The house was quiet in the early dawn, shadows stretching across the kitchen. Oswald's mom moved quickly, tying her hair back as she slid her arms into her jacket. A lunchbox clattered onto the counter beside a travel mug of steaming coffee. She checked the clock—too early, as always.
"Another long shift," she muttered, tightening her grip on her purse strap.
Before leaving, she paused and glanced up the stairs, where her son's room was dark and silent. Her expression softened. "Sleep well, Oz," she whispered to the empty air. "Don't give the teachers a hard time today."
She laid out a plate of toast and eggs on the table, a small gesture of normalcy in a house that often felt rushed and tired. Then, with keys jingling in her hand, she slipped out the front door.
The house was silent again.
Moments later, sunlight spilled across Oswald's bed, pulling him awake. He blinked, expecting heaviness, soreness, something from last night's madness. But there was nothing. No pain. No fatigue. Just… strength.
He sat up slowly, staring at his hands, feeling the strange hum in his chest like an extra heartbeat. His body was light, alive, sharper than it had ever been. His mind buzzed, thoughts flowing like quicksilver.
Downstairs, the plate of breakfast waited for him, untouched.
The sun slipped higher in the sky, spilling warm light through Oswald's curtains. He stirred beneath the sheets, blinking himself awake.
For a moment, he expected to feel crushed by fatigue after the chaos of last night—the fight, the running, the broken glass. But as he sat up, he froze.
He felt… amazing.
Every muscle in his body was loose, light, and alive. The heaviness he usually carried in his shoulders was gone. The fog in his brain, which he'd grown used to every morning, was absent. His thoughts were sharp, clear, racing like a current. Even the steady hum in his chest from the night before was still there, faint but undeniable—like an extra heartbeat thrumming with power.
Oswald stood, stretching. His balance was perfect, every movement precise. He could feel the subtle tension in his muscles, ready to spring, stronger than ever before.
He glanced at his reflection in the mirror. Same boy staring back—same messy hair, same dark eyes. But inside, he knew something had shifted.
"I feel… better than ever," he muttered to himself. "Like my body and mind… are enhanced."
He ran a hand through his hair, then pressed a palm to his chest where the strange warmth lingered. The memory of last night—the punch, the healing, the energy—surged back. He didn't understand it, but he couldn't deny it.
Downstairs, the faint smell of toast reached his nose, sharper and richer than ever before. His mom had already gone to work, leaving the usual plate waiting for him.
Oswald grabbed his backpack and paused at the door. Whatever he was, whatever was happening to him—he had to pretend everything was normal at least for today.
But as he stepped into the morning light, he knew deep down: nothing would ever be normal again.