They say the world never really returns to normal after a disaster. Not even a century later, not even after everyone thinks they've healed.
I've grown up in the echoes of that truth. Some people remember the chaos, the terror, the suffocating silence of empty streets when the virus first took hold. Others only know it from stories, from history books glossed with dates, statistics, and sterile images of bodies lined up in hospitals. But I—well, I inherited something different.
The Covid incident didn't just leave scars; it left gifts. Or curses, depending on how you looked at it. Humanity, after being cured, didn't return to its ordinary self. Somewhere in the molecular aftermath, in the invisible changes the virus left behind, powers began to emerge. Some subtle, almost playful. Others frighteningly dangerous.
Society had to adapt. Crime surged as people discovered abilities they couldn't control—or, worse, abilities they wielded for selfish gain. Ordinary law enforcement became insufficient.
That's when the vigilantes appeared. Masked, armored, half-myth, half-legend, they claimed the streets as their battlegrounds, balancing law and chaos, protecting the innocent while taking justice into their own hands.
I remember hearing stories from my parents' generation. Tales of heroes like the Cube, a man who could manifest energy cubes at will. Some cubes served as shields, some as weapons, some to imprison the most dangerous villains.
He was perfect in almost every sense—strategic, untouchable, unflinchingly brave. They said he could create, manipulate, and destroy with a thought, and that the world bent itself around him.
Vigilantes worked in secret for decades, for better or worse, until governments finally intervened. Laws were rewritten. Vigilantes were outlawed, and the term "hero" became official—a legal designation, a sanctioned organization to protect society from disasters and villains alike.
The Hero Accord was born, with Cube at its head. He was the symbol of everything good, everything aspirational. He was perfection distilled into human form. And like a moth drawn to light, I was captivated.
I was a child when I first realized I wanted powers. Not for vengeance, not for recognition—though I admit admiration played a part—but because powers fascinated me. Every news report, every rumor, every official hero mission was a lesson. I studied them. I memorized them. I took notes.
I had no powers then. None at all. Just curiosity, obsession, and a notebook. A small one at first, filled with crude sketches and crude observations:
"Energy shield forms a sphere—can be deflected by concussive force,"
"Fire manipulation—range is limited by stamina,"
"Invisibility—may still be detectable by thermal imaging."
The notes grew longer, the observations sharper. I imagined ways to use powers differently, ways to counter them. I delighted in the infinite possibilities.
And then there were the villains. I never dismissed them. The media portrayed them as monstrous, terrifying, senseless agents of chaos, but I saw patterns, weaknesses, rules in their abilities. I watched their fights and cataloged every move:
"Telekinesis—works in straight line; vulnerable to surprise attacks,"
"Sonic screams—can't penetrate thick concrete,"
"Temporal manipulation—requires immense concentration; errors produce backlash." Every battle, every public confrontation, every incident was a classroom.
Cube was my primary subject. The man had become a living legend while I was still a boy scribbling in my notebook. I followed him obsessively. Every report, every mission, every minor appearance—I tracked, analyzed, and absorbed.
There was something methodical, almost scientific, about him. I could sense the discipline, the preparation, the study behind each move. And I wanted that—not just the power, but the mastery of it.
It wasn't long before I noticed something strange about myself.
I was an abnormal, one of the rare few whose powers manifest far later than normal. The early bloomers awakened between ages five and seven, the bloomers between ten and twelve, the late bloomers between fifteen and seventeen.
But for the abnormals… the awakening came at the tail end of adolescence, sometimes into early adulthood, and almost without exception, these powers created chaos. Most abnormals—according to reports—turned deranged, destructive, or malicious. Villains of a caliber unmatched by ordinary criminals.
I was aware of that. Fully. And I knew the statistics.
And yet… I couldn't stop wishing.
I dreamed of my own power. Any power. Weak, strong, subtle, or explosive. The thrill wasn't in being feared—it was in discovery, experimentation, mastery. I wanted to understand what it meant to possess potential beyond the ordinary human. I wanted to be like the heroes I studied, maybe even like Cube himself.
So I kept my desire a secret. No one knew. Not my friends, not my family, not a single soul. I imagined scenarios in my head, tested combinations of powers I might never have, theorized countermeasures, plotted strategies. My notebook expanded into a personal codex of possibility: strengths, weaknesses, alternate applications, and theoretical limits.
I had my rules from the start:
Observation first. Always watch before acting. Powers are unpredictable.
Analysis second. Take notes, map patterns, hypothesize.
Action only after preparation. Never jump in blind. Never allow raw emotion to dictate choices.
Secrecy. Never reveal my power until I fully understood it. Until I could wield it safely.
Every day, every interaction, every news story was data. Every minor villain incident was a case study. Every hero's appearance was a lesson.
And yes… I was cheerful about it. Obsessed, maybe, but lighthearted in my own way. Powers fascinated me. The idea that someone could bend reality, manipulate energy, or alter time—it thrilled me. I laughed imagining combinations, theorizing counters, imagining myself standing among the heroes of the Hero Accord someday.
Cube was always my North Star. I imagined myself following in his steps. I recreated his techniques in my head. I imagined what it would be like to face him in a friendly sparring match—or, more realistically, to reach his level of mastery.
Every move he made was a puzzle to solve. Every cube he conjured was a lesson in geometry, energy manipulation, and battlefield control. And every victory he achieved was a challenge I vowed to match, in my own way, in my own time.
By the time I was fifteen, my obsession had turned into preparation.
I trained physically in secret. Gymnasiums and rooftops became my personal arenas. I tested my stamina, endurance, reflexes, and mental discipline. I ran simulations in my mind, creating hypothetical combat scenarios for every type of power I had ever studied.
Fire versus ice.
Telekinesis versus teleportation.
Invisibility against sound detection.
I treated every encounter as a research opportunity.
I studied heroes publicly—analyzing the smallest details of their techniques. I studied villains secretly—imagining what I would do in the worst-case scenarios. The Hero Accord missions were textbooks for me; villain attacks were lectures. By fifteen, my notebook had grown into several volumes. It was a manual for survival, adaptation, and eventual ascendance.
And yet, I had no powers.
That didn't deter me. Not even when the news of abnormal powers turned sinister. Not even when statistics screamed at me that my eventual awakening could be dangerous, uncontrollable, or horrific. I believed in potential. I believed in preparation. And I believed in heroes.
The world itself shaped my ambition.
By 2060, powers were more common, but still rare enough to make heroes special. The Hero Accord had grown into a respected organization, a beacon for human achievement, disaster response, and security.
Villains existed, but they were manageable, cataloged, and monitored. Technology had advanced in tandem with human capability. Powers had become an integrated part of society, but mastery remained extraordinary.
I imagined myself in that world. One day, I would awaken. One day, I would step out of the shadows. One day, all my study, all my secret preparation, all my obsessive note-taking and analysis would converge. I would finally grasp the powers I had longed for, and I would become a hero—not just any hero, but the kind of hero I had admired since childhood.
And when that day came… I would be ready.
I don't yet know what my powers are. I don't know their limits or their strengths. But I know this: when they appear, I will wield them with preparation, study, and the kind of obsessive precision that only years of quiet, secret obsession can produce.
I will not waste my potential.
I will not be reckless. I will rise, and when I do, I will stand among the legends I have idolized all my life.
Because that is what heroes do.
Because that is what I was born to do.
And this… this is the story of how I, Eric, eventually became the hero I dreamed of being.