The problem wasn't that Shinwa had gotten stronger.
The problem was that strength had stopped feeling optional.
In the days after the stage incident, the city behaved differently around him—even when no one recognized his face. Screens replayed the footage on loop. Commentators argued. Civilians speculated. The image of a masked figure standing under broken lights seeped into public consciousness, abstract but persistent.
Shinwa stayed inside.
Not out of fear of arrest—he had routes for that now—but because the weight followed him even when he did nothing. Not fully. Not openly.
But it hovered.
Like his body was waiting for permission.
He stood in the center of his room, feet planted, eyes closed.
"Okay," he said quietly. "We slow it down."
He had learned enough to know brute suppression didn't work. Ignoring the weight only let it spike when triggered. Letting it run unchecked was worse.
So he tried something else.
Posture.
He adjusted his stance—knees bent, spine aligned, shoulders relaxed. Not a fighting pose. A neutral one. The kind meant to absorb force, not project it.
He imagined the classroom.
Then the docks.
Then the stage.
The weight stirred.
Shinwa exhaled and shifted his focus inward—not to the reactions, not to the crowd, but to the baseline. The subtle reinforcement that never left him. The quiet strength that existed even in isolation.
The pressure eased.
Not gone.
Contained.
He opened his eyes.
"…That worked."
Training became methodical.
He stopped thinking in terms of power and started thinking in terms of flow.
When he shadowboxed, he focused on minimizing impact. Shortening follow-through. Letting momentum die early. When he struck a heavy bag, he practiced stopping just before full force, feeling the weight pool without releasing it.
Sometimes the pressure surged anyway.
When it did, he didn't push back.
He redirected.
He turned his body sideways. Lowered his center of gravity. Let the strength sink into stability instead of projection. The floor creaked beneath him, but nothing shattered.
Control wasn't about denial.
It was about distribution.
He wrote constantly.
CONTROL METHODS
Breath regulates spike intensity
Posture determines output direction
Forward intent amplifies
Neutral intent stabilizes
He underlined the last point twice.
Intent mattered more than emotion.
That was new.
A week later, he tested it outside.
Late night. Empty street. One witness—a man arguing loudly into his phone across the road. Shinwa stepped into view deliberately, letting himself be seen.
The weight rose immediately.
He didn't advance.
He adjusted his stance.
The pressure condensed inward instead of radiating. The man faltered, words trailing off, frowning as if he'd forgotten what he was saying.
Shinwa held it.
Five seconds.
Ten.
Then he stepped back.
The weight receded smoothly.
The man shook his head and walked on, confused but unharmed.
Shinwa released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
"…I can dial it," he murmured.
Not perfectly.
But enough.
The real test came two nights later.
A group recognized the mask from the footage. Phones came up immediately. Excitement rippled instead of fear.
The weight surged hard.
Shinwa felt the familiar pull—impact begging to be expressed.
He forced himself still.
He planted his feet. Relaxed his shoulders. Let the strength settle downward instead of outward. The pressure rolled across the ground like a wave and dissipated.
No one fell.
No one ran.
The moment broke.
Someone laughed nervously. Another lowered their phone.
Shinwa turned and walked away.
Behind him, confusion replaced expectation.
Back home, Shinwa sat on the edge of his bed, hands resting loosely on his knees.
Control was possible.
But it wasn't free.
Suppressing the weight took focus. Letting it out felt easier. Natural. Right. He understood now how someone could stop resisting—not out of cruelty, but convenience.
That realization scared him more than losing control ever had.
He lay back and stared at the ceiling.
"If I ever stop thinking," he said quietly, "this thing will decide for me."
The house stayed silent.
But the weight didn't move.
For now—
—it listened.