The whole thing ended so anticlimactically that a bit of confusion still clung to him. He hadn't expected third-rate criminals to think straight for even a second, yet somehow they managed to fumble their way through the moment. Still, he got what he came for: two abilities — short-range teleportation and contact-based kinetic nullification.
What bothered him was the lack of real action. It was half the reason he had even considered showing himself. He could've taken the templates in an instant with superspeed. But the urge for something more… physical had been growing. Lately, the itch to smack a few idiots around had been harder to ignore.
"Whatever," Victor muttered with a shrug, picking up his pace. It didn't take long before he reached the house, and even from outside he could already catch the rich aroma of dinner drifting through the air.
The door clicked shut behind him, and instantly, two blurs launched straight at him: his cousins, smiling like they'd just spotted a celebrity instead of someone they saw nearly every day.
Victor let out a long, resigned sigh as their footsteps thundered closer. "They see me almost every day," he thought, "yet somehow their energy never fades."
He caught the two mid-charge, gave them a quick spin that sent their laughter echoing through the hallway, then crouched to their level. "I got you two ice cream," he whispered, placing a finger against his lips. "You'll get it after dinner, okay?"
They nodded so fast it looked like their heads might pop off, and he ruffled their hair before letting them go. For a moment, Victor just watched them — the way they practically vibrated with excitement, the way something so small could light up their entire world. He felt a smile tug at his face. If there was one thing in this life that never got old, it was definitely this.
Snapping out of it, Victor finally made his way into the kitchen. He set the groceries on the counter with a soft thud before moving toward his Aunt Jenny.
She didn't look up right away. Whatever she was cooking demanded her full attention, something thick and fragrant, sending warm curls of steam into the air and filling the kitchen with a comforting heat.
"You're late," she said at last, her focus shifting from the pot to him.
Victor's brows pulled together. "Late?" he repeated, narrowing his eyes like she'd just accused him of something severe. "I got here exactly when I meant to. My internal clock is literally more accurate than most atomic clocks," he added, checking his phone just to be sure.
Jenny didn't even spare him a glance. "Right. And yet dinner still managed to beat you."
He opened his mouth to argue, but the scent from the pot hit him like a soft punch to the face. Whatever she was making smelled almost illegal, especially with his enhanced senses dialed all the way up. His objection fizzled out instantly.
"What is that?" Victor asked, leaning over her shoulder just far enough to get a peek.
Jenny bumped him away with her arm, not too hard, but enough to shoo him off. "It's stew. And hands off. Your cousins already tried to 'taste-test' it twice."
Victor let out a quiet sigh, resigning himself to the inevitable. "Fine, fine," he muttered, stepping back from the pot. "I'll behave… for now."
Chuckling, Victor rolled his sleeves higher as he started putting items into cabinets. Halfway through, Jenny paused her stirring long enough to glance at him over her shoulder.
"You look tired," she said, trying to make conversation.
"You… are imagining it," Victor replied.
Jenny raised a brow. "Imagining it? Please. You walked in here like someone dropped a refrigerator on you."
Victor scoffed. "A refrigerator? Really? That's the comparison we're going with?"
"It's accurate," she replied, turning back to the pot with a shrug.
"I'm not tired," he insisted, grabbing a can and shoving it into a cabinet. "Just… relaxed."
"Right… Set the table for me," she said instead. "And tell the twins to wash their hands. Properly. Not that fake two-second rinse they call washing."
Victor saluted. "On it."
---
After dinner, Victor made his way home. Even before he reached the living room, he could hear the soft murmur of the TV drifting through the hallway. Sure enough, when he stepped inside, the scene was exactly what he expected. Zephyr was perched on the arm of the couch, completely absorbed in yet another overly dramatic romance show.
Victor let out a helpless sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. Part of him wondered if he should finally put a stop to this growing obsession, but the thought fizzled out as quickly as it came.
In the end, he decided to let Zephyr enjoy himself a little longer. Besides, he had his own pile of neglected tasks waiting for him — things he should've dealt with ages ago.
