The morning sun split across the Grayson living room in quiet beams, slicing through the blinds and laying warm gold across the hardwood floor. The television was on, but nobody was really watching it. The news anchor's voice carried from the speakers, droning with the strange calm that only came from cities used to catastrophe.
"…ongoing confrontation between the Guardians of the Globe and the Mauler Twins continues near the Capitol. President safe. Damage, minimal…"
Stephen sat curled on the couch, knees tucked up, remote in hand. He didn't flip channels so much as cycle them—rhythmically, dispassionately—his eyes watching everything and nothing.
Onscreen, explosions bloomed behind War Woman as she swung her mace, catching one of the Mauler Twins mid-air. The scene was chaotic. Familiar. Predictable.
Mark wandered in from the kitchen, bowl of cereal in hand, spoon already halfway to his mouth. He sat without comment, his body folding into the couch like a ritual.
"Is that today's news?" Mark asked between bites.
"Looks like," Stephen muttered.
"Guess Dad's not making it back in time."
Stephen glanced at him. "Back for what?"
"The date. Mom's been talking about it all week."
As if summoned by the very idea of it, the front door whooshed open—just enough of a gust to scatter the stack of mail on the entry table. Nolan Grayson stepped in, pristine, unhurried, a faint streak of soot across his shoulder like a forgotten detail.
"I'm not late," he said with a smirk.
Debbie turned from the stove with a spatula in one hand and a knowing smile on her face. "You cut it close."
They kissed. Long. The kind of kiss that should've had the decency to wait until the room was empty.
Mark groaned into his cereal. "Spray bottle."
Stephen didn't even blink. "Get a room, guys."
But inside, his thoughts were sparking like flint.
It's happening. Again. Just like the first episode.
Same scene. Same words. Same exact rhythm. The footage on the TV, the arrival, the kiss. It was eerie. Like walking a path he'd only seen in a dream.
He didn't react. Couldn't afford to.
_ _ ♛ _ _
They had breakfast. Nolan vanished upstairs to shower. Debbie nagged Mark to brush his teeth. Stephen drifted upstairs, hoodie hovering behind him like a lazy ghost until it slipped over his shoulders on its own.
Nobody commented on it.
By the time the bus pulled up, Mark was grumbling and trying to zip his jacket with one hand. Stephen walked beside him to the sidewalk, backpack slung neatly across both shoulders.
"You sure you're good walking to the annex alone?" Mark asked, voice casual but not uncaring.
Stephen shrugged. "I think I'll survive the treacherous three-block journey to the middle school wing."
Mark gave him a half-smile. "Still don't know how you got permission to do part-time high school courses."
Stephen glanced at him. "Have you met me?"
Mark rolled his eyes and climbed onto the bus. "Try not to destroy the science wing."
Stephen didn't answer.
He was already calculating how far his bio-electric field could reach if he focused through concrete.
_ _ ♛ _ _
School for Stephen wasn't school.
It was quiet observation. Listening to teachers trip over concepts he'd mastered years ago. He answered every question only when called. Made sure to miss just enough on multiple-choice tests to keep suspicions low.
At lunch, he sat by himself in the corner of the high school library, away from the noise. Mark was across campus, lost in a routine that didn't fit him anymore. Not quite normal, not quite exceptional. Stranded in that in-between.
Stephen read through a textbook on atomic bonding with one hand, the other idly levitating a rubber eraser in a perfect figure-eight motion.
He didn't mind the silence. Not really.
But there were moments—small, sharp ones—when the laughter from outside stung a little more than expected.
_ _ ♛ _ _
Mark, meanwhile, slogged through the day like it owed him something.
It wasn't that he hated school. It just felt distant. Like someone had replaced the colours in his life with grayscale. Math made sense. History didn't offend him. But none of it mattered.
He could feel something under his skin now. Not power. Not strength. Just pressure.
Like the world was holding its breath around him, waiting.
When the final bell rang, Mark didn't race to his locker like the others. He moved slow. Tired. Half-thinking about nothing. Half-wishing something—anything—would change.
He had a shift at Burger Mart that evening.
Nothing ever happened at Burger Mart.
_ _ ♛ _ _
Except tonight, something did.
It was past closing. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering like old nerves. Mark stood in the alley behind the store, tying off a bag of trash.
He yawned. Grabbed the top of the bag. Lifted it.
Threw.
The bag didn't fall.
It launched. Like a cannonball. Silent. Gone.
Mark blinked.
"…the hell?"
He stood there, staring up at the dark sky where the trash bag had vanished.
His hands were shaking. A quiet tremor. Like his skin wasn't sure how to hold him together anymore.
He looked down at them. Opened and closed his fists. Felt the hum.
A pulse.
Mark turned and ran.
_ _ ♛ _ _
The front door slammed open.
Stephen was in the living room again, now levitating three coins in rotation while reading a physics journal. He barely looked up.
"Stephen!" Mark burst in, red-faced and panting.
Stephen blinked slowly. "Yeah?"
"I think—I think it's happening."
Stephen raised an eyebrow. "Define 'it'."
Mark clenched a fist.
BOOM.
The drywall cratered beside the hallway mirror.
Stephen blinked again. "Okay. You're gonna have to fix that."
"I punched the air, Stephen."
"I can see that."
"No, like—I felt it. It's here. It's real. I threw a trash bag into orbit."
Stephen stood, finally, setting his book down. "All right. Backyard. Let's test this."
_ _ ♛ _ _
The moon hung low as they stepped outside, the grass damp beneath bare feet.
Stephen watched as Mark flexed his arms experimentally, then bent his knees.
"You feel strong?" Stephen asked.
Mark nodded. "I feel everything."
"Jump."
Mark did. A lazy test—meant to be small.
It wasn't.
He shot ten feet into the air. Then twenty.
Stephen stepped back as Mark hovered, eyes wide. "Okay. That's... unexpected."
Mark was laughing now. Giddy. Air whipping past him as he rose again—this time higher.
He hovered.
He grinned.
And then—he shot upward.
Straight up.
Stephen's eyes widened. "Oh no."
Mark flailed midair, panic dawning too late. He spiralled, arms pinwheeling.
Then—gravity.
THUD.
The backyard grass cratered slightly under his landing.
"Ow."
Stephen strolled over and crouched beside him.
"Ten out of ten for airtime," he said. "Zero for style."
Mark groaned, but the grin never left his face. "I can fly."
Stephen nodded slowly. "Yeah. You can."
Mark sat up, dirt in his hair, eyes locked on his open hands. They glowed faintly at the knuckles. Not with light—but with potential.
Stephen could feel it too. The shift.
The story had turned.
And now, nothing would be the same.
"So how did it feel to fly?" Stephen spoke as he took a seat on the grass next to Mark, Mark hearing his question turned to him and gave a stupid smug smirk, "wouldn't you like to know?" he sat up and dusted his pants as patches of grass fell off he turned once more to Stephen, only to see him pouting and head to the side, muttering "who cares about flying, you can't even fly well."
Mark heard this and rushed, before Stephen could react, he had already been grabbed, Mark smiled and said, "It was amazing, and you are right I can't fly well yet, but I promise when I can, I will take you flying."
"Remember you said it, so you better not forget, now LET ME GOOO!!" Stephen yelled the last bit out loud, but with a massive smile on his face.
End of Chapter 22 — Volume II Begins