Smoke clung to the air like a second skin, thick and acrid. Michael couldn't feel his legs. His head pounded, every heartbeat echoing like a drum inside his skull.
Nicholas's voice was faint now—muffled, like it came from underwater.
The fire was gone.
Or maybe it wasn't. Maybe it had just buried itself inside him, like a hot coal waiting to burn again.
He wasn't sure what he'd done. He barely remembered doing it. He remembered pain. Screaming. Seeing Nicholas about to die. And then something inside him—snapped.
Everything else was a blur.
Now the street looked like a warzone.
The alien was gone—reduced to scorched ash and cracked stone. But so was everything else. A city block melted and blackened. Cars overturned. The windows of nearby towers shattered inward. Streetlights twisted like vines.
And the people—the soldiers who'd yelled at him to stay back, the emergency teams trying to contain the scene—they were just staring now. Silent. Shell-shocked.
At him.
At the boy on his knees, hands burnt raw, eyes wide and lost.
One soldier slowly raised a weapon.
Michael blinked. His vision swam. Nicholas was next to him, shouting something—maybe arguing with the soldier—but Michael couldn't track it. His thoughts were scattered, like ash on the wind.
He looked at his hands.
They were shaking. Not just from the pain. From fear.
What did I do?
He hadn't saved the day. He'd barely survived it. And if Nicholas hadn't screamed in time, maybe he wouldn't have stopped at all.
He remembered the way the fire had wanted to keep going. How it didn't care what it touched. It wanted more.
His stomach twisted.
This wasn't power. It was a breakdown. A panic attack with flames.
A hand touched his shoulder. Light. Familiar.
Nicholas.
His face was pale. Ash smeared across one cheek, his hands still glowing faintly from the lightning he'd tried to wield. "You're okay," he said, voice raw. "You're okay. Just—just breathe, alright?"
Michael tried. His lungs felt hollow. Like there wasn't enough oxygen left in the world.
"I didn't mean to—" he started, but the words stuck.
Nicholas squeezed tighter. "I know."
A second later, someone shouted, "He's unstable! Keep back!"
And suddenly there were rifles again. Red dots flickering across Michael's chest.
Nicholas moved in front of him.
"Don't," he said. "He's done. He's my brother."
But Michael didn't miss the tremor in his brother's voice.
Even Nicholas looked scared.
Perfect — here's the continuation of Chapter 11, where we explore the fallout of Michael's awakening: the fear from authorities, the media twisting the truth, and the painful emotional wedge it drives even between brothers. This segment keeps everything grounded—no hero worship, no celebration, just confusion, damage control, and the quiet dread of being seen as something dangerous.
---
Chapter 11 (Continued): What's Left After the Fire
The red dots didn't move.
Michael didn't breathe.
Nicholas stood between him and the soldiers like a shield, shoulders squared, even as he swayed slightly from exhaustion. "He's not a threat," he said again, more forcefully. "He's done."
A silence followed. The kind that made your ears ring.
Then: "Containment teams inbound," someone muttered into a comm.
The sound of boots. Dozens of them. Reinforcements—armored figures in dark reactive suits, not city police. Government. Maybe military.
Two of them moved in with something like a stretcher—though it looked more like a cage frame than medical gear.
Michael didn't fight when they lifted him. He didn't speak. He just stared past them, eyes blank, mouth slightly open like he still hadn't caught his breath.
One of them leaned down close, muttering low. "You're lucky the blast didn't take out a residential tower."
Michael blinked.
He hadn't thought about that.
Of course he hadn't.
He hadn't thought at all. He'd just reacted.
And now the street looked like a bomb had gone off. There were residential towers nearby. Stores. Offices. People.
He didn't even know if everyone had gotten clear.
His chest tightened.
He'd meant to protect Nicholas. That was all. That was all.
---
Later.
The detainment room was cold.
Too cold.
Not physically—just empty. White walls. White floor. No clock. No door handle.
Michael sat cross-legged on a cot, blanket around his shoulders. His hands were bandaged, skin pink and raw underneath. He hadn't asked how bad the burns were. He didn't want to know.
He hadn't said anything since they brought him in.
Not to the medics.
Not to the men with tight smiles who kept saying, "We're just trying to understand."
Not to the camera blinking silently in the corner.
He didn't want to talk.
Because if he opened his mouth, he wasn't sure what would come out. A scream. A sob. Fire.
He kept seeing the moment the flames exploded outward. Seeing Nicholas flinch. The fear in his brother's eyes—not just at the alien, but at him.
He'd done that.
He closed his eyes and tried not to breathe too hard. It made the bandages itch.
Then the door finally hissed open.
Footsteps.
Nicholas.
Alone.
His hair was a mess, hoodie half-zipped. Eyes red.
He looked exhausted. Like he hadn't slept. Maybe hadn't stopped arguing until they let him in.
Michael's voice cracked when he finally spoke. "They let you come in?"
Nicholas didn't smile. Didn't sit.
He just stared for a second, then said, "They wanted to keep you."
Michael flinched. "Yeah."
"They said you're... not registered. That your file didn't list flame affinity."
Michael shrugged weakly. "Because I didn't have one I just awakened my abilities."
Nicholas's brow furrowed.
Michael looked at his hands. "I don't know."
The silence between them stretched.
And Michael hated it. Hated how fragile everything felt now. Like one wrong word and his little brother would back out that door and never look at him the same way again.
But Nicholas finally sighed and sank into the chair.
"Look," he said, dragging a hand through his hair, "I don't blame you."
Michael glanced up.
"I should," Nicholas added. "I mean... you terrified everyone. You could've killed me. You could've burned the whole block down."
Michael's throat tightened. "I didn't mean—"
"I know," Nicholas cut in, softer now. "That's the only reason I'm still sitting here."
He leaned back. "But Michael... they're not gonna forget this. Not the authorities. Not the city."
Michael swallowed. "What are they saying?"
Nicholas hesitated.
"Tell me."
"A lot of things. Half the media's calling you a weapon. The other half's trying to label you a new threat classification. Some people think you were working with the alien. One guy said you were an 'anomaly incident waiting to happen.'"
Michael laughed—but it was dry and bitter.
"Sounds about right."
"Some people are defending you," Nicholas added. "Saying you saved the city. But even they look scared."
He didn't have to say it.
Everyone was scared.
Michael sat there, hunched over, a bandaged hand over his eyes.
"I was just trying to protect you," he said, voice quiet. "That's all I ever wanted to do."
Nicholas didn't answer at first. When he did, his voice was tired.
"Then maybe it's time we figure out how to control that. Before someone else gets hurt."
Outside, behind mirrored glass, a woman in a long coat lowered her tablet. The footage of Michael's explosion played again—heatwave sensors spiking, power grids crashing, the city's central ward dipping into blackout.
She looked at the man next to her.
"Keep him off the record. For now. But monitor everything. That boy's either going to save a lot of people—or get a lot of people killed. we haven't seen a lot of people with that kind of power before.
The man nodded.
And the screen cut to black.