Arc 1: Weaponization Arc
The laughter of the orphanage came again.
Same as always — kids in the hallway, shouting, playing, pretending life was fair.
Max didn't look up from his bunk. The ceiling had a crack that ran across the paint like lightning, and he'd memorized it by now. Every jagged inch. It was easier to stare at that than to watch another goodbye.
Someone new was leaving today. Suitcases by the door. Smiling couple. Happy ending.
He'd stopped watching those moments years ago.
They never picked him.
Sixteen now — the magic number where everyone stops pretending. Nobody adopts the quiet kid with the blank stare. Nobody saves the boy who's learned to stop expecting anything.
When the dinner bell rang, he stayed where he was. The room smelled like bleach and dust. His shoes were still damp from the rain earlier, but he didn't bother taking them off.
A knock came on his door. "Max?"
He didn't answer.
"You should eat," came the voice — one of the caretakers, fake-sweet, tired.
Max turned his head slightly. "I'm not hungry."
She sighed and walked away. He waited until her steps faded, then sat up and reached under the bed. His bag was already packed — not that he owned much. One hoodie, a lighter, a photo of the orphanage group from years ago. Everyone smiling. Except him.
He looked at the photo a second longer, then folded it and shoved it deep in his pocket.
He didn't plan on coming back.
The rain was steady when he slipped through the back gate. The lock was old, rusted, easy to break if you kicked it right.
No one followed.
No one ever would.
The city was louder than he remembered. Cars passed, lights flickered, strangers brushed by without a glance. He liked it. Nobody cared who he was here.
By the second night, he'd found a half-sheltered bench in a park and claimed it as his. Cold metal. Empty silence. It was better than a room full of fake sympathy.
He lived off scraps. Slept light. Stayed invisible.
And then one early morning, a voice broke the pattern.
"Max? Is that you?"
He froze.
He turned his head — and there she was.
Alura.
She looked exactly the same but older — taller, brighter. Clean clothes, confidence in her step. A normal life.
He forced a smile that didn't fit. "Didn't expect to see you here."
"I could say the same," she said, catching her breath. "You… look different."
"That's one way to say 'you look like crap.'"
"Sorry. I didn't mean—"
He waved it off. "Don't worry. It's probably true."
She hesitated, then sat beside him. He expected her to keep her distance — everyone did — but she didn't.
"You remember me, right?" she asked.
"Hard to forget the only person who ever talked to me."
"That's not true."
"Sure it is." He looked away. "You tried to talk to the weird kid. You were nice about it. And then you left."
Her face fell. "I got adopted, Max. I didn't have a choice."
"Everyone says that."
She looked down at her shoes, rain sliding off the toes. "I wanted to find you. I asked about you a few times, but they said you were fine."
"Yeah," he said quietly. "Fine."
The silence stretched between them, heavy and real.
Finally, she spoke. "What are you doing out here?"
"Waiting for something to change."
"And if it doesn't?"
He gave a small laugh — not cruel, just tired. "Then I stop waiting."
She bit her lip. "You could come home with me. I mean—my parents—they'd help. I'm sure—"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't want your pity."
The air tightened. The park around them felt smaller.
Her phone buzzed. She pulled it out — Mom flashing on the screen.
"You should answer," Max said.
She hesitated, thumb hovering. "You'll be okay?"
He didn't answer.
"See you later?" she asked.
He looked at her — really looked this time. Her hopeful expression, her nervous half-smile. The same warmth that made him feel human for a second when they were kids.
He almost said "yeah."
Almost.
"I don't think so," he said instead.
She froze like she wanted to argue, then nodded slowly. "Goodbye, Max."
He didn't say it back.
She walked off, jogging lightly, the sound of her shoes fading into rain.
Max sat there long after Alura left.
The bench felt heavier without her voice beside him.
The rain turned into mist, coating everything silver. He leaned back and watched the clouds roll over the streetlights, turning them into hazy halos.
Max rubbed his hands together, breath turning white in the rain.
He dug the lighter out of his pocket. The hinge was rusty — it always jammed, but he carried it anyway.
"Just once," he muttered.
He flicked it.
Spark. Nothing.
Again.
Nothing.
The wind picked up, pushing sheets of rain sideways.
He tried one last time — not because he expected it to work, but because he didn't know what else to do.
He flicked it one more time.
A spark jumped.
Then —
Lightning flashed.
For half a second, the world burned green.
Max jerked back, pulse spiking.
The puddles around him shimmered with the same sickly color, twisting like something alive.
He blinked hard, squinting through the rain.
Nothing.
The color was gone. The park was quiet again — too quiet.
He sat still, chest tight. The lighter was cold in his hand.
A drop of rain hit the metal and sizzled.
"What the hell…" he muttered under his breath. His voice barely carried over the rain.
He looked down at the lighter.
Cold. Off. But when he touched his chest, his heartbeat felt wrong — heavy, uneven. Like it was echoing from somewhere deeper.
He let out a slow breath. "Just lightning," he whispered. But the words didn't sound convincing.
His voice didn't sound like his.
He looked up at the sky, empty and gray.
"What even am I doing?"
No answer. Just the hiss of rain.
"I think I'm done," he murmured.
The words disappeared into the storm like they were never there.
Maybe they weren't.
He closed his eyes and listened — to the sirens, to the splashing cars, to the world still spinning without him.
And beneath it all…
A low hum.
Like something deep inside him was awake, waiting.
The wind shifted. The park lights dimmed.
The world kept going.
He didn't.
But something in Max had already started to burn.