Several packages sat stacked in the corner of the room. They had arrived yesterday, but since Victor hadn't been in any particular hurry, he'd let them sit untouched.
When he finally opened them, the first things to catch his eye were rows of vials filled with strange, shifting liquids and unfamiliar substances. Each vial housed exotic microbes, fungi, or plant samples, their contents locked away behind reinforced glass.
He picked one up and turned it toward the light. Inside, the vial was almost entirely dark — a tangled clump of pale threads suspended in a clear gel. Thin appendages stretched outward in intricate, branching patterns, like a nervous system trying to assemble itself.
The soot-dark fungus sat perfectly still inside the glass, but every few seconds a faint pulse of light flickered from its center. At least, that was how it appeared to him, as though the thing had a heartbeat of its own.
He ignored the warning labels entirely and crushed the vial in his hand, reducing glass and sample alike to fine powder. The moment the substance touched his skin, his perception split into layered strands of information.
Anything irrelevant fell away on its own, leaving only the useful data for him to process and integrate.
Chernobyl fungi — a species capable of metabolizing radiation. Its cells were loaded with melanin, the same pigment that gave human skin its color, but in this organism, it behaved more like a biological solar panel, absorbing ionizing radiation and converting it into usable chemical energy.
The principle behind the fungus was straightforward. Its melanin molecules shifted shape when struck by radiation, triggering a reaction that allowed it to metabolize that energy and accelerate its growth.
Simple in theory — marvelously efficient in practice. Within minutes, the only thing left in Victor's palm was a scatter of glass shards.
"One down, more to go."
Next was Deinococcus radiodurans, a microbe so absurdly resilient it could shrug off radiation levels that would tear human DNA to confetti.
Then came Ophiocordyceps — the infamous parasite that, in another universe, had evolved into a human-infecting nightmare. With Biokinesis he could technically replicate that effect, sculpting it into something far worse. But for now, he decided to leave certain doors firmly unopened.
After integrating everything else, he finally turned his attention to the templates he was truly interested in: the metabolization of radiation and the corresponding resistance, and then organelles that could capture and convert sunlight into usable energy.
---
It was late in Central City, and the streets had finally started to calm down after the long day. Most of the noise had faded, leaving only the occasional car in the distance and the steady drip from a leaky gutter.
Then came footsteps — fast ones.
A man burst out of a side street, stumbling as he ran, like his body couldn't keep up with whatever fear was pushing him forward. His shoes smacked against the wet road, splashing as he went. He didn't look back, but everything about the way he moved said he really, really wanted to.
The man ran with everything he had, breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. His fear was almost visible in the way his shoulders tensed and how he kept glancing back, like whatever was behind him might appear any second.
He pushed himself to keep moving, but his legs were starting to wobble, the burn in his lungs catching up fast. Exhaustion was on him, whether he liked it or not.
Desperate but perhaps "smart," the man decided to turn into a dark alley.
The man darted deeper into the alley. The narrow passage bent sharply to the left, then right again, offering short moments of darkness where he hoped, prayed, he could hide.
He slid behind a dented dumpster and crouched, trying to steady his breathing. His chest heaved, lungs scraping for air. Sweat ran down his temples, dripping onto the cold concrete.
The silence was a balm, almost comforting, until the clatter of high heels grew steadily closer. The man tilted his head upward, recognizing the dress and the figure almost instantly.
"Molly?" he muttered instinctively, his expression twisting into something complex. He finally turned to face her.
It was a scene straight out of a horror movie. The face that stared back at him was grotesque, rotting and disfigured.
The man squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his hands tightly over his ears. "This is not… this is not real, not real," he muttered, clinging to the hope that whatever was happening before him was just a figment of his imagination.
When he opened his eyes again, the figure of his deceased wife had vanished. He exhaled, sighing in relief, but just then, he turned his head.
He met the horrific figure's gaze and froze, paralyzed. Its eyes glowed a haunting orange, searing into his own, and his face contorted in pure, unrelenting terror. With every second he held the stare, his body seemed to drain of color and substance, growing paler, thinner, like life itself was being leeched away.