Dylan could get caught in.
When it was over, the men were gone, limping into the dark. Carl stood there, breathing hard, fists trembling.
He turned to see Dylan staring at him.
Not afraid.
Just stunned.
"That wasn't normal," Dylan said quietly.
Carl laughed once, humorless. "No. It wasn't."
He waited for disgust. For fear. For the inevitable step backward.
It didn't come.
Dylan exhaled slowly. "You wanna explain?"
Carl looked at his hands—scarred, restrained, dangerous. A lifetime of destruction sitting just beneath his skin.
"I hurt people," he said. "I don't want to anymore."
Dylan studied him for a long moment. Then he nodded. "Okay."
Just like that.
Something in Carl cracked then—not violently, not loudly—but enough to let a little hope in.
He knew better than to believe peace would last. He knew enemies didn't stay buried. But standing there under flickering streetlights, with someone who saw him and didn't run, Carl allowed himself one dangerous thought:
Maybe this time, he wouldn't destroy what he touched.
And maybe—just maybe—that would be enough to change everything.