"Quite the group of powerhouses we have this year, sir."

  Principal Munson looked up from his desk, arching an eyebrow at his secretary, who lingered at the doorway with a clipboard clutched to her chest and a nervous smile playing on her lips. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, casting pale halos over stacks of files and mahogany bookshelves.

  "Yes," Munson said slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Yes, it is."

  He exhaled heavily, the slow breath of someone who carried years of tired politics and worse secrets. With a slow hand, he flipped the top file back open. "Five pro hero offspring. Two likely Apex classifications. And… him."

  He paused.

  The silence was thick.

  He stared down at the dossier in his hands, the beige folder already creased from the number of times he’d reopened it. The file felt heavier than it should have.

  Came from an endangered home background. Government intervention. Ward of the state. Three years of rehabilitation in a Facility closer to a military base than an environment for a child. Medical and psychological logs thick with redacted lines and clinical euphemisms.

  Signs of mental deterioration have declined.

  He flipped the page.

  A photograph stared back at him—blurry, almost as if the cameraman had flinched. A boy—no, a young man—stood in the center. Bone-thin, long black hair matted to his head, eyes too big for his sunken face, a hospital gown hanging off him like wet paper. Pale skin marred by bruises and scars, both fresh and faded, and a look in his eyes that wasn’t fear, but something older. Like he’d forgotten what fear was and replaced it with resignation.

  Munson rubbed at his temples. "Barely fit to run, let alone throw punches."

  The only thing that stood out in the report, the only damn reason the boy had been cleared for enrollment, was stamped in bold at the top of the page:

  Meta-Gene Type: Apex – Adaptive Evolution

  Munson turned to the next section of the file. Medical scans. Brain wave patterns during stress. Cellular regeneration spikes. A list of lab-monitored exposures: extreme temperatures, blunt force, sedatives, and electric shocks. Each was followed by cold scientific notation detailing rapid physiological adaptation and an increasing regeneration factor.

  Subject demonstrates persistent trait enhancement following recovery. Ability appears reflexive, not conscious.

  Recommendation: Combat training in controlled environments. Long-term potential: high. Supervision: mandatory.

  Munson let the file close with a soft thwack and leaned back in his chair. The old leather creaked beneath him as he stared at the ceiling momentarily, then closed his eyes.

  "They don’t pay me enough for this shit," he muttered.

  The secretary gave a weak chuckle but said nothing.

  "You know," he continued, his voice quieter now, "some kids come here to become heroes. Others come here to learn control. But that one... that boy wasn’t given a choice in any of this. He was built by fire and kept in a cage. What comes out of that..." He trailed off, unsure if he was talking to her or to himself. "...well, I guess that’s my job to find out."

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  She nodded, lips pressed into a thin line.

  “Should I alert the Orientation team, sir?”

  Munson opened his eyes again, fixing her with a tired, measured stare.

  “Yes. And tell them to keep a healer nearby.”

  Leo

  High walls loomed on all sides, steel-gray and sterile, as if even the architecture wanted to remind them they were under watch. Dozens, maybe hundreds, of students sat in rows that stretched into the distance, a sea of faces from every walk of life. Uniforms still new, voices buzzing in excited chatter. Every single one of them had one thing in common:

  Their Meta-Gene.

  Some bore the confidence of being a legacy—the unmistakable posture of those raised by heroes. Others looked like they’d barely made it through the doors, eyes wide and unsure. But all of them had potential. Raw, volatile, dangerous potential.

  All of them dangerous, he reminded himself.

  Walking through the rows wasn’t the hard part. People moved. They gave space. Maybe it was instinct; maybe it was how he walked—head down, back stiff, eyes scanning. He’d learned to move like something people didn’t want to touch. It worked.

  Finding an empty seat near the back, he slid into it with barely a sound, back straight, hands in his lap, head down. He didn’t lean. Didn’t fidget. Just… watched. Counted exits and memorized faces. Watched as kids laughed loudly. Some even flexed their powers like it was all a game to them.

  He wasn’t like them, he decided with a grinding of his teeth.

  Didn’t want to be.

  He barely registered the sound at first—a cough, then a light tap on his shoulder.

  "Can I sit here?"

  He turned slightly, eyes flicking up. A tall girl stood over him, light-skinned with a mess of neat braids and a smirk that said she wasn’t easily intimidated. Freckles dusted across her face like stars across a sky. She looked like she belonged here.

  He didn’t answer. Just gave her a slow side-eye, then turned his gaze back to the front.

  He wasn't here to make friends.

  She sat anyway, dropping into the seat beside him with a sigh that was more performance than frustration.

  "Not the talker type, huh? No worries. Nana always said I talk enough for two people." She chuckled, mostly to herself.

  His jaw tensed, and he clenched his hands at his side. Still silent.

  “Quite the small fry, aren’t you?” she went on, either oblivious or uncaring. “I've got enough height for both of us, I reckon. Nana always joked I was part tree. Must be the nature ability—roots, growth, yada yada.” She raised her arms and mimed branches growing out of her sides, her voice trailing off when she caught the steel in his glare.

  “Heh… tough crowd,” she muttered, shrinking ever so slightly.

  “Jean!”

  The shout came from behind them, a high, slightly panicked voice. A short boy with wild brown hair, glasses too big for his face, and a backpack that bounced awkwardly as he ran toward them waved frantically.

  “There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere. You won’t believe who I ran into—”

  “Grant,” Jean tried, with a note of warning.

  “—the son of Cosmis is in our class! Like, the Cosmis! He looks just—”

  “Grant!” she hissed.

  The boy, Grant, blinked at her, then looked at the silent figure beside her for the first time. His smile flickered uncertainly.

  Jean gave an exaggerated sweep of her hands. “This is my new friend…” She paused and gave him a sheepish grin, then leaned in a little. “Actually, what is your name?”

  He hesitated. But something about the girl’s crooked grin and the boy’s ridiculous excitement chipped a crack in his wall.

  He opened his mouth—

  And the lights shut off with a sharp click.

  The room instantly fell silent. A few nervous murmurs. Shuffling. Then—

  Fzzzt.

  The stage lights sputtered, flickering once… twice… then flared to life. A single beam landed on a tall figure at the center of the platform.

  A man. Massive, broad-shouldered, dressed in a black suit with the school's silver emblem on his chest. His scars visible even from here. The kind of man who didn’t need to announce his presence—you felt it when he walked into a room.

  All at once, the atmosphere shifted.

  This was no ordinary orientation.

  This was the beginning.

  He straightened slightly in his seat, eyes locking onto the man on stage. Every part of his body tensed—not in fear, but in anticipation.

  Finally.

  Finally, it was time to get stronger.