The dream of Bali's warning clung to Mani for days, a solemn shroud over his every move. He moved through school like a ghost, but a different kind than before. He wasn't invisible out of fear, but out of a hyper-awareness of the potential energy coiled in his limbs, the latent reach of his mind. He practiced his control constantly, in small, secret ways. In class, he would focus on a single fly buzzing against the windowpane and gently, so gently, nudge it toward the open pane with a whisper of thought. The effort left him with a faint headache, but it was clean. There was no violation, only guidance.
He avoided the park and took the long way home, steering clear of any situation that might test him. He was building his dam, one careful thought at a time.
It was on a cold, blustery Thursday night that the test came. He was in his room, trying to focus on a history essay, when a new sound pierced the usual evening quiet. It wasn't a thought. It was a feeling—a collective, rising spike of pure, animal terror.
It came from down the street.
He jumped to his feet, his chair scraping back. His heart thudded, the power inside him surging in response to the ambient fear. He ran to his window.
Two houses down, the Patterson's house was on fire.
Orange flames licked hungrily at the downstairs windows, painting the neat suburban street in a hellish, dancing light. Thick, black smoke billowed into the cold air. He could hear the crackle of wood, the shatter of glass, and underneath it all, the high, desperate sound of screaming.
His mother burst into his room, her face pale. "Mani! The Patterson's—!" She fumbled for her phone, her hands shaking. "I'm calling 911!"
But Mani wasn't listening. The screams were crystallizing in his mind, resolving into distinct thoughts, a chorus of pure panic from inside the burning house.
'CAN'T BREATHE! THE STAIRS!' – Mr. Patterson.
'MY BABY! WHERE'S MY BABY?!' – Mrs. Patterson, a raw, maternal terror that felt like a physical blow.
'MOMMY! DADDY! IT'S HOT!' – A young, tiny thought, from their seven-year-old daughter, Lily.
The fire trucks were still minutes away. The Patterson's house, he knew, was old, made of dry timber. It wouldn't last minutes.
The dragon in his chest roared, not with anger, but with a desperate, urgent need to act. Bali's voice echoed in his memory: 'Only to protect life.'
This was it. There was no other way.
"Stay here!" he yelled to his mother, and before she could grab him, he was out his bedroom door, flying down the stairs and out the front door.
The cold night air hit him like a slap, but the heat from the fire was already warming his face. Neighbors were gathering on the sidewalk, their faces masks of horror, their own fearful thoughts a buzzing cloud around them—'Oh god, are they out?' 'The whole block could go up!'
Mani ignored them. He focused on the house. On the three minds trapped inside.
He skidded to a stop at the edge of the Patterson's lawn, the heat intense even from there. The front door was wreathed in flames. He couldn't go in that way. He couldn't go in at all. His physical strength was useless here. But his mind… his mind could go where his body could not.
He closed his eyes, blocking out the roar of the fire, the screams of the neighbors, the sirens growing closer in the distance. He built his dam, not to hold the power back, but to channel it. He focused all of it, every ounce of the strange energy Bali had given him, into a single, piercing probe.
He reached out with his mind.
The wall of heat and terror was immense. It was like trying to swim upstream through a river of fire. But he pushed through. He found them.
Mr. Patterson was in the living room, crouched low, disoriented by the smoke, his thoughts a frantic jumble of escape routes and fear for his family.
'The back door is blocked! The kitchen—!'
Mani pushed into his mind, not to control, but to guide. He poured a single, clear image into the man's panicked consciousness: the small, half-bathroom under the stairs. It had no windows, but its door was solid, and it was away from the main inferno. GO THERE. NOW. He imbued the thought with a force of calm, an undeniable command to survive.
He felt the man's mind latch onto the idea, a drowning man grabbing a rope. He scrambled toward the bathroom.
Mani shifted his focus. Mrs. Patterson was upstairs, trapped in the hallway by flames, her thoughts screaming for her daughter.
'LILY! ANSWER ME!'
Mani found Lily's mind, a small, fading ember of fear in a back bedroom. She was under her bed, crying, the smoke making her dizzy.
He had to act fast. He couldn't guide them both. He had to protect them.
He turned his power on the fire itself.
He didn't know if he could. It wasn't a mind. It had no thoughts to control. But it was energy. Chaos. And his power was about order, about will.
He focused on the flames blocking Mrs. Patterson's path to the stairs. He didn't try to extinguish them. That was impossible. Instead, he imagined a bubble, a shield of pure mental force around her. He pushed his will against the fire, not to put it out, but to hold it back. To create a narrow, safe passage.
The strain was instantaneous and excruciating. It was a thousand times harder than moving a fly or scaring a bully. It felt like he was trying to hold up a collapsing building with his bare hands. A hot, sharp pain exploded behind his eyes, and a trickle of blood dripped from his nose. He groaned, his knees buckling, but he held on.
He felt the flames hesitate, repelled by an invisible barrier. It wouldn't last. He was using himself as fuel.
'RUN! NOW! DOWN THE STAIRS!' he screamed with his mind into Mrs. Patterson's consciousness.
He felt her move, stumbling through the temporary corridor he had forged.
He couldn't hold it. The fire roared back with a vengeance the moment his focus slipped. But it was enough. He felt her reach the top of the stairs.
Now, for Lily.
He was weakening fast. The world was spinning. He reached for the little girl's mind, a final, desperate effort. He poured a feeling of safety, of warmth, of her mother's love into her thoughts. He wrapped her fading consciousness in a mental blanket, protecting her from the smoke, forcing her to stay awake, to stay calm.
'Stay there, Lily. Help is coming. Mommy is coming.'
He didn't know if it was true. He had given everything he had.
The sound of the fire engines was deafening now, right on their street. Mani's legs gave way. He collapsed on the cold grass, his vision swimming, his head feeling like it had been split open with an axe. He was dimly aware of firefighters rushing past him, of the powerful spray of water hitting the house, of his mother's terrified voice calling his name.
He saw, through blurred eyes, a firefighter carrying a coughing but conscious Mrs. Patterson out the front door. Another emerged from the smoke, holding a small, soot-stained Lily in his arms. She was crying, but she was alive. Mr. Patterson stumbled out the back, gasping for air, led by another firefighter.
They were safe.
A paramedic knelt beside Mani, shining a light in his eyes. "Kid? Are you okay? What were you thinking, getting so close?"
Mani could only shake his head weakly. The world was fading in and out. He had a concussion, they would say later. From the shock, from falling.
But as he slipped into unconsciousness, the last thing he felt was not pain, and not the lingering terror of the fire.
It was a profound, bone-deep certainty. The curse was real. The burden was immense. It could break him.But tonight, he had used it to build something. He had built a shield. He had built a path. He had built three lives, still breathing.And for the first time, the power inside him didn't feel like a curse at all. It felt like a purpose.