The storm pressed hard against the laboratory windows, rain lashing the glass in restless waves. Thunder rolled overhead, shaking the walls just enough to rattle the metal instruments laid out across the room.
Dr. Sylvester stepped inside, shoulders slumped, his coat damp at the edges. The room smelled of oil, metal, and something burnt. Tables were crowded with tools—guns, chainsaws, sealed devices, and wired components—each placed with obsessive precision. His hands trembled slightly as he moved past them, but his eyes stayed fixed on the large tube at the center of the room.
Behind the glass, a boy floated motionless.
Cables ran down his back, disappearing into the base of the chamber. His skin was pale, almost too still to be alive.
Dr. Sylvester stopped in front of the tube, breath uneven. For a moment, he just stared.
Then his lips curled.
"Finally…" he whispered, before the words broke loose from him. "It is finished. I am a genius."
His hand hovered over a switch.
"Now… it's time to bring back what was once lost."
He pulled it down.
The lab erupted with energy. A low hum surged into a violent crackle as electricity flooded the system. Lights across the room flickered, then died—
—and far beyond the lab, the entire city plunged into darkness.
For a second, there was nothing.
Then Dr. Sylvester forced the switch back up.
Power roared back to life. The lab lights snapped on. The hum faded into silence.
Inside the tube, the boy's fingers twitched.
Slowly—very slowly—his eyes opened.
"Dad…?" His voice was weak, barely more than air.
Then his head tilted, and he went still again.
Dr. Sylvester exhaled, something close to relief washing over his face.
"It worked," he murmured.
Morning came too quickly.
Soldiers surrounded the facility before the sun had fully risen. Heavy boots stormed through the halls, voices sharp and controlled. Dr. Sylvester didn't resist when they found him.
By noon, he was in custody.
They searched everything.
In the back of his truck, they found a large sealed box. Officials claimed it contained the weapon responsible for the blackout—the device that had shut down the entire city in seconds.
But when they opened it—
—it was empty.
Dr. Sylvester said nothing.
When questioned, he denied ever building such a weapon.
By the end of the week, he was sentenced for illegal laboratory practices.
Nothing more.
That same day, miles away, a delivery arrived at the Sylvester residence.
Mrs. Jane Sylvester stood at the door, staring at the large rectangular box left at her feet. Her hands hesitated before she noticed the envelope resting on top.
Her husband's handwriting.
She opened it.
Her eyes moved quickly at first—then slowed. Her lips parted. The letter trembled in her hands as tears gathered and slipped down her cheeks.
"No…" she whispered.
With shaking fingers, she opened the box.
Inside lay a boy.
Her breath caught.
"Tim…"
He looked whole. Peaceful. As if he had simply fallen asleep. No scars. No damage. Nothing like the broken body she remembered from the accident—the one that had taken everything from him except his brain.
Her hand moved to his face, brushing it gently, as if he might disappear.
"Sylvester…" she breathed, voice breaking. "You actually did it…"
Tim's eyes flickered open.
They glowed—a faint, unnatural orange.
"Mum…?" he said softly. "Why are you crying? Are you alright?"
Jane let out a broken laugh as she pulled him into her arms.
"Nothing, son… nothing," she whispered. "It's just… it's so good to see your face again."
A year and a half passed.
Tim stayed hidden.
Curtains remained drawn. Doors stayed locked. Jane rarely let him out of her sight. Every passing car, every unfamiliar face, every knock at the door made her tense.
She had no intention of letting anyone take him away.
But eventually, hiding wasn't enough.
Tim was going to school.
That morning, Jane adjusted his collar for the third time, her hands lingering longer than necessary.
"If anyone you don't know talks to you, you walk away," she said firmly. "If someone follows you—run. Straight home. Don't stop."
"I know, Mum," Tim replied, a little smile forming.
She studied his face, then nodded, though the worry never left her eyes.
After school, Tim waited outside the gates, shifting his weight as he watched students leave in groups.
That's when he heard it.
A dull thud.
Then another.
He turned.
A group of boys circled someone on the ground. Laughter. Another hit.
"Stop—please—" the boy's voice cracked.
Tim stood still for a moment.
Then he started walking.
"Let him go," he said.
The boys turned.
For a second, there was silence.
Then they laughed.
"Run," the boy on the ground whispered, panic in his voice. "Please—just go. They'll hurt you too."
Tim didn't move.
"I said," he repeated, stepping closer, "let him go."
Dylan stepped forward, smirking. "Come make me, weirdo."
Tim took another step—
—and a fist slammed into his face.
The world tilted as he hit the ground.
Before he could react, the others joined in. Kicks. Punches. Boots striking ribs and shoulders.
Pain spread through him in waves.
Then—
something shifted.
The noise around him dulled. A ringing filled his ears. Flashes of something else—cars speeding past, his mother laughing, fragments that didn't feel like the present—flickered across his vision.
He grabbed his head.
"Stop…" he gasped, squeezing his eyes shut.
The bullies slowed, exchanging uneasy looks.
Tim screamed.
Then—
silence.
He stood.
Dylan rushed him, throwing another punch.
Tim caught it.
The impact stopped cold in his hand.
Without thinking, Tim drove his fist into Dylan's stomach.
The boy lifted off the ground—slammed into the wall—and dropped, gasping.
The others froze.
Tim turned to them.
Something in his eyes had changed.
One by one, they came at him.
One by one, they went down.
Bruised, shaken, and terrified, the group staggered back toward their car.
"Let's go!" someone shouted.
The engine roared to life.
Tim turned—
just in time to see the car speed forward.
Toward the boy they had been beating.
"Hey!"
Time seemed to slow.
Then Tim moved.
He sprinted forward, leapt—
—and flipped onto the back of the moving car.
The metal bent under his weight.
With both hands, he grabbed hold—
and lifted.
The car rose off the ground.
For a split second, it hung there—
then he slammed it down.
The crash echoed through the street.
The boys stumbled out, dazed, barely able to stand, before running off without looking back.
Silence followed.
The boy they had been attacking stared at Tim, wide-eyed.
"How… how did you do that?"
Tim looked at his hands.
"I don't know," he admitted. Then a small grin crept in. "But it felt… awesome."
The boy shook his head, still in disbelief. "That's not possible. You just lifted a car."
Tim hesitated.
"Please… can we keep this a secret?" he said quietly. "My name's Tim. Tim Sylvester. I'm new here."
The boy blinked, then nodded.
"Yeah… yeah, of course," he said. "I'm Andrew."