BAM BAM BAM
His fist made hollow thuds as they landed on the punching bag, each impact sending tremors up his forearms. Mateo's knuckles had gone from pink to angry red, the skin split in places despite the worn hand wraps. Sweat pooled beneath him on the cracked rubber floor mats, his chest heaving with each labored breath. The punching bag—patched in multiple places with duct tape—swung violently with each strike, threatening to tear free from its rusted chain.
"What did that punching bag ever do to deserve this?" Arx Goldein's voice boomed from across the dim gym. The burly owner crossed arms the size of small tree trunks across his chest, his shadow stretching long under the flickering fluorescent lights.
Mateo didn't answer. He simply exhaled once, shifted his weight, and transitioned into the second half of his routine.
Rising onto the ball of one foot, he arched his back and twisted, sending a barrage of precise kicks against the abused bag. The chain creaked ominously with each impact. He maintained the ruthless rhythm for another ten minutes until his legs burned and trembled. His entire body felt like concrete had been poured into his veins, muscles screaming in protest—but he welcomed the pain. It had been his constant companion for the past two years.
"I know I said I'd let you work out here as payment for cleaning this dump," Arx leaned against a weight rack that had seen better decades, "which I still think is crazy. But why the hell are you so obsessed with it? Got someone you want to beat up?"
The question hung in the stale air between them.
Mateo stood up straighter, his blue sweatshirt hoodie so soaked with sweat that it appeared almost black under the sputtering lights. He rarely spoke about his motivations. Had never really gotten close enough to anyone to share them. But something about the late hour and the empty gym loosened his tongue.
"You promise you won't laugh?"
"Uh, sure?" Arx said, a deep chuckle already rumbling in his chest. "I've had men come here so they can work out and look good for their grandma's funeral. It creeps me out, but there's no way yours is worse than that."
Mateo sighed. He looked down at his fists, clenching them until the knuckles turned white.
"It's because I want to be a hero."
Arx's bushy eyebrows furrowed. "You want to be a hero? Don't you need some sort of overpowered ability for that? Do you have some secret power you've been hiding from me?"
"My ability is my body," Mateo replied, his voice quiet but firm. "I'll train it to perfection so I can fight any enemy."
Arx stood still for a second. Then he burst out laughing, slamming his palm against the countertop with such force that the ancient register jumped. The sound echoed through the empty gym. It was 11 PM—the witching hour when normal people sought shelter in their homes, not the hour to be traveling the streets or pumping iron.
"Now I know you're joking," Arx said, wiping moisture from the corner of his eye. "Villains out there can blow up entire city blocks with ONE finger. Just last week that woman in Sector 7 turned solar beams into deadly lasers—melted through six feet of reinforced concrete like it was butter." He gestured broadly with his hands. "You want to tell me you plan to jump in there without any superpowers and take them down? You're no Zero, little bro."
Outside, a distant boom shook the building just enough to make the weights rattle in their racks. Neither of them acknowledged it directly, but Mateo noticed how Arx's eyes flicked nervously toward the covered windows.
Zero was a fictional character from an animated show that aired a decade ago. Someone who didn't have powers but fought crime using intellect, technology, strategy, and by exploiting villains' weaknesses. A wet dream for anyone born without powers, but as realistic as flying by flapping your arms—unless you had a genius-level IQ and were born into a multi-millionaire family.
No, Zero wasn't what Mateo was trying to become. He was planning on turning himself into a physical weapon. His quirk, wouldn't be useful on the battlefield anyway.
"I knew you'd just laugh," Mateo sighed. He grabbed his frayed backpack from the corner, zipping it with more force than necessary.
"Of course I would. And PLEASE tell me you're joking, lil bro." Arx's expression shifted, concern creeping into the lines around his eyes. "You're a strong kid, a fighter who could probably handle up to three people in hand-to-hand. But you wouldn't stand a chance in an actual super-fight."
The gym owner's expression darkened. "Then again, Atlas Academy is desperate these days. Most of the top heroes were wiped out in the first waves. They've shortened the training period from four years to just one. Word on the street is that the ceasefires are starting to crumble."
