The dented trash can lid lay in the puddle, a silent, monstrous testament to what had just happened. Mani stared at it, his mind a roaring static. The rain fell, soaking him to the skin, but he didn't feel it. He could only feel the echo of that impossible power—a tremor that had started in his chest and shot out through his arms, a force that was his, yet utterly alien.
It was real. All of it was real.
The thought was a ice-cold spike of pure terror. He looked down at his hands again, turning them over. They were just hands. A little scraped from his fall in the hallway, nails bitten short. There was no glow, no visible sign of the river of light that had flooded him. But he could feel it. A new weight inside him, sitting just beneath his heart, humming with a low, dormant energy. It felt like having a sleeping dragon in his chest.
A car swished by at the end of the alley, its tires hissing on the wet asphalt. The normal sound jolted him back to reality. He had to get out of the alley. He had to get home.
He ran, but this time his run was different. It was unnaturally fluid, his feet barely seeming to touch the ground. He covered the distance to his street in what felt like seconds, his breath even and calm in his lungs despite the sprint. Another piece of the impossible puzzle clicked into place. His body was different. Lighter. Stronger.
He skidded to a stop in front of his house, a modest, two-story home with a warm, yellow light glowing in the kitchen window. Just as Bali had said. The sight of it, so normal and safe, made his eyes sting. He was about to step back into that world, a world of stew and homework and his mother's hugs, and he was carrying a secret that felt as big as the moon.
He took a deep, shuddering breath and pushed the front door open.
The smell of beef stew and fresh bread washed over him, a familiar, comforting blanket. "Mani? Is that you?" his mother's voice called from the kitchen.
"Yeah, Mom," he called back, his voice sounding strangely normal. He toed off his wet shoes and hung his dripping jacket on the hook, his movements careful, deliberate. He was afraid that if he moved too quickly, he might accidentally tear the hook from the wall.
His mother appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a checkered apron. Her smile was warm, but her eyes, as Bali had also known, held a trace of worry. "You're soaked through! Why didn't you take the bus? I was looking out the window for you."
The simple, mundane accuracy of Bali's words sent another shiver through him. "I... I just felt like walking," he mumbled, looking down at the floor.
She came forward and pressed a cool hand to his forehead. "You feel a bit warm. Go on upstairs and get into some dry clothes. Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes."Numbly, Mani nodded and trudged up the stairs. In the safety of his room, with the door closed, he finally let himself breathe. He looked at his reflection in the mirror on his closet door. A pale, ordinary boy with dark, wet hair and wide, frightened eyes stared back. He looked exactly the same.It's inside, he thought. It's hiding.He reached out to pick up a textbook from his bed. It was his heavy history book, the one Mark had pinned under his foot. His fingers closed around the spine. He meant to just lift it, but his grip tightened, a flicker of the day's frustration and humiliation surfacing.
CRACK.The sound was sharp, final. He looked down, horrified. The hardcover of the textbook was splintered, the spine snapped cleanly in half under his casual grip. He hadn't even felt like he was using force.
He dropped the book like it was on fire, stumbling back from it. His heart hammered against the dragon in his chest, waking it. A low thrum of power vibrated through his bones. This wasn't a fantasy. This was a dangerous, unpredictable thing living inside him. He could break things. He could hurt someone.Panic, cold and sharp, seized him. He backed into a corner of his room, sliding down the wall to sit on the floor, pulling his knees to his chest. He was a monster. A freak. What had that man done to him?"Mani! Dinner's ready!" his mother's voice floated up the stairs.He couldn't go down there. What if he shook her hand and crushed her fingers? What if he hugged her and broke her ribs? The images flashed in his mind, vivid and terrifying."Mani?" Her voice was closer now, on the stairs."I'm coming!" he called, his voice tight. He had to act normal. He had to pretend.He changed into dry clothes, his hands trembling as he fumbled with the buttons. Every movement felt like it required intense concentration, as if he were handling delicate glass instead of his own body. He walked down the stairs slowly, placing each foot with exaggerated care.Dinner was a special kind of torture. He used his fork and spoon as if they were made of eggshells. He broke a piece of bread, and it crumbled into dust between his fingers. He flinched, glancing at his mom, but she was just talking about her day at work, oblivious."...and then Mrs. Kamran called," his mother said, taking a sip of water.Mani froze, a chunk of potato halfway to his mouth. "She did?""Mm-hmm. She said there was another... incident today. With Mark."
Mani's appetite vanished. He put his fork down. The hum in his chest grew louder, a low-frequency response to the name. He felt a sudden, shocking urge to find Mark, to show him what it felt like to be afraid. The intensity of the thought scared him more than the broken book.
"She said you handled it with a lot of maturity," his mother continued, her eyes soft and sad. "I'm proud of you, honey. I know it's not easy."
Her pride felt like a weight. She was proud of him for being a victim. She had no idea that her son now had the power to turn Mark into a red smear on the hallway wall. The contrast was sickening.
"I'm... I'm really tired, Mom," he said, pushing his chair back. "Can I be excused?""Of course, sweetie." She looked concerned. "You sure you're feeling okay?""I'm fine," he said, the lie tasting more bitter than ever. "Just tired."He fled back upstairs to the relative safety of his room. He didn't turn on the light. He just sat on his bed in the dark, staring at his hands. The dragon was awake now, pacing restlessly inside its cage. He could feel its power thrumming in his fingertips, in his temples, behind his eyes.He was the furthest thing from fine. He was a lie living in a normal house, a weapon disguised as a boy. Bali's gift felt less like a present and more like a curse. It was a power he had never asked for, a responsibility he didn't understand, and a secret that was already too heavy for his ten-year-old shoulders to carry.Outside, the rain finally stopped. But inside Mani, the storm was just beginning.