Chapter One: The Boy Who Dreamed of More
Before the powers and the pain, I was just a kid with a notebook and a dream to protect the world.
The sun hadn't even fully risen when I woke to the smell of cinnamon pancakes. A warm Saturday in Montclair, New Jersey, always promised two things in our house: a big breakfast and some kind of chaos.
I slid out of bed, the hardwood floor cool beneath my feet, and padded over to the window. Across the street, old Mrs. Bledsoe was yelling at her dog—again—while watering her lawn in fuzzy pink slippers. Same as always. That kind of normal felt eternal. Like nothing could ever go wrong in this quiet suburban bubble.
I thought that's how life worked. That if you worked hard, loved deep, and stayed true to your word, life would reward you. It took me a long time to understand that sometimes the people you trust most are the ones who leave the deepest scars.
"Vee! Pancakes!" my younger sister, Kore, shouted from downstairs.
"Coming!" I yelled back, throwing on a hoodie and slipping into my socks.
On my way out of the room, I glanced at the mirror. Fifteen. Lanky frame. Brown skin. Afro slightly uneven from my last attempt at a self-trim. No scars yet. Just a boy with wide eyes and bigger dreams.
Downstairs, the kitchen smelled like syrup, cinnamon, and burnt toast. Mom—Joy Blaze—was humming 90s R&B, her silk headscarf loosely tied and her robe cinched tightly. Her smile lit up the room, but there was tiredness in her eyes that no amount of lipstick could cover.
"Morning, baby," she said, flipping the last pancake.
"Morning, Mom. You didn't have to cook," I said, sliding into the chair beside Kore, who already had a mountain of food on her plate.
"I wanted to. It's your last free Saturday before karate camp, right?"
I nodded, grabbing the syrup. Kore grinned, mouth full. "You better not get beat up like last time!"
I rolled my eyes. "I didn't get beat up. It was a draw."
"Right," she smirked. "A draw where you came home with a black eye."
Before I could respond, Dad walked in, still wearing his hospital scrubs. Isaac Blaze, ER surgeon by day and night, had the kind of presence that filled a room even when he was dead on his feet.
"There's my champion," he said, ruffling my hair.
"Dad!" I ducked away. "I'm not a little kid."
He grinned. "Until you can beat me in a match, you're still my little warrior."
We all laughed. It was one of those rare mornings where everything felt right—too right, in hindsight. I didn't notice Mom wincing when she reached for the juice or how Dad's hands trembled slightly as he poured his coffee.
By noon, I was at Sensei Ortega's dojo. The mats were worn but clean, the smell of sweat and focus heavy in the air. Kids of all ages moved through their drills. It was my second home.
I jumped into my warm-ups with full focus—high kicks, low sweeps, rolling falls. Here, everything made sense. Hard work equaled growth. Pain was earned. Respect was mutual.
"Push your stance deeper, Vee," Sensei called out.
"Yes, Sensei!" I responded, adjusting instantly.
He walked over, observing closely. "You've been pushing yourself lately."
I nodded. "Trying to be better."
He looked at me a moment, then said something that stuck with me for years.
"Better is good. But don't forget balance. Even the strongest fall when they forget to breathe."
I didn't get it then. But I would.
That night was movie night. Marvel marathon. Blankets thrown across the living room. Kore snoring by the second film. Mom curled up on the couch with tea. Dad sitting beside her, arm around her shoulder, finally relaxed.
I leaned back against the couch, heart full. But then I saw it—Mom pressing a hand to her chest and closing her eyes. Just for a second. Not enough to alarm anyone.
But I saw it.
Later, brushing my teeth, I stared at my reflection. I wanted to believe everything was fine. That we were okay. That I could train hard enough to keep it all together.
Before bed, I opened the window and pulled out my journal.
"One day, I want to protect this. Not just the world. This—my family. This feeling."
Then, underneath in smaller handwriting:
"What if I'm not strong enough?"
I closed the journal and slid it beneath my mattress. The stars blinked above Montclair. The wind whispered through the trees. And I lay there in the dark, not knowing that normal was already slipping away.
If I had known that was one of the last perfect days I'd ever have... maybe I would've held it longer. Maybe I would've told my mom I saw her press her chest. Maybe I would've asked my dad why he looked so tired. Maybe I would've said yes when Kore asked if I wanted to stay up for one more movie.
But I didn't.
Because I was just a kid.
And the real story hadn't even started yet.