The world shuddered, the ground rumbling beneath Rory's feet. Heat blasted through the air, flattening him to his knees as trees trembled and shadows seemed to writhe. Something fundamental had shifted, though Rory couldn't yet tell what.
Rory pushed himself to his feet, his limbs shaking. Around him, the slums were alive with a new kind of chaos. Cracks that had once webbed their way through walls sealed themselves with eerie precision. A trash heap to his left burst into flames, the fire dancing unnaturally high.
A man stumbled past him, his hands glowing faintly, his pupils blown wide and unfocused. He let out a breathy chuckle, staring at his hands like they were holding the secrets of the universe. "Whoa, man," he slurred, swaying dangerously.
"I'm… like, a god or something. Look at this!" His awe turned to terror as a spark leapt from his fingertips, igniting the ragged edge of his jacket. With a panicked yelp, he began smacking at himself, his frantic movements doing little to help. Rory stood frozen, the absurdity of the stoned man's panic sharpening his focus.
The man's jacket smoldered as he staggered into a trash heap, still muttering, "Fire hands, man. This is messed up." His hands continued to burn his clothes as he patted them with the opposite intention, yet no wounds could be seen on his skin.
People screamed, some running, others standing frozen as impossible things unfolded around them. A woman's arm shimmered and twisted, transforming into something vine-like and uncontrollable. She collapsed near a fruit stall, her cries mingling with the crash of falling crates. Rory backed away slowly, his heart pounding in his chest.
A fiery explosion tore through the market ahead, forcing Rory to shield his face. The man responsible stood at the center, flames licking at his feet. He looked around wildly, his panic as destructive as his power. Rory's instincts screamed at him to run, but he refused to move. 'It's a chance to let everything end,' he amused himself with the thought.
However, when the flames seared his breath, Rory darted into the nearest alley. The shadows swallowed him, and he pressed his back against the cold, damp wall. His chest heaved, each breath sharp and raw. The air here felt different, charged with something he couldn't name.
He looked down at his hands, a strange, tingling sensation in his hands. It was faint and fleeting, like the edge of a thought slipping away.
Rory clenched his fists, the sensation disappearing. "It's nothing," he whispered, his voice unsteady. "Just… nothing."
His stomach growled, a dull ache that had followed him all day. Hunger clawed at his insides, but it felt unimportant now. What was the point? The world was collapsing, and here he was, hiding in an alley like a rat. He slumped to the ground, his back scraping against the bricks.
For a brief, dark moment, the thought came again, unbidden but familiar: it would be easier to stop. To let the chaos swallow him whole. But as his fingers brushed against the ground, the sensation returned, a faint ripple that snapped him out of his spiral.
Rory shook his head sharply. "Not yet," he muttered, forcing himself to stand. "Not yet."
---
The slums looked different now as he emerged from the alley. Buildings bore new scars, some buckling under the strain of what had just happened. The streets teemed with people, some screaming, some fighting, and others… others doing things Rory couldn't even process.
A man dragged a glowing woman into a shop, shouting about something that Rory couldn't hear over the cacophony. A boy no older than ten held up his hands as water droplets danced between his fingers, his face caught somewhere between joy and terror.
Rory moved like a shadow, keeping to the edges and avoiding attention. He saw the desperation in people's eyes, the raw, unfiltered chaos that stripped away pretense and laid bare their true selves. Each glance showed him fear, greed, or violence, and it only deepened the pit in his stomach. They had power now, but it was just another weapon to wield against each other. And he hated it.
When he reached his apartment, the door hung slightly open. Rory's heart sank, a familiar weight settling in his stomach. He stepped inside, and the first thing he noticed was the heat. It radiated from the walls, from the floor, from the man standing in the center of the room.
His father's eyes burned as brightly as the flames that curled around his hands. The room bore scorch marks, the couch smoldering at the edges.
In the corner, Rory's mother cowered, her hands raised instinctively as if they could block the inevitable. His father turned to her with a snarl. "You think you can just stand there?" he barked. The flames on his hands flickered as he raised his arm and struck her. She stumbled backward, colliding with the wall, her cry muffled by the crackle of fire.
The blow wasn't normal — it carried new weight, a force that left a dent in the wall where her body had hit. Rory froze, the scene searing itself into his mind, the raw power radiating from his father's frame sent a shiver down his spine.
"Where the hell have you been?" his father snapped when he saw the newcomer, the flames flaring as his anger rose. "You think you can just run off whenever you want, you useless little…"
'I was at school...' Rory wanted to say but chose to remain silent. Arguments and logic never mattered to his father.
Rory didn't hear the rest. His father's furious glare locked onto him, and in one swift motion, the man lunged forward, his flaming hands closing around Rory's neck.
"Hahaha, I'm going to be rich, I'm God now! I don't need you in my life anymore!"
The searing heat crackled against Rory's skin, filling the air with the sharp, acrid scent of burning flesh, as his breath caught in a choking gasp. Rory gasped, the heat scalding his skin, the flames licking up toward his jawline. His vision blurred, the world around him dissolving into pain and the overwhelming stench of burning flesh.
The pressure was unbearable. Rory clawed at his father's hands in a struggle to breathe, but it was like trying to move iron. The flames roared in his ears, but then… something shifted.
Time seemed to stretch, each second dragging as if pulled through molasses, stretching endlessly in Rory's perception. His father's grip slackened, not in strength but in speed, as though reality itself had decided to hesitate.
The furious movements slowed to an eerie, almost dreamlike crawl, a surreal pause in the chaos. Rory's surroundings sharpened in contrast—the flickering flames, his mother's horrified expression, even the distant sound of someone shouting in the street.
In that fleeting moment of clarity, Rory acted without understanding. He pushed his father's chest with power he never had. His father froze, his movements jerky and sluggish, as though caught in invisible quicksand.
Rory didn't wait to see what would happen next. He bolted, the acrid smell of smoke clinging to him as he stumbled out of the apartment and into the chaos of the streets. His father's shouts followed him, but Rory didn't look back.
If his father needed someone, there was always his whimpering mother for comfort. She had used Rory as a shield from her husband's violence for years, but perhaps now she would have to face that storm alone. It wasn't Rory's fight anymore.
---
The streets were alive with chaos and fury, but Rory moved through them as if guided by something beyond himself. His hands still tingled with that strange energy, his mind racing to make sense of it. He didn't know what had happened, what he had become, but one thing was clear.
He had to keep moving. He had to survive. Something changed, perhaps there was still hope.