Kenji held his breath, pressing his back against the cold brick. The shadow at the mouth of the alley lingered for a moment—long enough for Kenji to see the silhouette of a high-tech drone scanning the area—before it whirred and drifted toward the school.
As the danger passed, the adrenaline ebbed away. With it, the violent crimson veins beneath his skin began to dim, retreating until his arms looked normal again. The terrifying hum in his ears faded into a dull, manageable buzz.
"Okay," Kenji exhaled, his knees shaking. "Glow is gone. Identity preserved. Mission: Don't die on the way to the fridge."
The walk home was a blur of a different kind. He felt light—unnervingly light—as if gravity hadn't quite figured out how to hold him down anymore. Every time he took a step, he went a few inches further than he intended. It took every ounce of his concentration to walk like a "normal loser" instead of a human pinball.
The Stormrider Residence
He slipped through the front door of his cramped apartment, thankful his mom was still pulling her double shift at the hospital. The place was quiet, save for the ticking of the kitchen clock, which sounded like a sledgehammer hitting an anvil to his heightened senses.
Kenji didn't even take off his soaked hoodie. He went straight for the kitchen.
Minute 1: He finished a carton of milk and three cold chicken drumsticks.
Minute 3: He inhaled a family-sized bag of shrimp chips and two instant ramen bowls (dry, because he couldn't wait for the water to boil).
Minute 5: He was staring into the empty back of the freezer, panting, his stomach finally reaching a state of "mostly quiet."
"God, my metabolism is going to bankrupt us," he muttered, wiping crumbs from his face.
He climbed the stairs to his room, his body feeling like it was made of lead. He collapsed onto his bed, surrounded by stacks of Weekly Shonen Jump and hero figurines that now felt like a mockery of his reality. He looked at his hand in the dark.
"I'm not a fan anymore," he whispered. "I'm... a variable."
As his eyes closed, a single red spark jumped between his fingertips, illuminating a poster of Solaris (Rank #1) on his wall. For a split second, the hero's perfect smile looked incredibly fragile.
The Next Morning
Kenji woke up to the sound of his alarm clock—or rather, the sound of his alarm clock exploding. When he had reached out to hit the "Snooze" button, a tiny discharge of static had fried the digital display, melting the plastic casing instantly.
"Great," Kenji groaned, staring at the toasted electronics. "Now I'm late and I owe myself twenty bucks."
He realized then that the "rest" hadn't turned the power off. It had just let it settle. He felt like a battery that had been overcharged; if he didn't find a way to bleed off this energy, he was going to blow a fuse—literally.