Someone needs help.
He tries to remember the sensation of that failed flight back at his old house. His feet leave the ground — this time the flight is more stable, though still imperfect, unsteady like balancing on a wire.
He steps off the balcony of his room, looks down, and sees thousands of cars and people moving below like ants.
A small smile tugs at his lips before he launches himself toward the call for help.
—--
The alley is narrow and suffocating.
Trash bags are piled against damp brick walls, leaking dark stains into cracked asphalt. A flickering streetlight buzzes overhead, its weak yellow glow fighting a losing battle against the fire that illuminates the space far too well. Heat ripples through the air, warping shadows, making the walls seem like they're breathing.
The woman is pressed against the wall, the brick cold against her back despite the inferno inches away. Her hands shake violently as she clutches her jacket to her chest. Tears streak down her face, cutting clean lines through dirt and fear.
"P-please," she sobs, her voice breaking. "I won't tell anyone. I swear. I just want to go home."
The man in front of her laughs.
His name is Blazeheart.
He's tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a sleek red-and-black suit reinforced with fire-resistant plating. Flames coil lazily around his arms like obedient serpents, and his hair burns upward in a constant, controlled blaze. His face is handsome in a sharp, predatory way — the kind of beauty that knows it can get away with anything.
"Home ?" Blazeheart repeats, tilting his head as if tasting the word. "C'mon… don't ruin the mood."
He steps closer. The heat spikes.
"You should be flattered," he continues, lips curling into a slow, ugly grin. "Do you have any idea how many people would kill to get my attention ?"
She turns her face away, squeezing her eyes shut.
"Please," she whispers again. "I didn't do anything to you."
Blazeheart chuckles softly. "It doesn't matter, you just need to stop being a jerk and enjoy yourself.." His gaze drags over her, unapologetic. "All you are is pretty. And pretty things exist to be admired."
His right hand ignites fully — flames roaring to life, wrapping his fingers in white-hot fire. The alley fills with the smell of burning air.
"And you know," he adds casually, "maybe if you weren't so pretty anymore, you wouldn't be such a pain in the ass."
She screams.
That's when the night breaks.
A rush of wind slams down into the alley, violent and sudden. Dust explodes upward as something — someone — drops from the sky.
Ryan lands a few meters away.
Concrete fractures beneath his feet, cracks spiderwebbing outward from the impact point. Pebbles skitter across the ground. For a moment, even the flames seem to hesitate.
Ryan straightens slowly.
His heart is pounding so hard it feels like it might tear its way out of his chest. His breathing is uneven, shallow — not from exhaustion, but from fear he refuses to show.
' Focus. Don't lose control. '
Blazeheart turns, irritation flashing across his face before curiosity replaces it.
"Well I'll be damned," he says, rolling his shoulders. The flames around his arms flare brighter. "Did a child fall from the sky ?"
Ryan steps forward, deliberately placing himself between Blazeheart and the woman. He can feel her terror behind him — sharp, raw, desperate.
"Step away from her," Ryan says.
His voice doesn't shake, even though his hands do.
Blazeheart laughs. "And who exactly are you supposed to be ?"
Ryan doesn't answer.
"I said," he repeats, firmer now, "let her go."
The woman stumbles away the instant Blazeheart loosens his grip, nearly collapsing as she scrambles toward the mouth of the alley. She looks back once, eyes wide with disbelief — with hope — before freezing in place, too afraid to run.
Blazeheart sighs dramatically. " I've seen superheroes like you before, kid.. " He lifts his burning hand. " Always thinking they're better than me.. "
Inside Ryan's head, panic claws at him.
I don't control heat vision. I don't have super speed yet. If I mess this up, she gets hurt.
"What are you going to do," Blazeheart asks mockingly, "ask me nicely ?"
Ryan meets his eyes.
"I'll make you stop."
For half a second, Blazeheart looks stunned.
Then he grins.
"Oh, kid," he says, lunging forward as flames erupt around him, "I'd love to see you try."
The alley erupts into chaos.
Blazeheart moves first.
He lunges forward with a roar, fire exploding from his arm in a wide, sweeping arc. The flames slam into Ryan's chest in a violent burst of heat and light, engulfing him completely for a split second.
The woman screams.
Fire fills the alley, licking the walls, climbing the bricks, devouring the shadows.
When the flames clear—
Ryan is still standing.
Smoke rises slowly from his body. His white shirt is scorched, burned through in places, the fabric blackened and torn. But his skin beneath it is untouched. Not even red.
Ryan looks down briefly, surprised by the damage to the cloth more than anything else.
Blazeheart freezes.
His confident grin evaporates.
"…No," he mutters. "That's not possible."
Ryan lifts his eyes.
"You're done," he says quietly.
Blazeheart snarls and throws himself forward again, panic bleeding into his fury. Fire explodes from both hands now, forming blazing whips that snap through the air. One wraps around Ryan's arm, another around his torso, burning hot enough to melt metal.
Ryan grunts—not in pain, but in effort.
The flames tighten.
Blazeheart laughs desperately. "Burn ! You hear me ?! Burn !"
Ryan closes his eyes for half a second.
' Easy. Too much force and he dies. '
He grips the fiery coil around his arm and pulls.
The fire collapses inward, snuffed out by sheer pressure. Blazeheart stumbles forward, dragged off balance.
Ryan steps in and taps Blazeheart's chest with his open palm.
Not a punch.
A shove.
The impact sends Blazeheart flying backward like a missile. He smashes through a dumpster, metal screaming as it crumples, and slams into the far wall of the alley hard enough to crack brick.
Blazeheart gasps, coughing, barely managing to stay on his feet.
"What… who are you ?" he wheezes.
Ryan advances slowly.
Every step makes the ground groan under him.
"I don't know yet," Ryan answers honestly.
