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———
Michael's jaw tightened.
His missing arm itched—or maybe it was the phantom weight of the prosthetic coiled inside him. The steel room felt smaller suddenly, the walls pressing in like they were siding with the Curator.
Walk away?
He almost laughed.
The sound burst out of him—sharp, bitter, startling even himself. The Curator paused mid-step, one hand on the doorframe.
"Something funny, kid?"
Michael wiped his eyes, shoulders shaking.
"Yeah. You."
The Curator turned slowly, eyebrow arched.
"Oh?"
"This whole act."
Michael waved his left hand—his only hand—at the rubble-strewn room. "The ominous warnings. The 'realms.' The stupid soda can. You think I'm some clueless kid you can scare into running home?"
The Curator's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Aren't you?"
Michael's laughter died. His chest felt raw, scraped clean.
"Let me tell you about 'kids,' sir." He spat the last word out. "When I was nine, my dad walked out. Left me, Mom, and a mountain of debt in a trailer that smelled like mold and regret. By twelve, I was washing dishes at the diner after school so we could afford bread. And baseball?" He barked another laugh. "You think I got that scholarship to Tenesia U because I had shiny gear and happy thoughts? No. I slept four hours a night. I practiced until my hands bled. I ate one meal a day so Mom could afford my cleats. Kids break, Curator. But I didn't. Not when the other teams spat on me for being trailer trash. Not when the scouts said I was too scrawny. Not even when the crash took my arm—" He shoved his stump toward the man. "—and my future."
The Curator studied him, face unreadable.
"So don't," Michael said, voice cracking, "don't act like this—" He gestured at his invisible prosthetic. "—is the worst thing that's ever happened to me. I've fought through worse. I'll fight through this too. But I'm done being your puppet."
Silence.
Then the Curator sighed.
"Cute speech. Still leaving?"
Michael's prosthetic flared to life in a burst of molten light.
Blades snapped out, casting jagged shadows on the walls. The arm's hum vibrated in Michael's bones like a predator's growl.
The Curator studied him—really studied him—for the first time. The smirk didn't return.
"Nice new arm. Still doesn't change the facts."
"Then give me facts." Michael crossed his arms. "You want me gone? Tell me why I'm really here. And don't feed me that 'anomaly' crap. People don't hunt anomalies unless they're useful."
Another pause. Longer this time.
Then the Curator sighed again, rubbing his temples.
He pulled out a new Fanta—where did he even store those?—and popped the tab. The soda's fizz sounded absurdly loud in the heavy silence.
Finally, he tossed the empty can aside. It clattered across the floor, spinning to a stop near Michael's foot.
"You want facts?" The Curator adjusted his tie. "Fact one: your little 'accident' wasn't an accident."
"What?"
"Fact two." The Curator pulled a phone from his pocket. "There were no witnesses. No security cams. Just a 'hit-and-run,' right?" He tapped the screen. "Except someone was watching."
A hologram erupted from the phone, bathing the room in blue light.
Grainy footage played—a rainy street, headlights slicing through the dark.
Michael's breath caught. He recognized the intersection outside Tenesia U's baseball stadium. The timestamp glowed in the corner: the night of his accident.
"This… this doesn't exist," Michael whispered. "The cops said—"
"I see what cops don't see." The Curator zoomed in. "Watch."
Onscreen, a younger Michael stumbled out of the stadium, duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Rain plastered his hair to his forehead. He was laughing at something, phone pressed to his ear—probably Tyler cracking jokes after practice. His right hand flexed unconsciously, the precious pitching arm still whole.
The Michael onscreen stepped into the crosswalk.
A black SUV accelerated.
Time slowed. The vehicle swerved toward him, tires hydroplaning through a puddle. No attempt to brake. No skid marks. Just ruthless precision.
Michael's gut twisted. "They aimed for me."
The SUV plowed into his side. His body crumpled like a paper doll, arm pinned under the tire. The driver's window rolled down just enough to reveal a gloved hand tossing something onto the pavement. A small vial, its contents glowing faintly blue. Then the SUV sped off, leaving Michael's shattered form in the rain.
The screen froze.
