The night won’t let him go.

  Jason jolts awake in the dark of the room, like someone fired a shot straight into his ribcage.

  Sweat everywhere.

  T-shirt stuck to his skin.

  Every muscle aching, like he just fought an endless round with no bell.

  His breath jams in his throat.

  One second he’s here.

  The next—

  Flash.

  The criminal’s face disappearing.

  Flesh.

  Bone.

  Blood.

  Nothing that makes sense.

  Another flash.

  The boss blown apart.

  The underlings torn to pieces.

  A vast, dark pool spreading out, endless.

  Jason staggers out of bed.

  His legs feel heavy.

  His head pounds.

  He crosses the room like he’s underwater and reaches the bathroom.

  Turns on the tap.

  Splashes his face.

  Cold.

  Sharp.

  Not enough.

  He looks up at the mirror.

  Closes his eyes.

  Opens them.

  For an instant, the reflection isn’t his.

  Face covered in blood.

  Eyes—orange. Bright. Alive like embers.

  Jason jerks back, heart slamming against his ribs from the inside.

  Panic.

  He looks at his shaking hands.

  Whispers, like saying it softly might make it less real.

  “I butchered them…”

  He swallows.

  “Tore them apart…”

  He stares back at the reflection, almost daring it.

  “Am I still human…?”

  His voice trembles.

  “Was I ever?”

  The bathroom neon hums.

  A small, insistent sound.

  Like an insect trapped inside his skull.

  Jason leans on the sink, head down, breathing in ragged bursts.

  Then.

  Silence.

  Just dripping water.

  Just the weight.

  —

  The next day, in the underground, the tatami smells of sweat and dust.

  Jason and Michael fight again.

  Michael provokes him.

  Not randomly.

  Not for fun.

  Chosen words. Surgical.

  Sentences that press the exposed nerve to see if it holds.

  To see what’s under the skin.

  Jason blocks. Dodges. Answers.

  He’s better.

  Too good.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  Michael pushes a little more.

  “So?”

  “You remember the guy’s face in the alley?”

  A short, venomous pause.

  “You like it?”

  Something snaps inside Jason.

  Not a thought.

  A door opening.

  Trance.

  The alley.

  The blood.

  The blast.

  Heat on his hands.

  Jason attacks.

  Fast.

  Decisive.

  Improved—

  But with no brakes.

  Like he finally found the right speed to truly destroy.

  Michael’s face changes instantly.

  “Jason, stop!”

  Jason doesn’t hear.

  The words bounce off the concrete.

  Michael raises his voice.

  “JASON!!”

  Jason keeps coming.

  More violent.

  Closer.

  Michael looks into his eyes and understands immediately.

  Jason isn’t there.

  The space changes.

  The ground vibrates faintly.

  The air turns hot and heavy, like the underground is holding an explosion in its lungs.

  A rush of air slams into Michael, tugs at his tank top, throws dust against him.

  Michael shouts again—louder, harder.

  “JASON!!!”

  Veins swell along Jason’s arms.

  They glow.

  Like lava under the skin.

  Michael sharpens completely.

  Predatory.

  Every muscle ready to tear itself apart to stop what’s coming.

  Jason loads up.

  A cavitation punch fires.

  Michael slips out of line by a hair.

  And then—

  POOOOOOM!!!

  A devastating blast.

  The strike doesn’t hit a man.

  It hits the wall.

  Concrete shatters.

  Dust erupts.

  Debris everywhere—hailstones of stone ricocheting and bouncing.

  Michael catches the movement right after.

  Danger.

  Jason’s other arm is already rising.

  Another strike coming.

  Decision.

  Michael doesn’t gamble.

  He releases his power.

  A crushing aura detonates from his body like sudden gravity.

  The air compresses.

  Space seems to slow.

  Speed and force collapse into a single instant.

  Michael goes in.

  Grabs Jason’s arm.

  Yanks.

  Throw.

  He flips him and slams him into the ground with a sharp impact that makes the tatami shudder.

  Dissipation.

  Jason’s attack breaks apart in the air—

  heat, pressure, another violent displacement that slaps the underground like a giant hand.

  Michael pins Jason down.

  Feral stare.

  Arms like vices.

  For a second Jason thrashes.

  Empty eyes.

  Animal breath.

  Then the body gives.

  The ground smokes faintly near the impact point.

  Jason’s hands are steaming.

  Michael exhales hard, like he’d been holding the entire world in his lungs.

  Jason slowly comes back.

  Disoriented.

  Dazed.

  Like waking from a blood-soaked dream.

  Michael sits back, still alert.

  Ready to move again in a millisecond if needed.

  Jason cries.

  Not pretty.

  A broken, real sob that spills out of his chest like he’s emptying himself.

  “I can’t control it…”

  He chokes.

  “Help me…”

  The words fracture.

  “I killed people…”

  Michael moves closer.

  Grips his shoulder.

  His look is paternal—but not gentle.

  It’s the look of someone who sees reality and doesn’t flinch.

  “You’re not a monster.”

  A heavy pause.

  “You’re a natural disaster.”

  Jason trembles.

  Michael holds him.

  Then his voice settles—calm, firm.

  A pact.

  “You have to learn to listen to your strength.”

  “And control it.”

  “For yourself… and for the people you love.”

  No speeches.

  No it’ll be okay.

  Just truth.

  “I’m here for that.”

  He pulls Jason’s head to his shoulder and holds him there, while Jason’s breathing breaks and reassembles in uneven bursts.

  Michael lifts his gaze past him.

  The crumbled wall.

  The wounded underground.

  Smoke rising from the floor.

  He sighs.

  “Aah…”

  A tired, bitter half-smile.

  “You really make me work, kid.”

  Pistol Boy.