As if on cue, another distant boom echoed, this one barely perceptible but enough to make the lights flicker momentarily. Arx crossed to the window and peered through a gap in the blinds.
On the horizon, beyond the jagged skyline of downtown, an unnatural flash of purple light pulsed briefly, followed by what looked like a miniature sun rising and fading just as quickly. They were supposed to be hundreds of kilometers from any battle zones, but everyone knew the demarcation lines shifted daily.
The danger hung in the air as palpably as the smell of sweat and disinfectant. It colored every conversation, lurked beneath every mundane interaction. Teenagers with powerful quirks were being quietly approached for "accelerated training programs"—a euphemism for drafting child soldiers that nobody wanted to acknowledge.
"Maybe you should join the armed forces instead," Arx suggested, scratching the stubble on his neck. "They handle civilian protection, evacuation protocols. That would be... safer."
"Thank you, Arx. I'll be back tomorrow by five," Mateo said, raising a hand in farewell as he headed for the door.
The night air hit him like a physical blow—cold and carrying the faint scent of smoke that never quite disappeared these days. Wind tousled his brown hair, cut roughly at his neck, and instantly he was transported back to that night. Of course everything reminded him of that night. The smell of coffee conjured his mother's face. Children playing with action figures on stoops brought back memories of Alec, who had proudly displayed his collection of limited-edition hero figurines even at seventeen.
He realized Arx had sounded exactly like he himself had when he'd mocked Alec, telling his brother his quirk wasn't cool enough for "hero potential." The memory tasted like ash in his mouth.
He couldn't tell Arx the real reason he wanted to be a hero. The man would probably just laugh again and warn him that following the wishes of the dead never led anywhere good.
Shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his hoodie, Mateo navigated the familiar warren of alleyways that would take him home. Most streetlights had stopped working months ago—maintenance was low on the city's priority list—but his eyes had adjusted to moving through darkness.
At the mouth of one alley, a cluster of teenagers huddled around the cherry-red glow of something that definitely wasn't a cigarette. The pungent smell of synthetic cannabis made his nostrils flare involuntarily. One of the taller boys noticed his reaction, looking up with eyes that reflected light like an animal's.
Mateo assessed the situation automatically. Five of them, one with what appeared to be scaled forearms that caught the light strangely. He could probably handle them if necessary, but drawing attention was the last thing he wanted.
Breathe in. Don't speed up. That shows fear. Just keep a level head and walk forward.
"Hey, bro? Want to try?" The tallest one called out, voice slurred slightly as he licked chapped lips. "It'll make you smell colors."
Mateo kept his gaze straight ahead and maintained his pace. No way in hell he was trying that.
As he passed, one of them muttered something that sounded like "stuck-up," but no one made a move to follow. These days, picking fights with strangers was risky—you never knew who might have a quirk that could melt your face off.
Reaching into his pocket, he counted his money by touch. Twenty dollars. Arx, that cheapskate, hadn't even paid him properly—just occasionally slipped him ten-dollar tips when he felt generous. Mateo made his actual money at the arcade where he worked, and even that barely covered necessities.
He couldn't afford luxuries like internet or streaming services. Whatever remained of those things in this slowly collapsing world.
Every spare cent went to saving for one thing: an admission ticket to Atlas Academy.
The cost kept rising as the institution became more desperate for new recruits. Three hundred dollars now, probably more by the time he had saved enough. But without that ticket, without that chance, his impossible dream of becoming a hero would remain just that—impossible.
The convenience store at the corner of his block was one of the few that still stayed open past curfew. The proprietor, an elderly woman with six fingers on each hand, nodded at him from behind bulletproof glass. He grabbed a pack of instant noodles—the cheapest option—and slid his money through the slot in the partition.
"Price went up," she said flatly. "Twenty-five now."
Mateo stared at her. "It was eighteen yesterday."
She shrugged, her extra fingers tapping an irregular rhythm on the counter. "Supply trucks got hit on the eastern highway. Take it or leave it."
He hesitated, then pushed the twenty through. "This is all I have."
The woman studied his face for a moment, then slid the noodles to him with a sigh. "Tomorrow you bring the other five, yes?"
