It was deal day.
The crew fanned out with a ring of keys, unlocking cells one by one and dragging prisoners into the hallway. Everyone knew what came next. Some sobbed, some begged, some threatened. The gang didn't flinch. Comply, and they shoved you along. Resist, and the stun batons did the talking.
They reached Sam Moore's cell—Jim among them.
Jim met Sam's gaze, drew a thumb across his throat, and grinned. He expected fear. Instead, Sam gave him a bright, almost sunny smile. It soured Jim's mood instantly.
"Out," Jim growled. "Today's your day."
"It is," Sam said evenly. "A good one."
Talking back wiped the smirk off Jim's face. He stepped in close and hissed, "Told Dr. John already—no anesthesia for you. You'll die screaming."
"Maybe you won't be around to see it," Sam replied, still smiling.
Anger won. Punishment from the boss could come later—if Jim lived to get it. He cocked a fist and drove it at Sam's cheek. The other gang members hung back, eager to watch.
And then they stared.
Jim's fist… stopped. Not because he pulled it. Not because Sam blocked. It simply halted a hair's breadth from Sam's face and refused to go any farther.
"Quit screwing around, Jim," someone snorted. "The deal's starting. Boss'll skin you if you stall."
"Yeah, hurry it up. I want to hear him scream."
"I'm not—" Jim's voice cracked. He stared at Sam. The kid's eyes had shifted to a cold, vivid blue; his hair glinted white under the harsh light. He was smiling—too calmly, too knowingly.
Mutant, Jim thought, terror rising.
The others finally noticed more than the show. Veins corded along Jim's forearm; muscles trembled with full effort. And right where his knuckles hovered near Sam's open palm, the air seemed to bend, light warping like heat over asphalt.
Something was wrong.
They all took a step back without meaning to. Sam tilted his head, almost encouraging. "Go on. Just a little more and you'll touch me."
Fear broke Jim's nerve. He tried to bolt.
Sam didn't let him.
Power rushed through Sam's body, tightening muscle and bone. He moved—too fast to follow—caught Jim by the skull, and drove him down.
Bang.
The concrete took the hit with a sick thud. Jim went limp. Sam didn't stop. He stamped down, methodical, crushing limbs one after another. When the pain snapped Jim awake, he shrieked and thrashed—but there was no fighting out of it. In moments, he lay mangled and helpless.
The gift had been delivered. Sam stepped off him without a second glance.
That snapped the others out of shock. "His power must be limited—otherwise how'd Jim bag him before?" one shouted. "Shoot him! Now!"
Training kicked in. Rifles came up and roared.
A storm of bullets twisted in midair, drifting off-course as if the space between muzzles and target had stretched into miles. None reached Sam. He even shifted subtly to screen Jim from a few strays. Quick death was too kind.
Panic set in. "What is he? What power is that?" "Why didn't he use it before?"
Sam looked over the gunners, then at the reinforcements pouring in from the commotion. He clasped his hands lightly, a small, amused smile on his face.
"Cursed Technique: Reversal—Blue."
Energy threaded through him in a precise pattern. A compact, swirling azure vortex bloomed before his palms. Every bullet vanished into it—devoured like pebbles tossed into the sea.
When the pull peaked, Sam released.
Boom.
The blue vortex surged forward. Flesh, steel, concrete—everything in its path bent, tore free, and vanished into the crushing draw. When the air finally stilled, the hallway ahead was empty. No bodies. No blood. Just absence.
PS: "Blue black hole" is figurative here, not a literal astrophysical black hole. Don't worry—Sam's power will reach that level down the line.