The room was silent. Dead silent.
Their eyes locked onto me—fear bleeding through their faces like sweat. It was almost funny. Just minutes ago, they were loud, drunk, laughing at crude jokes and blaring terrible music through blown-out speakers. Now? They looked like children cornered by something they didn't understand. Something they thought only existed in nightmares.
And I guess… that's exactly what I'd become.
No one screamed. Not yet. They were still frozen, clinging to the desperate hope that this was a prank. A costume. A trick of the light. Maybe they were too drunk to realize what was really happening, or maybe they thought they still had control of the situation.
But reality always hits hard.
I stepped forward, letting my claws click against the floor with heavy, deliberate taps. The front door was behind me, locked. Their only option now was the back door.
I saw the realization spark behind their bloodshot eyes, spreading like electricity through a panic-stricken herd.
One ran.
Then another.
Then all of them.
Wrong move.
I blurred forward before any of them could reach the handle. XLR8's speed made it effortless—I was already in front of them before they'd taken a second step.
They skidded to a stop, faces pale, lips trembling.
"No escape," I said. My voice was layered with distortion—deep, warped, something inhuman echoing beneath the surface.
One of them lunged again, desperate. I grabbed him mid-motion and—with a brutal twist—ripped his arm clean from the socket. His scream was short and sharp, cut off when I rammed the severed limb into his mouth. He choked, his body collapsing in a heap of blood and shock.
Another fumbled with his phone, fingers trembling as he tried to unlock it.
I flicked my claw—shattered the phone and his fingers in the same movement.
Glass shards sprayed his skin, and he dropped, howling in pain.
That was when the panic really broke them.
Some ran. Some fell. Some dropped to their knees and begged like children. Others tried to hide behind couches, under tables, in closets. But it didn't matter. I had all the time in the world—and no sympathy left to give.
One by one, I dragged them out of their hiding spots. Out from under furniture, out from closets, behind curtains like they were acting out some bad childhood memory. They cried. They screamed. They bled.
They all died.
And I made sure their deaths weren't quick. I wanted fear etched into every second. I wanted their last breath to taste like ash and copper.
Eventually, the house was quiet again—except for the dull, rhythmic snoring from the couch.
My parents.
Still passed out.
They hadn't moved. Hadn't noticed. Hadn't cared. Even now, with the bodies cooling and blood soaking into the carpet.
I stared at them for a long time. Waiting for… something. A flicker of guilt. Anger. Sadness. But there was nothing. Just hollow stillness behind my thoughts.
They weren't worth the effort.
I turned away, tapped the Carnitrix, and shifted again.
Heatblast.
Flames bloomed in my hands—white-hot, angry, wild. Fire licked up the walls as the alcohol-soaked furniture caught in seconds. The wallpaper curled and blackened. The heat roared like a living creature.
Smoke coiled around the ceiling. I let it build. Let it consume everything.
Then I turned the dial once more and shifted back into XLR8. My form condensed—streamlined, lean, deadly.
With a final glance over my shoulder, I bolted through the flames, out the back door in a blur of motion.
Behind me, the house burned.
My old life burned.
And I didn't look back.