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Alan didn't move at first.
His breath came out uneven, scraping his throat. His back throbbed in dull pulses. Every inhale dragged fire through his ribs, sharp enough to make his jaw tighten.
He planted one hand against the locker and pushed himself up slowly. His fingers shook as they slid across the cold metal, slipping once before finding purchase. His knees locked late. He leaned there, shoulders hunched, head lowered.
"…Come back, you assholes…" he muttered.
A cough tore out of him, wet and ugly. He bent forward slightly, one hand braced against his thigh.
"Where do you think you're going?"
Students passed by. Shoes squeaked on the tile. Backpacks brushed past his shoulder. No one stopped. No one stared. They just walked around him like he was part of the wall.
John's voice echoed down the hallway, loud and careless.
"I still can't believe this weakling dodged some of our hits. And even punched your forehead."
A laugh followed, sharp and amused.
Mark answered, still walking away. "He had me for a sec. Thought he'd pull some hidden bullshit. Guess not."
Their footsteps faded. Their voices dissolved into the noise of the school.
Alan lifted his hand and wiped his mouth. Blood smeared across his knuckles. He stared at it for a second before dragging his sleeve across his lip again, harder this time.
The floor came into focus. Scuffed tiles. Dust ground into the cracks. A notebook someone dropped, pages bent and wet where blood had splashed earlier.
His eyes narrowed.
The heat in his chest flared, tight and suffocating. He straightened his back despite the pain, teeth grinding as his ribs protested.
"I swear I will get stronger…" he whispered, voice shaking but controlled.
"…I'm done being weak."
His hands curled into fists. His nails bit deep enough to hurt.
"I'll remember this. I will remember every word they said, every hit they threw."
He inhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate, forcing air into his lungs.
"I'll become the best my bloodline has ever seen. I'll use my rage to gain strength."
His shoulders settled. His stance evened out.
"Strength is the only thing that matters in this world. Anything else is just a delusion for the weak." His jaw set. "There is one certainty in life. A strong man stands above and conquers all."
His heartbeat slowed.
Alan pushed off the locker and walked down the hallway. His steps were uneven at first, then steadier. He didn't look back.
Three Months Later
Metal clanged.
Breathing echoed off concrete walls.
Sweat hit the gym mats in thick drops, darkening the surface one spot at a time.
Alan's fist slammed into the heavy bag.
THUD.
The chains rattled. The bag swung back.
He stepped with it, hips turning as his other hand snapped forward.
THUD. THUD.
His knuckles were split and red, skin rough and swollen. Tape hugged his hands tight, darkened with sweat and blood. His shoulders flexed with every strike, muscle burning under the strain.
He wasn't huge and he wasn't fragile either.
His feet moved without hesitation. Step. Pivot. Slide. Counter. The soles of his shoes squealed faintly against the floor as he shifted weight.
He drove a right hook into the bag.
THUD.
The bag lurched hard, chains scraping against the mount. Alan followed through, breath tearing out of his chest as he reset his stance.
He stepped back, hands dropping for a second as his chest rose and fell. Sweat ran down his neck and soaked into his shirt. His arms trembled from exhaustion earned the hard way.
Three months of this.
Three months of pushing until his vision blurred and his muscles burned nonstop.
He looked up.
The mirror stared back at him. Jaw tighter. Eyes focused. His posture was straight, grounded. The kid from the hallway wasn't there anymore.
He grabbed a towel and dragged it across his face, wiping sweat from his eyes. His breathing slowed, controlled.
Then he stopped.
His eyes closed.
John's knee drove into his stomach again, clear and sharp. The memory tightened his gut. Mark's voice followed, low and smug.
"Know your place."
Alan's jaw clenched. His grip crushed the towel in his hand.
"Never again…" he muttered.
He slung the towel over his shoulder, grabbed his bag, and walked out of the gym.
Later…
Alan stepped into the hidden library of Winchester Manor and felt the temperature drop immediately. The air was stale, thick with old parchment and dust that hadn't been disturbed in years. His shoes made soft, hollow taps against the stone floor. A single lamp on the far desk flickered, its light weak and uneven, casting long shadows across towering shelves packed tight with books and folders.
