The last thing Kelvin remembered was the thumping bass of rhema's Afrobeat track 'calm down' and the amber glow of expensive Hennessy. He was twenty-five, a Master's degree in Physics from ABUAD (Afe Babalola university Ado Ekiti), fresh in his pocket, and his father's political connections promised a golden future.
Then came the screech of tires. The world flipped. The smell of burning rubber and expensive leather upholstery was the last thing he tasted before the dark took him.
"Wake up, you useless trash."
The voice wasn't a memory. It was a sharp, grating sound that vibrated inside his skull.
Kelvin opened his eyes, but the ceiling wasn't the roof of a luxury SUV. It was gray, crumbling concrete crisscrossed with rusted rebar. Rain dripped through a hole in the roof, splashing onto a floor littered with empty ramen packets and cigarette butts.
Where am I? This isn't Abuja.
A flood of memories hit him like a physical blow. A different Kelvin. Seventeen years old. An orphan who spent his days hauling cement bags at construction sites and his nights hiding in this abandoned tenement. This Kelvin had no political father, no degree, and most importantly, in a world where your "Ability" was your social security number—he had nothing.
He had been cornered by a group of street thugs looking for his week's wages. A pipe to the back of the head. A cold death in a dark corner.
Kelvin raised a trembling hand. It was pale, scarred from manual labor, and definitely not his own.
Wait. >
As he stared at the damp air in front of him, his physicist's brain didn't just see "mist." He saw the molecular structure. Two parts Hydrogen. One part Oxygen. Covalent bonds. The kinetic energy of the particles slowed down as he focused, his mind instinctively mapping the atomic lattice.
I can... I can see the building blocks.
He reached out, imagining the moisture in the air condensing. He didn't just "wish" for water like a typical Esper would. He commanded the atoms to align.
A perfect, shimmering sphere of water materialized an inch above his palm. It didn't wobble or drip; it held its shape with mathematical precision.
Kelvin's eyes widened. "Physics... isn't just a theory anymore."