The apartment held that peculiar quiet that only existed in the hours before dawn. No traffic. No neighbors arguing through thin walls. Just the steady hum of the refrigerator and Kimiko's soft breathing from behind her closed door.
I sat on the edge of the couch, already dressed in dark jeans and a plain black shirt. The playing card from last night rested between my fingers, still ordinary-looking in the dim light filtering through our single window. But I could feel the potential humming beneath its surface, waiting.
Saturday. No school. Prime time to figure out what the hell I can actually do with this thing.
I stood, slipping the card into my back pocket. The plan was simple: head to the beach, find a secluded spot, and see how much damage I could cause without drawing attention. The original Yukio's memories painted Dagobah Beach as a dumping ground—perfect for a little experimental destruction.
But as I moved toward the door, something stopped me. An impulse I didn't recognize, foreign and inexplicable.
When was the last time I checked on someone while they slept? Never.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I found myself standing outside Kimiko's bedroom door. My hand hesitated on the handle for a moment before I pushed it open just enough to peer inside.
She was sprawled across her futon, one arm flung over her eyes, the other dangling off the edge. Her long black hair spilled across the pillow like spilled ink, the white streaks catching what little light crept through her curtains. She wore a simple white crop top that had ridden up slightly in her sleep, exposing a strip of toned stomach, and tiny gray shorts that showcased the incredible curves of her hips and thighs.
Jesus Christ this might be the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.
Then the circuit shut off. No heat. No desire. Just... a low hum of static where the predator should be.
My sister.
The thought was a firewall.
I closed the door softly and headed for the front entrance, grabbing my worn track jacket from the chair where I'd left it. The morning air was crisp against my face as I stepped outside, and I breathed it in deeply.
Time to see what this power can really do.
The walk to Dagobah Beach gave me time to think. I pulled out the playing card and let a small charge build in it, watching the purple light dance beneath the surface. The energy felt responsive, almost eager. Like it wanted to be used.
In my old life, cards were tools. Now they're weapons.
The irony wasn't lost on me. I'd spent years perfecting sleight of hand, learning to palm and deal with the kind of precision that could fool casino security. Now those same skills might actually save my life.
When I finally reached the beach, I stopped short.
What the hell?
The memories had been wrong. Dagobah Beach wasn't the trash-covered wasteland I'd expected. Oh, there was still plenty of junk scattered around—rusted appliances, broken furniture, twisted metal—but someone had been working to clean it up. Large sections of actual sand were visible, and neat piles of sorted debris dotted the shoreline.
And there, near the water's edge, were the people responsible.
A kid with wild green hair was struggling to drag what looked like a refrigerator across the sand. He was probably my age, but he was attacking the task like his life depended on it. Sweat poured down his face despite the cool morning air.
Standing nearby was the strangest-looking man I'd ever seen. Tall and skeletal, with spiky blond hair that defied gravity and sunken cheeks that made him look like he was recovering from a serious illness. He watched the kid's efforts like a hawk, occasionally calling out what sounded like encouragement.
Huh. The kid's got desperation in his eyes, the kind that makes a man bet it all on a losing hand. And the scarecrow? He's hiding something. No one gets that skinny without a story.
Ah, Whatever.
I was about to turn around and find another training spot when the green-haired kid stumbled. The refrigerator slipped from his grip and crashed back onto the sand with a metallic clang that echoed across the beach.
"Damn it!" The kid's voice cracked as he wiped his face with the back of his hand.
"Hey, Broccoli!"
The words left my mouth before I could stop them. Both the kid and the skeletal man turned to look at me, startled.
The kid's eyes were huge and green, the color of fresh grass. They held a kind of desperate hope that I recognized from my own mirror back when I was young and stupid enough to believe in things like fair chances.
I raised my hand in a lazy, two-fingered salute. "Keep it up. If you don't die from exhaustion, you might actually get stronger eventually."
The kid's mouth fell open. The skeletal man's expression was unreadable behind the shadows cast by his wild hair.
I turned and walked away before either of them could respond, already dismissing them from my thoughts.
Junkyard it is, then.
The scrapyard on the outskirts of town was everything the beach wasn't.
Mountains of twisted metal rose like monuments to industrial failure. Rusted car frames were stacked three high, their windows long since shattered. Appliances in various states of decay formed a maze of potential targets and obstacles. The air smelled of rust and oil, tinged with the ozone scent that seemed to follow my charged objects.
This is more like it.
I picked my way through the debris until I found a relatively clear area near the center of the yard. Old tires were scattered around like black donuts, and a network of hanging steel beams created natural ricochet points. It was a playground designed for someone with my particular set of skills.
I pulled out the playing card and let it charge fully, watching the purple light build until the air around it hummed like a live wire. Then I flicked it at a nearby hubcap.
The explosion was beautiful.
The card struck the metal surface and detonated in a shower of violet sparks. The hubcap flew backward, crashed into a stack of pipes, and sent them tumbling like oversized pick-up sticks.
Not bad. But I can do better.
I spent the next hour pushing the limits of what I could charge and how much energy I could store. Playing cards were easy—small, light, and they held a decent amount of power. Coins were even better. Ball bearings, which I found scattered around an old workbench, were perfect. Small enough to palm, dense enough to carry serious energy, and aerodynamic enough to maintain accuracy over distance.
The old tricks found new purpose. A false shuffle wasn't for stacking a deck anymore; it was for priming multiple cards without a single wasted motion. The palm pass let me switch between live rounds and duds mid-throw. A bottom deal became a burst of rapid-fire.
In my old life, I'd been good at what I did. Not just good—exceptional. I could read a mark's tells from across a crowded casino. I could stack a deck so smoothly that even other cheaters couldn't spot it. I could fight dirty enough to walk away from situations that should have killed me. Well, it did but that's not important.
Now I had superpowers on top of all that.
What's the point of having an advantage if you don't use it?
As the morning wore on, I started getting creative. I learned to charge objects in sequence, creating chain reactions that turned simple throws into elaborate displays of destruction. I practiced ricochets, using the natural angles of the junkyard to hit targets that should have been impossible to reach.
And then I had an idea.
I positioned myself fifty feet away from a discarded soda can balanced on top of a broken washing machine. Between me and the target was a maze of obstacles: a rusted car door hanging at an angle, a vertical stack of old tires, and a steel beam suspended from a crane that had probably been abandoned here years ago.
I pulled a small ball bearing from my pocket and let the charge build slowly. The purple light crawled across its surface like liquid electricity. When it reached the saturation point, I drew my arm back and let it fly.
The bearing struck the angled car door and ricocheted upward, its trajectory altered by exactly the angle I'd calculated. It clipped the edge of the tire stack, sending it spinning as it changed direction again. The third impact came against the hanging steel beam, which rang like a bell as the bearing bounced off and launched itself toward the final target.
The soda can exploded in a shower of violet sparks and aluminum fragments.
A slow, dangerous smirk spread across my face as I surveyed the destruction I'd caused.
In my old life, I'd been limited by the constraints of a world without superpowers. I'd been forced to work within the narrow confines of what was humanly possible.
But this world? This world had no such limitations.
I pulled out another ball bearing and let it charge, watching the purple light dance between my fingers. The U.A. entrance exam was in two months. Two months to refine my technique, to perfect my style, to become someone worthy of the spotlight.
The bearing left my hand like a purple comet, striking a distant target. The explosion echoed across the junkyard, a promise of things to come.