"They staged it?" Michael's voice cracked. His phantom arm burned.
The Curator paused the footage, zooming in on the vial. "Recognize this?"
Michael squinted. The vial's label bore a symbol—a clawed hand gripping a rose. Identical to the one on his prosthetic's storage box. His stomach dropped. "It's… yours?"
"Mine? Puh-lease." The Curator sneered. "This is black-market essence. Military-grade. And very illegal." He flicked the hologram away. "Someone spent serious coin to gift-wrap you for the game."
Ice crept through Michael's veins. He saw it now—the vial shattering on impact, blue liquid seeping into his wounds. The "paramedics" arriving suspiciously fast. The way his amputation scar itched whenever Aiko leveled up.
"They injected me," he breathed.
"Bingo." The Curator mimed a finger-gun. "Mixed that essence right into your bloodstream. Turned you into a walking homing beacon for Celestials. Congrats, kid—you're the universe's chew toy."
Michael's knees buckled. He caught himself on the dented wall, the metal groaning under his grip. All those nights staring at hospital ceilings, blaming bad luck, hating the faceless driver… and it was all a setup.
His voice came out strangled. "Why?"
The Curator's smirk vanished. "Why do rich kids burn ants with magnifying glasses? You're entertainment. A lab rat in their little game." He stepped closer, shoes crunching glass. "But here's the kicker—you were supposed to die that night. The essence overdose should've shredded your cells. Instead…you woke up the next morning with a shiny new app and a heroine to simp for."
"Who?" Michael growled. "Who's doing this?"
The Curator shrugged. "Higher-realm people. The kind that makes dragons look like geckos." He leaned in, breath smelling of artificial orange. "Walk away now, and maybe—maybe—they lose interest. Keep playing hero?" He tapped Michael's chest. "You'll end up like your samurai girlfriend. Assuming she survives the week."
His prosthetic flared to life, blades snapping out. "Don't talk about her."
The Curator rolled his eyes. "Cute. You think this ends with you riding into the sunset together? Wake up, Cobb. You're just the sucker who maxed his credit card for a PNG with daddy issues."
Michael swung.
The Curator sidestepped easily. Michael's blades gouged the wall, sending sparks flying. He whirled, slashing again—wild, desperate strikes that the Curator dodged with infuriating calm.
"Done?" The Curator yawned. "I've got a pedicure in twenty."
Michael froze, chest heaving. The prosthetic's voice rumbled in his bones:
[QUERY: ENGAGE FULL COMBAT MODE?]
"No," Michael muttered. The blades retracted with a hiss.
The Curator straightened his suit. "Look. I get it. You've got that tragic backstory—deadbeat dad, starving artist mom, yada yada. Makes you feel special. But newsflash: the realms don't care. You're a nobody with a fancy arm and a hero complex. Quit while you've still got a head to bury in the sand."
Michael stared at his reflection in the steel wall—pale, hollow-eyed, with a weapon grafted to his soul. The boy who'd clawed his way from food stamps to fastballs. The man who'd failed...
But I didn't fail her.
He turned. "You said I was supposed to die."
"Still might."
"But I didn't. Why?"
The Curator hesitated. For a split second, Michael saw it—a crack in the smug facade. Fear.
"Luck," the Curator said too quickly.
"Bullshit." Michael stepped forward. "You've been tailing me since the hospital. Mason's 'janitor' squad cleaned up my dragon mess. Even now, you're wasting Fanta breath to 'warn' me." He jabbed a blade at the Curator's chest. "I'm useful. Why?"
The Curator's smirk faltered. For a split second, his polished mask cracked, revealing something raw beneath—fear, irritation, maybe even respect. He recovered quickly, smoothing his tie with a scoff.
"Useful? Please. You're a cockroach that won't die. Annoying, but not exactly useful."
Michael's prosthetic arm hummed, blades twitching at his mental command. He didn't buy it. The Curator had cared enough to show him the footage. To warn him. That meant something.
"Show me the driver's face," Michael demanded, stepping closer. The air crackled with tension, the smell of burnt metal stinging his nostrils.
The Curator sighed dramatically, pulling out his phone again. "Fine. But you're gonna wish you stayed clueless."