"Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Adam, happy birthday to you…"
As soon as my mother finished, I leaned forward and blew out the candles. The little flames flickered once before dying, a faint trail of smoke curling in the air. My mother clapped softly, her eyes locked on me with a smile that felt too sharp, too lingering.
I sat on her lap, chewing a forkful of cake. Sweet, soft, heavy with cream. And then—suddenly—I had the urge to sing.
Adjusting my voice with the Faceless' gift, I made sure every note would fall exactly where I wanted it. But it was still a child's voice—light, pure, unbroken—just impossibly steady, impossibly controlled.
I drew in a breath and began.
"Nessun dorma… Nessun dorma…"
The words rang out, delicate yet carrying a weight that didn't belong to a five-year-old. My voice was high and crystalline, more angelic than operatic, but every syllable was sharp as glass. The aria's haunting opening filled the room, the melody lifting higher, shimmering like light against water.
"Il mio mistero è chiuso in me…
il nome mio nessun saprà…"
Each line hung in the air, a child's voice singing of secrets, of love, of triumph, with impossible clarity. It was wrong and beautiful at the same time—like hearing eternity whispered through a body too small to contain it.
As the music built, I felt something stir in me. For a fleeting instant, I wasn't just a boy with immortality and overwhelming power. I was human—breathing, yearning, alive. My chest thrummed with the resonance, my pulse quickening as the aria drove toward its peak.
And then I gave everything to the final cry:
"Vincerò! Vincerò! Vincerò!"
The last note stretched impossibly long, pure and sharp, echoing through the walls until the entire house seemed to vibrate with it. When I finally let it fall, silence rushed in to take its place.
My mother's breath hitched. Her eyes glistened, her face trembling with something between awe and delirium. Slowly, she cupped my face in her hands as if I had just shown her divinity itself.
"Adam…" she whispered, her voice breaking into a laugh, soft and manic. "Even angels couldn't compare. My perfect son. My genius."
She crushed me into her embrace, trembling as though she couldn't contain herself, as though my voice had undone something inside her. Her nails bit gently into my back as she clung to me, her obsession naked in her grip.
I sat there, still tasting the last note on my tongue, and thought:
I had made the world tremble… with the voice of a child.
Her embrace lingered, too tight, as though she feared I might vanish if she let go. Her perfume pressed into my lungs, sickly sweet and suffocating.
"Do it again," she whispered against my ear, her tone tender yet edged with command. "Sing for me again, Adam. I want to hear you forever."
I stayed still, my small hands resting against her arms. Part of me wanted to laugh—it wasn't really my voice, not truly, just the Faceless ability refining what was already there. But another part… another part remembered how it felt. The vibration in my chest, the way the melody seemed to lift me beyond myself.
It was intoxicating. For a moment, I had tasted something pure.
But my mother's eyes—hungry, feverish—snapped me back.
"I'll sing later," I said softly, easing out of her arms. "Let's eat first."
She pouted, her lips curving into that strange mix of girlish sulk and predatory grin. "Always so composed… even now. You're too perfect, Adam. Too perfect for this ugly world."
Her fingers brushed through my hair, slow, possessive. Then, almost casually, she sliced another piece of cake and slid the plate toward me, never once looking away.
I forked a bite into my mouth, letting the sweetness dull the silence between us. My mind, however, was elsewhere—on the way the aria had made me feel. It wasn't just sound. It was resonance, connection, something I could never craft from powers or immortality. It made me wonder if art might be the only thing capable of piercing the endless monotony waiting for me.
Perhaps… I should sing more often.
My mother broke the thought with a soft laugh. "I'll have to buy you a piano. No—a full orchestra! My Adam deserves nothing less."
The gleam in her eyes sent a chill crawling down my spine.
I forced a smile and quietly resolved to control how much of myself I revealed in front of her. If just one song had drawn this reaction… I'd need to be careful.
Very careful.
Suddenly, I felt something stir deep inside my body. A ripple of power.
When I focused inward, I realized what it was—wish energy. The very essence of the Miracle Invoker.
And it had grown.
Not by much, just a faint increase—but unmistakable.
I froze, fork halfway to my mouth. This energy… it wasn't tied to a specific miracle. It was pure, unshaped, the raw foundation that could grant any wish.
But how?
Wish energy should only come from performing miracles, from bending reality with desire and authority. Yet I had done nothing but sing.
Could it really have come from my mother's reaction? From the way she listened to me?
That made no sense. A song wasn't a miracle. And even if it had touched her deeply, it shouldn't have translated into wish energy. That wasn't how this pathway worked.
Unless…
My thoughts flickered to the Mastery Card I had drawn before, or perhaps to some hidden rule of this world—of the Marvel universe—that twisted the way powers functioned.
Whatever the reason, the result was undeniable: I had gained energy from being witnessed.
The amount was tiny, almost negligible. But if my mother alone could produce this much from one song…
Then what would happen if an audience heard me?
A hundred people? A thousand? A city?
The possibilities unfurled before me, vast and terrifying.
I slowly set my fork down, my eyes drifting to the extinguished candles still smoking on the cake.
This changed everything.