"Duck!"
The warning came half a second after the attack.
A fireball tore through the air, screaming straight toward Roy's chest. It wasn't lethal, but it was fast.
Time seemed to warp in Roy's eyes.
His instincts screamed at him. The shadows stretching out from the abandoned walls felt like open doors. He could feel the tug in his gut, the magnetic urge to simply step backward and sink into the darkness, reappearing instantly behind Omar.
Or the heat. A spark ignited deep in his chest. He could snap his fingers, summon a wall of flames, and devour Omar's attack with his own.
'Don't,' he commanded himself.
Roy forced his feet to stay planted on the concrete. He suppressed the flames, ignored the welcoming embrace of the shadows, and chose the "normal" option.
He twisted his body to the left.
The fireball grazed his shoulder, singeing the fabric of his shirt, before smashing into the wall behind him with a hiss of steam and ash.
Roy straightened up, brushing the soot off his sleeve.
"Too close," he muttered, checking the scorch mark.
"Too close? You moved like a brick!"
Omar stood across the room in the abandoned building, his hands still glowing with fading embers. He lowered his arms, frustration etched across his face.
"Roy, seriously. The exam is in two days. If that was a real villain, you'd be toast. Why didn't you use your ability?"
"I dodged, didn't I?" Roy said calmly.
"You dodged like a civilian!"
Omar marched over, wiping sweat from his forehead.
"I know you're trying to sell this whole 'middle-class' persona, but you have to actually pass the test to get there. If you don't use your power, you might fail the entrance exam entirely."
Roy looked down at his own shadow. It was writhing slightly against the ground, unnatural and eager, waiting for a command he refused to give.
"I'll use them when I need to," Roy said smoothly.
"But if I use them too much, I'll draw attention. I need to pass on basics."
"Basics don't stop fireballs, Roy."
"They do if you're fast enough."
Omar groaned, dragging his hand down his face."Yeah, sure. You do you. But next time, don't just sit like a statue until the last second."
Roy smirked.
"No promises."
He settled back into a stance. He could feel the fire itching beneath his skin, begging to be let out. Keeping it contained was harder than the actual dodging. It felt like holding his breath underwater, the pressure building with every second.
'Just two more days,' Roy told himself. 'I have to learn how to keep a lid on this.'
By the time they finished, the sun was hanging low in the sky, casting long orange shadows across the street.
Omar was drenched. His shirt stuck to his back, dark with sweat. Roy, annoyingly, looked as if he hadn't even warmed up.
"You owe me lunch," Omar announced as they stepped onto the sidewalk. He draped a heavy, sweaty arm over Roy's shoulders.
"That was premium coaching. A masterclass."
Roy shrugged the arm off grimly.
"You were just throwing things at me. What masterclass?"
"Don't be like that. You know I had to train you to dodge," Omar shot back, grinning.
Roy held up the charred fabric of his shoulder.
"Will you pay for my damaged shirt? It was my favorite."
Omar raised an eyebrow.
"Who wears their favorite shirt to training?"
They arrived at their usual spot, a small crepe shop on the corner. The smell of batter and melted chocolate wafted out, but Roy stopped at the entrance.
"Anyway, forget about it. What do you want?" Omar asked, reaching for the door handle.
"I don't want anything."
"Why? If it's the money, it's on me," Omar insisted.
"It isn't the money. My mom insisted I eat at home today."
"Ah. Mom's orders."
Omar nodded respectfully.
"You better leave before it gets dark, then. See you."
"See you."
Roy dapped him up and turned toward the residential district, leaving Omar to face the crepes alone.
Roy unlocked the apartment door, the familiar click of the latch grounding him.
"I'm home," he called out.
"Welcome back! Can you come help me with something?" his mother called from the kitchen.
He kicked off his shoes and followed the sound. The sharp, savory scent of garlic hit him immediately.
His mother was standing at the counter, chopping vegetables.
"You're late," she said, though she smiled when she saw him.
"Training ran long?"
"Omar keeps worrying," Roy said, moving to the sink to wash his hands.
"He thinks I'm not taking it seriously enough."
"Omar thinks everything is the end of the world. You're doing fine, Roy. Just don't get hurt."
"I won't."
Roy watched her hands. Her grip on the knife handle was loose. Her other hand was dangerously close to the blade. He pushed the criticism aside, drying his hands on a towel.
"What did you want help with?"
"Can you take care of the rest of the vegetables?"
"Sure thing."
Roy took the knife from his mother's hand.
It felt heavy. Familiar.
'The blade is too dull,' a whisper in the back of his mind. 'But the balance is decent. If you reverse the grip, the pommel becomes a striking point. It would make an effective assassination tool in close quarters.'
The thoughts flooded his brain the moment his skin touched the handle. Cold and Murderous.
Roy froze for a fraction of a second, staring at the cucumber on the cutting board. He was used to ignoring these thoughts, but today they felt louder.
He forced his hand to grip the knife normally—like a cook, not a killer—and began chopping.
'If you are going to use a blade, even for a simple task, at least use it well,' the voice echoed in his skull.
'Won't happen,' Roy thought back, slicing the vegetable with deliberate, clumsy force. 'I'm not doing it your way.'
The front door opened.
"I'm home!"
It was his dad. The tension in Roy's shoulders finally broke. He put the knife down.
Dinner was a quiet affair.
Hours later, in the dead of night, Roy lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. The house was silent, but his mind wasn't.
"Why are you talking this much?" he whispered to the empty room.
'You are the one who has been using the power,' the voice answered. 'You woke the memories.'
"I know," Roy muttered.
"But before, you only talked when I was fighting. The last time you spoke to me about holding a knife was years ago. so why now?"
He waited for an answer.
Silence.
Roy rolled over, pulling the blanket up to his chin.
"I just wish you'd leave me alone," he whispered.
But as he drifted off to sleep, he knew the truth. The more he prepared for the Academy, the closer the Ghost became.