A single sentence… and yet it split Zeke's world in two.
He glanced up at the grey sky. The clouds hung low and heavy, like the weight pressing down on his chest. A part of him wanted to laugh —Academy? Like he had the luxury of dreaming that big.But another part of him… the quieter one, the part that still clung to the idea of better days… whispered, Maybe this is your way out.
The words carried weight.
If anyone else had suggested it, he would've said no without hesitation.But because they came from him, he hesitated.
Ethan wasn't just some random friend from school.
He'd been there the day everything changed — the day Zeke first lost control.
Zeke had been thirteen. Ethan was in the year above.He never understood exactly why they'd clicked. But if he had to describe it… Ethan was like an older brother. Not by blood, but by bond.
That day, they were hiding out behind the gym after school, cracking jokes and throwing pebbles at the dumpster. Zeke remembered feeling off — like something inside him was pulsing, stretching, clawing to get out.
Then someone pushed him too far. He didn't remember who. Maybe a teacher. Maybe some jerk passing by.
A trash can exploded. Glass shattered. The air around him distorted. Rippled like heat off asphalt.
He snapped.
For a moment, he thought he killed someone.
He was sure they'd lock him away — another "unstable powered freak" in the headlines, hurting innocent civilians.
But Ethan didn't run.
He stayed.
Held his arm.
Grounded him.
Told him to breathe.
Not like Zeke was a monster.
But like he was still him.
The last thing Zeke saw before everything faded were Ethan's eyes — usually lit with that mischievous glint — now glowing gold. Deadly serious. Far too calm for a fourteen-year-old.
A slap of cold water woke him up— like ice cracking through fog. His eyes snapped open. His chest lurched. For a second, he didn't know where he was.
Before he could drown again in an ocean of his thoughts, a voice cut through the haze.
"Okay, so that was new. Let's figure it out before you go crazy when I'm not there and you nuke the school."
Ethan.
He'd taught Zeke how to hide it — little tricks to ground himself when the emotions surged. Sometimes, he even let Zeke test things on him. They didn't call it training. They just… tried.
That was the kind of guy Ethan was. He saw Zeke at his worst and didn't flinch. Didn't run. He stayed.
That's why Ethan's message hit so hard.
He knew Zeke's truth.
And if he thought Zeke belonged there…
Maybe it wasn't completely hopeless.
But that thought came with guilt — heavy and familiar, like a shadow stitched to his spine.
How could he even think about leaving when his little brothers and sisters still cried at night?
When every step away from home felt like betrayal?
Zeke looked down at the phone again. The message still sat there, unread.
His thumb hovered over the screen.
It buzzed again.
A new message.
A voice note from Ethan.
He opened it.
"Hey, dude, listen..." Ethan's voice crackled through the speaker. Casual, but with that subtle edge — the kind that always came when he was saying something real.
"I know you've been stuck lately and I get it. But you've always dreamed about going to an Academy. You wanted out of that loop. Well, maybe it's time you did something for yourself... for once."
The words hit harder than Zeke expected.
It wasn't just a push.
It was fuel. A firestarter. It reignited something he'd buried a long time ago.
"Don't let them drag you down," Ethan continued. "You've got this spark, Zeke. It's time to stop hiding it. Stop feeling guilty for wanting more. You're not just some guy stuck in the same role, listening to the same fights every day, always keeping your guard up. You're more than that. Trust me."
The message ended.
But the silence that followed felt heavier than the one at home.
Sparks flickered within him. Thoughts he buried surged back — relentless, impossible to ignore
He paused.
He didn't know what to say. Not immediately.
He looked back at the sky.
Darker now. The kind of clouds that threatened rain but never committed. Just like him... always waiting, always hesitating.
Somehow, he'd wandered back to the front door.
Before he could reach the knob, it twisted open.
"Mum wants you to take out the bins," his little sister said through the small opening. She was barely ten, wearing an oversized hoodie that probably used to be his. Her eyes were puffy — red around the edges.
Probably heard the fight between Mum and Dad.
"Yeah, okay," he muttered.
She stood there for a second. Like she wanted to say something. But then just nodded and vanished again.
The hallway was dim. Peeling paint lined the walls. A hole in the plaster marked an argument from last month.
Zeke stepped over laundry, past the bedroom where his twin brothers were shouting over a video game, and into the kitchen.
Same mess. Same staleness. Same weight on his chest.
But Ethan's voice still echoed.
You're not just a guy stuck in the same role.
He grabbed the bin. Hauled it into the alley out back.
The sky had shifted. A little brighter. The wind a little softer. Somewhere in the distance, the hum of cars stirred as the city woke.
Zeke pulled out his phone again.
Played the message one more time.
This time, when it ended, a whisper slipped from his lips. "What if I don't fit in there?"
The wind didn't respond.
But something inside him did.
Something old.
Something pulsing.
The same energy that had awakened years ago behind the gym — still alive beneath all the chores, the arguments and the silence.
He let out a slow breath.
This one felt different. Like something had been building for too long and finally cracked open.
Maybe it was time.
Time to stop pretending he wasn't meant for more.
Time to stop surviving, and start living.
He walked back inside. Past the noise. Past the chaos. Into his room.
He closed the door behind him.
Sat on the edge of the bed.
Stared at the phone.
Ethan's message still on the screen. Scenarios spun in his mind, dozens of them. Every fear, every what-if, every maybe.
His fingers trembled as he tapped the reply box.
Then he typed.
Two simple words.
I'm in.