Blazeheart roars and unleashes everything.
Fire erupts from his body in a spiraling inferno, turning the alley into a furnace. The streetlight above shatters. Windows crack. The heat becomes unbearable.
Ryan raises his arms instinctively.
The flames crash against him.
For a moment, the world is nothing but fire.
Then Ryan steps forward.
The flames bend around him, pushed aside by the air displaced by his movement. His shirt disintegrates completely now, reduced to ash—but still, his skin does not burn.
Blazeheart's eyes widen in pure terror.
"No—no, no, no—"
Ryan appears in front of him in a blur of motion that isn't speed—just a single, controlled leap.
He grabs Blazeheart by the throat and lifts him off the ground with one hand.
The flames die instantly.
Ryan's grip tightens just enough to make the point.
"Look at her," Ryan says, turning Blazeheart's face toward the woman frozen at the end of the alley. "Look at what you did."
Blazeheart chokes, clawing uselessly at Ryan's wrist.
"I—I'm sorry," he gasps, voice cracking. "I didn't mean—"
Ryan exhales slowly.
Then he releases him.
Blazeheart drops hard, collapsing in a heap, unconscious before he even hits the ground.
Silence falls again.
Ryan stands there for a moment, chest rising and falling, hands shaking—not from exertion, but from restraint. From how easy it would have been to end it.
He turns to the woman.
"Everything is fine now, I'm here.," he says softly.
She nods, tears streaming freely now, before running past him and out of the alley.
Ryan looks down at himself—bare chest exposed, shirt completely gone.
Only then does it really hit him.
' Fire didn't hurt me. '
The realization that he was getting stronger was good, but he was still far from what he needed to be.
He steps back, bends his knees, and lifts off again—flight still imperfect, wavering slightly as he rises above the alley.
As he disappears into the night, the city keeps shining below him.
Beautiful.
Broken.
—--
The next morning feels unreal in its normalcy.
Ryan sits at the desk in his room, a slim company-issued laptop open in front of him. The screen displays a live lesson from Ken Academy, the instructor's voice calm and patient as math problems scroll by. Ryan listens with half his attention, answers coming easily, almost automatically. The concepts stick the moment they're spoken.
The room itself is beginning to change.
It no longer looks like an empty hotel space.
A small stack of books rests neatly beside the desk—physics, world history, languages, a couple of novels he asked for out of curiosity more than need. A large flat-screen TV is now mounted on the wall, still wrapped in that faint smell of new electronics. The bed finally has sheets that feel… chosen, even if the choice wasn't really his.
Still, the room doesn't feel lived in.
Not yet.
Ryan glances back at the screen, suppressing a sigh.
I don't need elementary education, he thinks. I could finish this in weeks.
But it was one of Edgar's conditions.
Structure. Appearances. Control.
A soft knock interrupts the lesson.
Ryan looks up. "Come in."
The door opens slowly, and Ashley Barrett peeks inside, clipboard hugged to her chest like a life preserver.
"Good morning, Ryan," she says, forcing a smile. "Um—Mr. Edgar would like to see you in his office. When you're ready."
Ryan closes the laptop without protest.
"I understand," he replies calmly. Then, after a beat, he adds, "Thank you, Ashley."
The words are simple. Polite.
But Ashley visibly relaxes.
Her shoulders loosen, her breath steadies. "Of course. Take your time."
Ryan stands, smoothing the sleeves of his shirt, and follows her out. The walk through the tower is quieter than the day before. Fewer looks. Fewer whispers. Still, he feels eyes on him—hidden, measuring.
Edgar's office is exactly how Ryan imagined it.
Minimalist. Expensive without being loud. Dark wood, glass walls overlooking the city, shelves lined with carefully chosen books no one ever touches. Stan Edgar stands by the window, hands clasped behind his back.
"Ryan," Edgar says without turning. "Please. Sit."
Ryan does.
Edgar turns slowly and takes his own seat across from him, expression unreadable.
"What is this about ?," Ryan says.
Edgar's lips curve into something that isn't quite a smile.
"I already know about last night."
Ryan frowns slightly. "Already ?"
"I have eyes and ears across this country," Edgar replies evenly. "Cameras, reports, financial alerts, damage assessments. You didn't exactly act quietly."
Ryan stiffens. "Someone was in danger."
"And," Edgar counters, "that 'someone' was being threatened by a Vought asset worth several million dollars annually."
The words land like ice.
Ryan's hands curl into fists on his knees. "He was going to hurt her."
"He was misbehaving," Edgar corrects calmly. "Which would have been handled internally."
Ryan leans forward. "He told her he'd burn her face. He was holding her hostage."
"And you responded by intervening publicly, destroying property, and hospitalizing him," Edgar says. "You damaged a profitable investment."
Ryan's voice tightens. "I stopped him."
"You escalated," Edgar replies. "What I saw on the cameras was not control."
Ryan's jaw clenches.
"I didn't kill him."
Edgar studies him for a long moment.
"That is the only reason we're having this conversation."
Silence stretches between them, heavy and deliberate.
"You must understand something," Edgar continues. "Power without discipline is chaos. Last night, you acted on impulse. On emotion."
Ryan's eyes harden. "I acted because someone needed help."
"And that," Edgar says softly, "is exactly what makes you wrong."
Ryan exhales slowly, forcing his hands to relax.
"You want me to be better than him," he says. "Then don't tell me to look away."
Edgar folds his hands on the desk. "I want you to grow. And for this arrangement to continue, you will learn to control yourself. What you felt last night—anger, fear, adrenaline—those are liabilities."
Ryan doesn't look away.
"I'm not going to stop helping people just because you told me to.."
For the first time, Edgar's expression shifts—just slightly.
Not anger.
Interest.
"We'll see," Stan Edgar replies.