He rolled his shoulders once and wiped the remaining water from his neck, skin still warm from the shower. Droplets soaked into the collar of his shirt.
"Man… I could use a book or two," he muttered, voice low in the quiet room. "Something to kill the rest of the day." He tilted his head slightly as he scanned the shelves. "Maybe something about heroes without powers… that would be inspiring."
His fingers slid along the spines as he walked. The shelves creaked faintly under their own weight. Titles passed by slowly as he read them.
Ancient Threats.
The Rise of Heroes in Ember.
Hero Laws.
He stopped.
His eyes narrowed.
"Huh…" He leaned closer, scanning the shelf again. "This is my father's secret door…" He glanced left, then right, listening. The manor stayed silent. "It should have some entertaining old books."
He reached down and shoved aside a storage bin tucked against the base of the shelf.
Click.
Creaaaaak.
The shelf shifted.
Alan froze.
Then the wall slid open with a slow, grinding sound, stone rubbing against stone. Cold air spilled out from the gap, brushing against his face.
The hidden chamber revealed itself.
The light barely reached inside, but he could see enough. Black Mentis's suit hung against the wall, empty, rigid, shaped like a body that had just stepped away. It made his skin crawl. Weapons lined metal racks, arranged with careful precision. Tables were covered in books, folders, and stacks of paper held together with old clips and ties.
Alan stepped inside. His footsteps echoed differently here.
He moved slowly, fingertips dragging across cracked leather journals and brittle paper. Dust clung to his skin.
"Let's see…" he murmured. "Maybe something from the pre-hero, no powers era… something Dad wrote… or he got an interesting book stashed."
He turned.
A box sat in the corner, half-hidden under a heavy cloth. It didn't belong with the rest. It had no label on it and no markings.
Alan crouched and pulled the cloth away.
"ooo… what is this?" he muttered. "I haven't seen this before."
He dragged the box onto the desk. It scraped loudly across the wood. He hesitated for half a second, then lifted the lid.
Paper filled the box.
Stacks of it.
Typed documents. Handwritten notes. Photographs clipped to reports. Every page stamped with the same symbol in bold ink.
HEROCORP Internal Use Only
Alan's breath caught.
His heartbeat picked up, loud enough that he noticed it. He pulled out the top file and started reading.
One page.
Then another.
Then another.
The color drained from his face. His mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out.
"…what the fuck…?" he whispered. "What's the meaning of this..?"
His fingers trembled as he flipped pages faster.
Heroes treated like test subjects.
Drug treatments. Forced enhancements.
He swallowed hard.
Failed experiments. Dead bodies. Failed subjects.
His hand paused mid-page. His grip tightened.
Dates jumped out at him.
1960s.
1970s.
1980s.
1990s.
His chest tightened.
Some files listed hero codenames. Others were worse. They were just numbers. They had no names, no faces, only their test results.
"So they really…" His voice came out thin. "…experimented on them? All this time?"
He flipped another page, breathing shallow now.
"This is insane…" He dragged a hand through his hair, fingers snagging slightly. "Dad hid this? But… but why…?"
He kept reading.
Power suppression trials.
Forced evolution tests.
Psychological conditioning.
Termination reports.
His stomach turned. A sharp, nauseating twist hit him and he had to brace a hand against the desk to steady himself.
His breathing grew heavy. His vision narrowed.
He slammed the papers down hard. The sound echoed through the chamber.
"They aren't helping heroes," he said, voice rising, shaking. "They're using them. Breaking them. Killing them." His jaw clenched. "Those fucking monsters…"
He stared at the pile, chest heaving, sweat breaking out along his neck despite the cold.
"I have to talk to Dad." His voice cracked. "I… I need answers." He shook his head slowly. "Why did he hide this? Why keep quiet about this evil acts? Why pretend everything is okay?" His hands clenched into fists. "I don't get it."
He gathered the papers against his chest, gripping them tight, and turned sharply.
His footsteps were fast now. Heavy. Angry.
Alan stormed out of the hidden room, the secret door grinding shut behind him.
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