Chapter 13 – The New Normal and Titus's Secret — Part I
Titus stood in front of the door for several seconds before he could force himself to touch the handle. His hand hovered over it, trembling.
Not from cold—though rain streamed down his arm and dripped from his fingertips in steady, uneven drops—but from something deeper. Something lodged between his ribs like a shard of glass.
Fear.
But not the kind he knew. Not the fear of bullies. Not the fear of humiliation. Not the fear of being too weak, too fragile, too slow. No. This was a different fear. A fear that whispered from the inside. A fear of himself.
He pressed the door open, and it gave way with a soft, familiar creak that felt painfully out of place in the new world inside his skull. He stepped into the warm entrance hall, a sharp contrast to the storm soaking his clothes.
The first thing he noticed was how the air inside felt thicker than outside. He could smell everything. The detergent on the freshly mopped floors. The faint perfume his mother always wore around this hour. The leather of his father's coat hanging by the door. Even the electric warmth coming from the hallway lamp.
He felt dizzy. Disoriented. Overwhelmed.
"Titus!"
His mother's voice cut through the fog in his mind like a blade. She rushed toward him, hand flying to her mouth in a gesture of pure panic. His father wasn't far behind. Controlled, cold, strict, predictable—until tonight. His composure crumbled the moment he saw the state of his son.
Titus watched them react as though he were outside his body. Floating somewhere above, detached. Watching a version of himself he no longer recognized.
His drenched uniform clung to him like peeling skin. His hair dripped water onto the floor. His breathing was uneven, too shallow or too deep, he couldn't tell. Everything felt wrong.
"Son… your clothes," his father whispered, horror slipping through the cracks of his voice. "What happened? Why are you—God, Titus, you're soaked. Did someone hurt you?"
Titus parted his lips, but no sound came out. His throat seized up. Words refused to form. A thousand thoughts collided inside him like shards of glass.
He forced a breath. Forced another. He had practiced this lie. He had repeated it in his head during the entire train ride. He knew exactly what he had to say.
But the moment he stood in front of them, dripping rainwater onto the polished floor, everything inside him fractured.
How do you tell your parents you almost died? How do you tell them you changed? How do you tell them some kind of golden miracle repaired your bones, your lungs, your eyes, your nerves, your everything? How do you tell them you killed someone?
You don't.
So Titus forced the lie up his throat, choking on it like thick smoke.
"Dad… Mom…" he whispered, voice cracking. "School was hell. Ken's group attacked me. On the rooftop."
His mother cried harder, choking on her own breath. His father clenched his fists, trembling. For the first time in years, Titus saw fear—real fear—etched into their faces.
He hated it. He hated lying to them. He hated watching their world crumble over him. But the truth would destroy them.
He swallowed. "But… I'm not hurt," Titus continued quickly, stumbling over the words. "Some classmates—Bruno and Cristal—they stepped in. They stopped it. They saved me."
His father's eyes narrowed. Not suspicious, not angry. Just confused. Deeply, profoundly confused.
Because Titus had no bruises. Not a scratch. Not a swollen lip or cheek or eyelid. Yet his clothes looked shredded, destroyed, torn open like the aftermath of a wild animal attack.
"Titus," his father said quietly. "Let me see your face."
Titus stepped under the hallway light. His father's expression changed. Completely. His mother gasped.
His skin—once pale and sickly—was smooth. Unblemished. Healthy. Alive. And his eyes… His eyes were too sharp. Too clear. Too focused. They weren't the eyes of a boy who had depended on thick lenses since childhood. They looked new. Reborn. Almost glowing under the light, reflecting a depth he had never possessed before.
"Your glasses," his father murmured, voice shaking. "Where are they?"
Titus's heart stopped. Just for a second. Just long enough to feel the panic surge inside him like a dark wave.
"I… lost them in the chaos," he lied.
"And these…" his father said slowly, examining the torn sleeves. "Your arms… Titus, have you been… working out?"
Titus swallowed hard. His muscles felt too present, too heavy, too strong beneath the ruined fabric. He didn't feel like himself.
"It was the adrenaline," he whispered. "The fall. The panic. I think… I think something snapped into place. I felt pain and then… a boom. Like the adrenaline fixed me."
His father's expression flickered. His mother stopped breathing.
The explanation was ridiculous. Biologically impossible. Absurd. But they accepted it. Not because it made sense—but because they needed something to hold onto. Because they loved him. Because the alternative was unthinkable.
And Titus knew it. He watched them accept the lie, and something twisted inside him—guilt, relief, exhaustion, fear, all tangled into one suffocating knot.
His mother wiped her tears. His father straightened his back, forcing his control to return.
"The school will be closed for two months," his mother whispered. "They just sent a message."
Two months. Two months to figure out his powers. Two months to learn what he'd become.
He looked at his hands. They didn't look like hands that belonged to a victim. They looked like hands capable of breaking things. Of protecting. Of killing.
Cristal's kiss still burned faintly on his cheek. His father kept watching him as if seeing a stranger.
And Titus felt it again—that new version of himself rising inside, the one that wasn't afraid anymore, the one that wasn't weak, the one that wasn't breakable.
He didn't know if he liked it. He didn't know what terrified him more: The old Titus dying… or the new one waking up.
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Hook: But something in the darkness was already moving, ready to change everything…
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