The night I awakened to my powers, I felt infinite—but raw. Unshaped. Untrained. My strength surged through my limbs, my thoughts raced, my reflexes sharpened, yet there was no finesse, no mastery. I had the spark, but I lacked the flame.
I spent the next weeks in solitude, turning my small apartment into a training ground. The furniture became obstacles, the walls targets, and the air itself a medium to test my newfound energy. I practiced levitation, tested speed, honed my reflexes, and discovered the subtle manipulations of my energy. Every movement was deliberate. Every exercise pushed me past ordinary limits.
I ran through simulations in my mind. I imagined confrontations with thieves, petty criminals, even minor villains. I explored defensive maneuvers, offensive strikes, evasive tactics, and improvised applications of my newfound strength and flexibility. I visualized using my body as a weapon without causing unnecessary harm. I visualized restraint. I visualized strategy.
I trained endlessly. Dawn, noon, dusk, and night—they blurred into one continuous cycle of preparation. I used rooftops for balance exercises, alleyways for stealth simulations, parks for endurance tests, and empty streets for speed trials.
I was rigorous.
I was meticulous.
I cataloged every success, every failure, every nuance. My notebook—once filled with hypothetical powers—now contained firsthand observations, new techniques, and practical applications of my own ability.
Why not the Hero Agencies?
It wasn't fear that kept me out of the official hero programs. It was prudence. My awakening as an abnormal placed me in a dangerous category. Abnormals rarely emerged in ways society could tolerate. The late manifestation of powers beyond normal timelines carried stigma. Most abnormal awakenings became headlines of horror—villains of unimaginable cruelty.
Society's reaction to such beings was rarely benevolent.
The hero agencies did not allow for risk. Abnormal awakenings were classified as potential threats first. At best, you would be locked in intensive study and observation for your "safety" and the public's.
At worst, you would be treated as a threat—monitored, controlled, and experimented upon. That fate was not a path I was willing to take.
So I chose secrecy. Discretion. I trained alone, honed my abilities in the shadows, and prepared to act outside the official channels. If heroes were symbols of law, then vigilantes were the tools of necessity.
I would operate in darkness, learning discipline, understanding my abilities, and testing my limits before ever being labeled by the world.
Weeks turned into months. I learned to manipulate my strength, agility, and endurance to near-perfect efficiency. I moved with a precision that made ordinary movements obsolete. I could scale walls, leap distances far beyond normal human capability, dodge attacks before they even formed in my mind, and restrain my strength to avoid harm when necessary.
Every day I grew faster, sharper, more in tune with my body and energy.
I experimented with improvisation. A flick of the wrist to topple obstacles, a controlled burst to push back a crowd, subtle redirection of momentum to neutralize a threat without violence. I discovered my reflexes were uncanny. My senses heightened to levels bordering on premonition, allowing me to anticipate danger, predict motion, and respond instinctively.
I also explored endurance. Hours of continuous motion, repeated jumps, prolonged exertion—they taught me control, stamina, and the limits of my own body. Strength was meaningless without control; speed was meaningless without direction. And discipline was meaningless without strategy.
By the time I was fully confident, I had created a set of drills, protocols, and contingency plans that would allow me to operate safely in public spaces. I had trained for stealth, improvisation, restraint, and adaptability. I was prepared.
And then came the night I decided to step out.
I had chosen a disguise: full black attire from head to toe. Black pants, flexible black combat shoes, fitted black jacket, gloves, and a face mask. A simple black cap concealed my hair. Shadows became my ally, anonymity my protection. I would not draw attention. I would act decisively and vanish before the world could assign a name, a label, or a classification.
The first mission was small—but essential. I needed to test my speed, reflexes, and decision-making in a live scenario. I chose a neighborhood near my apartment—residential, quiet, and manageable. If I failed, it would be minor. If I succeeded, it would be enough to give me confidence in my approach.
It didn't take long.
A few blocks from my vantage point, I spotted a figure harassing an old woman. He was young, armed with a small knife, desperate and reckless. The woman clutched her purse, her knuckles white, fear etched across her face. The man was demanding money, threatening her with violent gestures, unaware that an unseen observer had already begun to move.
I assessed.
I noted distance, trajectory, escape routes, potential dangers. My heart pulsed, not from fear, but from the thrill of putting months of training to the test. I leapt from a rooftop, landing lightly on the street with near-perfect balance. The man glanced up, startled—but too late.
I moved with speed and precision. My shadow stretched over him, my presence unseen until the last moment. I grabbed his arm, twisted it behind his back, and pushed him to the ground, rendering the knife harmless. A quick, controlled maneuver immobilized him without a scratch. Then, with a sweep of my leg, I disarmed him and pinned him against the wall. He struggled, panicked, and shouted, but it was over in seconds.
The old woman stared at me. Her fear melted into relief, then gratitude. She reached into her bag and handed me an apple—a small, humble gesture. She didn't speak. She didn't need to. I understood. She was grateful, safe, and unhurt. And in that moment, I felt something I hadn't felt before: pride.
I returned to my apartment that night, careful to avoid attention. I removed my disguise, wiped sweat from my brow, and sat in silence. The golden energy that had first awakened me still lingered faintly, a gentle hum under my skin.
I closed my eyes, reliving the encounter. It had been small, trivial even—but it was real. My first action as a vigilante. My first life I had protected. My first victory not in theory, but in practice.
I bit into the apple, feeling its sweetness, and allowed a quiet laugh to escape. It wasn't arrogance, or ego—it was joy. Pure, unfiltered, elated happiness. I had done something that mattered. I had made a difference. For the first time, I truly understood what it meant to be a hero—even if only in secret.
That night, I slept like I hadn't in years.
Giddy. Excited. Alive.
The path ahead remained long. The world was full of villains, disasters, and challenges far beyond petty street robbers. Hero agencies, law enforcement, and society would never allow me to reveal my true potential. I would remain in the shadows, a clandestine protector, a student of my own power.
But I had taken the first step.
And for the first time in my life, I felt like I was exactly where I belonged.