Joe didn't remember the names of the people he saved.
The memory of it came in flashes—rain hammering his face, screams echoing down a flooded street, a child's hand slipping from his grasp—and then, light. Pure, searing, white light. The smell of burning air. And silence.
He died there, alone, on the side of the road. No last words. No applause.
Just a headline in tomorrow's paper, if anyone remembered.
But that wasn't the end.
It was the beginning.
When Joe opened his eyes again, the world had changed. The sky was dark, but not with storm clouds—this sky bled violet. A second moon hung in the distance. The trees nearby were twisted like bones, and the wind whispered in a language he didn't understand.
He was cold. Naked. Alive.
And in his palm, a crackle of electricity danced between his fingers, wild and hungry.