Chapter 4
Eli stood in the cramped space of the bedroom he shared with Peter, the morning light filtering in through the slatted blinds. The air was still and quiet, filled only by Peter's slow breathing from the top bunk. Eli stretched his limbs slowly. His muscles ached from last night's trial with 5% power, but underneath the soreness was a strange warmth, like something alive was pulsing under his skin. It wasn't pain. It was potential.
He rolled his neck, then walked over to the mirror propped against the wall, dragging it into the center of the room. It was old and cracked near the bottom, but it would do. Standing in front of it shirtless, Eli focused.
Just 1%, he thought.
He exhaled and let the energy rise. A faint golden glow flickered along his arm. One spark. Then two. A tiny vein of red light pulsed near his wrist and faded just as quickly. The mirror didn't shatter. The floor didn't crack. It worked.
He stared into his reflection. The light was faint, but real.
Then, gradually, he increased it. 2%. The golden arcs were more pronounced now, jumping along his forearm and shoulder in rhythmic flashes. The red veins glowed more clearly, though still contained. He balled his hand into a fist. No pain.
He moved to 3%.
The power settled across his body like a weighted coat, not heavy, just present. The golden lightning trailed along his arms and down his legs, flickering quietly like candlelight in a storm. Red pulses traced his shoulders and calves. His muscles tensed involuntarily at first, then relaxed. Controlled.
He opened his stance and threw a jab.
The air cracked. A breeze rippled the curtains behind him. The mirror trembled slightly.
He threw another. Then another. Then a short combo, weaving between punches like he remembered from the boxing classes he took in college. Every hit pushed air like a slingshot. None of them hurt his joints.
Satisfied, he moved to jumping in place. At 3%, he leapt and nearly hit the ceiling. He caught himself before his head collided with the overhead fan, landing with a light grunt and a thump.
Too close.
He grinned. "Okay. Groundwork's good. Time to build the body."
---
He grabbed an old duffel bag from under the bed and headed for the rooftop. The building's upper level was flat, sun-baked, and lined with tar patches. A rusted AC unit buzzed in one corner. No one came up here.
He dropped the bag, pulled out a few makeshift weights, water jugs, bricks tied into canvas sacks, some repurposed construction iron, and began his regimen.
Push-ups first. Dozens. Slow, perfect form. No power augmentation, just raw muscle. His arms trembled by the end of each set, not from exhaustion, but from pressure. He wasn't trying to be strong through the quirk. He was trying to make a body strong enough to handle it.
Pull-ups next. Then squats. Then planks, holding the position until sweat poured down his temples.
After a break, he strapped ankle weights onto each leg and ran the perimeter of the rooftop. Again and again. Short bursts. Focused breathing. He could feel his knees adjusting, his ankles absorbing shock differently. It was all about the fine control.
Finally, stretching. Yoga routines he half-remembered from high school gym classes. Poses to keep his tendons elastic and limbs limber. His hamstrings protested. His back cracked. But it all felt right.
By the time he returned to the room, Peter had left for school and the apartment was quiet. Eli refilled a water bottle and sat cross-legged on the bedroom floor, breathing slowly.
Then he closed his eyes and slipped inward.
---
The void was still. The white-gold orb hovered at the center, dimmer than when it first awakened, but calm and radiant. Eli approached it again, watching it pulse gently.
He imagined his limbs as channels. Legs at 3%, arms at 2%, torso at 1%.
He practiced shifting power in his mind's eye, from one muscle group to another, letting the glow pass from foot to thigh, then vanish, then spark in his shoulders, then fade again. Each switch was like rerouting pressure in a pipe system. He visualized it again and again.
Then he moved.
In the real world, his body responded. He stood up, took a basic stance, and moved through forms. Steps. Punches. Shifts. He walked forward at 1%, jumped at 3%, landed at 1% again. Power shifted where he wanted. Not perfectly, but close.
He watched in the mirror. The golden lightning sparked briefly on his calves when he launched forward. Red streaks flickered across his knuckles as he struck the air. No flaring. No overloading.
It was working.
He set up a short obstacle course using chairs, boxes, and furniture. Then ran it: weaving, dodging, leaping over, sliding under. Low percent power only. Just enough to assist, never enough to overwhelm.
The first two runs were clumsy. The third was smoother. The fifth was clean.
He collapsed onto the floor, breathing hard. Not because he was broken. Because it felt good.
At 3%, he could move faster than any normal athlete. Stronger than any trained fighter. But what mattered more was the control.
Not once did he misfire. Not once did the energy lash out.
He was building more than strength. He was building a rhythm.
---
That night, Eli stood again behind the apartment, beneath the same moonlit sky. The rusted sedan sat untouched.
Instead of lifting anything, he crouched low, focused the power into his legs, 3% only, and leapt.
He soared just high enough to reach the fire escape on the second floor. His hands caught the cold metal with practiced ease. The bars groaned slightly as he pulled himself up.
Another jump, this one vertical and tight, brought him to the third-floor landing. He paused, adjusted his grip, and climbed again. Step by step, strength guided by control.
Finally, with a push and a pull, he hoisted himself onto the rooftop.
The city stretched before him, glowing gold and orange in the night haze.
Wind tugged at his hoodie.
Sparks flickered at his heels, then vanished into the dark.
He turned, took a few running steps, and leapt again.
Graceful. Controlled. Just a man. With a storm growing inside him.