The morning sun felt like a lie. It streamed through Mani's window, painting a bright, cheerful rectangle on his carpet. He had barely slept, his mind spinning in frantic circles around the new, terrifying reality of his own body. Every time he'd started to drift off, he'd jolt awake, afraid he'd rolled over and cracked his bedframe or punched a hole in the wall.
Getting dressed was a meticulous, nerve-wracking process. He buttoned his shirt as if the buttons were primed to explode. He tied his shoes with the delicate precision of a bomb disposal expert. The simple, worn fabric of his jeans felt like a flimsy disguise for the potential underneath.
Downstairs, the smell of toast and eggs made his stomach clench. He wasn't sure he could trust himself with food.
"Morning, honey," his mother said, her back to him as she scraped scrambled eggs onto a plate. "Sleep okay?"
He didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on the cast-iron skillet she was now lifting with one hand to move it to a cold burner. It was heavy; he knew because he'd tried to lift it once before and could barely budge it. She swung it casually, her wrist flexing with the strain.
And a clear, sharp thought, not his own, sliced into his mind: 'My shoulder is so stiff this morning.'
Mani flinched so hard he knocked his juice glass. Orange liquid sloshed over the table. The voice had been his mother's, but it hadn't come from her mouth. It had come from inside his own head.
"Mani! Goodness, are you all right?" She turned, a dishcloth in her hand.
He could only stare, his mouth dry. He had heard her thought. Just like he'd heard Bali's voice in the park. The power wasn't just about strength. It was… this.
"I… I'm sorry," he stammered, grabbing a napkin to mop up the spill. His hands were shaking. "I just… thought I saw a spider."
He kept his head down through breakfast, too terrified to look at her. What if he heard more? What if he heard things he wasn't supposed to? This was a different kind of violation, worse than the shoves in the hallway. This was walking into someone's house without knocking.
The walk to school was a surreal exercise in sensory overload. It was as if a volume knob for the world had been turned to a deafening level, but the noise wasn't coming from his ears.
As he passed Mr. Henderson, who was watering his petunias, a weary, internal sigh echoed in Mani's mind: 'Another day, another dollar. Wish I'd retired when I had the chance.'
A woman rushed past, talking loudly on her phone. But beneath her cheerful, "I'll be there in five minutes, I promise!" Mani caught a frantic, panicked thread: 'The rent is due tomorrow and I don't have it, I don't have it, what am I going to do…'
It was a cacophony of hidden fears, quiet boredom, and secret sorrows. He wanted to clamp his hands over his ears, but it was no use. The voices were inside him. He felt like a radio receiver, picking up every station at once with no way to turn it off. By the time he reached the schoolyard, his head was pounding, a dull, persistent ache blooming behind his eyes.
He saw Mark before Mark saw him. He was holding court by the bike racks, laughing loudly. A part of Mani, the part that was still just a scared, bullied kid, screamed at him to turn around, to hide.
But another part, the part that had snapped a textbook in half and heard the private thoughts of his neighbors, was curious. And angry.
He kept walking, his gaze fixed straight ahead, hoping to slip by unnoticed. It was a futile hope.
"Well, look who it is," Mark's voice cut through the chatter of the other kids. "The ghost decided to show up."
Mani didn't stop. He didn't even look at him.
A hand clamped down on his shoulder, hard. "I'm talking to you, ghost."
The contact was a lightning rod. The moment Mark's fingers touched him, Mani's mental static focused into a single, clear channel. He didn't just hear a thought; he felt a wave of emotion—a need to dominate, to be seen, a flicker of insecurity so quickly buried under aggression it was almost invisible. And the clear, wordless thought: 'Make him look at me.'
Mani stopped. He slowly turned his head, his eyes meeting Mark's. The usual fear was there, a cold knot in his stomach, but it was now surrounded by this new, humming power. The dragon in his chest uncoiled, interested.
"Let go of me," Mani said. His voice was quiet, but it didn't shake.
Mark's smirk widened. "Or what?" He gave Mani a sharp shove.
It was the same shove as yesterday. But Mani wasn't the same boy. He didn't stumble. He didn't even rock back on his heels. It was like pushing a concrete pillar. Mark's smirk faltered, replaced by a flicker of confusion.
Mani looked down at the hand still on his shoulder. A wild, dangerous idea sparked in his mind. He didn't want to hit Mark. That was too obvious, too brutal. He just wanted the hand gone.He focused. He imagined the air around Mark's wrist thickening, solidifying. He pictured an invisible hand prying those fingers loose. He pushed that thought outward, a silent command from the humming core of his being.
'Let. Go.'Mark's eyes went wide. His fingers didn't just loosen; they sprang open as if repelled by a powerful magnet. He yanked his hand back, clutching his wrist, his face a mask of pure, uncomprehending shock."What did you do?" he whispered, his voice tight.
Mani said nothing. He just stood there, the power thrumming through him, a silent, terrifying shield. The other kids had fallen silent, watching. They hadn't seen Mani do anything. They'd just seen Mark shove him, fail to move him, and then recoil as if burned.Mani turned and walked away, leaving a stunned silence in his wake. He didn't feel triumphant. He felt sick. He had used it. The secret strength. And it had worked.He had won, but it didn't feel like winning. It felt like he had opened a door he could never close. The dragon was no longer just sleeping in his chest. It was awake, and it was hungry.