He nodded, grateful for the small mercy. The woman had lost her grandson in one of the earlier attacks—everyone in the neighborhood knew the story—and she had a soft spot for young men just trying to survive.
"Thank you," he said quietly, tucking the package into his hoodie pocket.
His building loomed ahead, a twelve-story monstrosity of crumbling concrete and exposed rebar. Housing was scarce when you lived on the brink of apocalypse. The complex was "economical" in the way that prison cells were economical—designed to pack as many bodies into as little space as possible.
He climbed three flights of stairs, his legs protesting every step after the punishing workout. The emergency lights cast an eerie red glow in the stairwell, shadows dancing as another distant explosion caused the building to shudder almost imperceptibly.
Room 216. He fumbled with his key in the lock. The door swung open to reveal his home—though "coffin" was a more accurate description. Nine feet by six, just enough space for a bed, a small table, and a hot plate serving as a stove. The complex had earned an unofficial name among residents: The Cemetery, for obvious reasons.
Mateo poured water from his bottle into a dented pot and set it on the hot plate, the coil glowing orange as it heated. He tore open the noodle packet and dumped in the dehydrated contents, followed by the spice mixture. The room had no private bathroom—those were communal at the end of each hall—so he cracked open the single window to prevent the small space from becoming saturated with the smell.
Through the narrow opening, the moon grinned down at him, surrounded by stars that seemed impossibly bright against the polluted city sky. Even the moon reminded him of Alec. He could still see the gleam of moonlight on his brother's horns that night, still hear his voice pontificating about what it meant to be a hero.
Sometimes, at the corner of his vision, he caught phantom flashes of blinding light—the explosion that had taken everything from him replaying in his mind's eye. Two years had passed, but the memory remained as fresh as if it had happened minutes ago.
He sighed, reaching for a plastic fork on his small table as he turned off the hot plate—a literal fire hazard in his cramped living space. He inhaled the noodles more than ate them, barely tasting the artificial chicken flavor as his mind wandered.
When he finished, his eyes drifted to the glass jar partially hidden under a pile of dirty clothes. He didn't need to count the contents; he knew exactly how much was there. Two hundred and eighty-five dollars.
Fifteen more to go. Then he would have his three hundred dollars to purchase the admission to Atlas.
It would have been nothing if he still lived in a normal home with an average income. He could have made it in just over a week. But with his abysmal pay, mounting expenses, and no family to help make ends meet, it had taken him more than six months to save this much.
He collapsed onto his narrow bed, feeling the springs dig into his back through the thin mattress. Tomorrow, he would skip breakfast. Work extra hard at the arcade to earn a tip on top of his hourly wage. Maybe pick up some extra hours if someone called out sick.
I don't even have any nice clothes, he thought drowsily. His wardrobe consisted entirely of hoodies, sweatshirts, jeans, and sweatpants—practical items that could withstand daily wear and multiple washings.
And he couldn't ignore the glaring issue that Arx had so bluntly highlighted.
He didn't have a combat-ready quirk. His power was completely out of the question because of how useless it was in a fight. He couldn't completely dismiss Arx's skepticism.
Atlas Academy might reject him solely because of his lack of a real quirk. It had saved him once, but it wouldn't save others. And saving others was what heroes did.
For the past year, he had broken his body at the gym, trained in martial arts with Arx himself, even managed to beat the older man a couple of times. He'd done it partly to give himself purpose. He couldn't imagine living day to day, working at the arcade, eating cheap noodles, sleeping, and repeating the cycle endlessly. The thought made him physically ill.
He had vowed to avenge his brother. To become the hero Alec had dreamed of being.
But as fatigue washed over him, doubt crept in. The long-term dopamine rush of his quest was wearing thin. He might waste his hard-earned money only to be rejected when they examined his quirk registration or whatever metrics Atlas used to screen applicants.
Another distant boom rattled his window. Closer this time. He didn't flinch.
He closed his eyes. That was a problem for tomorrow's Mateo.
As sleep claimed him, his last conscious thought was of Alec's severed horn, carefully wrapped and hidden in the bottom of his backpack—a grim reminder of why he pushed himself beyond reasonable limits every single day.