Chapter eight: electric speed
Kirro wiped the dirt from his cheek, stinging from the fall. His legs still buzzed, every muscle twitching with leftover charge.
"Too much juice," he muttered, shaking out his arms. "I gotta ease it back."
This time he crouched low, steadying his breath. Instead of flooding his legs with raw energy, he trickled the current in, careful, like learning to pour water without spilling. Sparks coiled around his calves, steady and warm.
"Alright… nice and easy."
He pushed off.
The ground blurred beneath him — not chaotic like before, but smooth, sharp, controlled. His feet hammered the earth in rapid rhythm, blue arcs snapping with each step. The wind tore at his hair, his hoodie flapping behind him as he picked up speed.
"Whoa…" He glanced down, eyes wide. He wasn't tumbling. He wasn't flying out of control. He was running.
Faster. Faster.
He tore through the street, the slum lights flickering past in streaks. A rusted speed monitor on the corner flicked to life, the digits stuttering before locking: 60 mph.
Kirro's chest exploded with laughter.
"THAT'S… THAT'S A LOW SPEEDSTER LEVEL!" he shouted into the night, grinning so wide it hurt. His voice cracked with pure joy.
The kind of speed most kids dreamed of — the kind that earned respect, recognition, power. And here he was, hitting it on his second try.
He sprinted down the empty road toward home, sparks trailing behind him in glowing streaks. For the first time, the city didn't feel heavy. It didn't feel broken.
It felt like his playground.
By the time his house came into view, his lungs burned and sweat poured down his back, but he was still smiling like a maniac. He skidded to a stop, sparks fading around his shoes.
"Voltage," he whispered, looking at his hands. "That's what you are. My Voltage."
The power pulsed back at him, alive and eager.
And Kirro knew one thing for certain: the world had no idea what was coming.