The city had become Ren's quiet classroom.
Morning sunlight filtered through the narrow alleys as he stretched, fingers twitching in anticipation. Today's plan was simple, at least in theory: longer-range blades and more complex trajectories. The previous week's small experiments had taught him control over short distances, but the next step required precision, patience, and a careful sense of energy flow.
He crouched in the shadow of a low rooftop, surveying the street below. A few crates, a lamppost, and a line of trash bins offered an irregular target field. Perfect. He could practice projecting blades around obstacles and across different distances without anyone noticing.
Ren focused. Fingers extended, he let the energy pulse through him, a quiet hum in his chest. The first attempt shot a blade straight to a lamppost about ten meters away. Clean cut, perfect arc.
Encouraged, he tried again. This time, he imagined the blade looping around a trash bin to hit a small wooden plank behind it. The energy hesitated halfway. The blade wavered, striking the bin but missing the plank entirely.
"Too much… deviation," he muttered. He adjusted, flicking his wrist slightly, imagining the blade curving in a controlled arc. On the next attempt, the plank shivered and split in half.
"Better," he whispered, letting himself grin.
He continued, throwing blades at varying angles, arcs curving over crates, scraping edges of walls, skimming between lampposts. Each success taught him something new: control, distance, trajectory, and the subtle balance between force and finesse.
By midday, he had projected blades over twenty meters with decent accuracy. Not perfect, not instant, but functional. He paused, chest humming with satisfaction.
Then came the first accident.
A delivery truck turned a corner unexpectedly. Ren froze, energy still pulsing at his fingertips. He'd misjudged the timing of a blade that cut slightly too wide. The edge just grazed the truck's side. The driver honked furiously, swearing under his breath.
Ren ducked behind a stack of crates, heart pounding. Too obvious. Too loud. Too dangerous.
He exhaled slowly. Accidents like these reminded him that discretion mattered. Even small mistakes could attract unwanted attention. He adjusted his approach: smaller blades, careful angles, more consideration of surroundings. Precision was no longer just about hitting a target—it was about staying unseen.
As he moved along the streets, he practiced silent observation, letting the city's natural chaos feed him. Crowds, minor arguments, hurried footsteps—all of it flowed into his reservoir. Each tiny surge of energy added to the pulse in his chest, a reminder that being patient and careful could be as powerful as direct effort.
By late afternoon, he was near one of the quieter parks. He crouched on a low wall, watching people pass by, experimenting with subtle blade projections over short distances. One flick of his fingers nudged a trash can lid just enough to make it spin, invisible to anyone walking by. Another thin arc cut a piece of wood to test its angle. Small, careful, precise.
He was so absorbed he didn't notice her until she spoke.
"Ren?" Nejire's voice floated across the park. She was standing at the edge of the path, hair catching the light, eyes sparkling with curiosity.
Ren turned slowly. "Hey."
She grinned. "I thought I'd find you here. You've… been spending a lot of time in alleys and rooftops lately. What are you doing?"
"Practicing," he said simply, waving toward the subtle blades still hovering briefly over the ground before vanishing.
Her eyes widened. "Whoa! That's… amazing! Wait—do you actually control the trajectory? Like, fully? Can you curve them or—?"
He nodded. "I can, but it's tricky. Mistakes happen if I'm not careful."
Nejire leaned closer, crouching beside him. "Can I… watch?"
Ren hesitated a second, then shrugged. "Sure. Just… don't touch anything."
She nodded eagerly, and they spent the next hour experimenting together. She asked questions constantly—sometimes blunt, sometimes entirely impractical.
"Could you hit something across the street?" she asked, eyes wide. "Like… a lamppost or a sign?"
"Probably," Ren said carefully. "But I'd have to account for distance, obstacles… and I can't be sloppy. Accidents draw attention."
"Right," she said quickly, a little embarrassed. "Safety first. Got it."
She stayed nearby as he practiced, offering commentary, asking questions, and sometimes distracting him with her observations. Her curiosity was infectious, and he realized he looked forward to these visits more than he expected.
Later, as they wrapped up, a sudden shout drew their attention. Across the park, a minor commotion erupted: a group of older kids had cornered someone smaller, clearly bullying them.
Ren froze instinctively. His energy surged. He could feel the tension radiating across the small field—fear, panic, anger, frustration. A tempting collection.
Nejire noticed too. Her expression tightened. "Ren… maybe we should—"
"No," he said quietly. "We stay here. Watch, not interfere. Energy first."
She tilted her head, frowning slightly but trusting him. Together, they observed.
The bullies jeered, pushed, and shoved, while the smaller kid's frustration and fear radiated outward. Ren let it flow into him, letting the energy pulse through his body, hum under his skin. Blades hovered subtly, but he didn't release them—he wasn't ready for actual confrontation.
When the bullies eventually moved on, laughing, Ren exhaled slowly. Enough energy had surged into him to make the day's experiments feel far more productive. Enough to remind him why discretion and patience mattered as much as raw skill.
Nejire glanced at him, curiosity still bright in her eyes. "You… really can feel all that, huh? Even without… touching them?"
"Yeah," he said simply. "It's subtle. But it's there."
She studied him, then smiled faintly. "You're… really careful. I like that. Most people would… just go straight in and mess things up."
Ren allowed himself a small smile. "Patience is better."
As they walked back toward the orphanage together, talking quietly, Ren realized something else. Nejire wasn't just curious—she was trustworthy. Careful, blunt, and direct, yes, but someone he could practice with, someone he could let see pieces of himself without risking exposure.
The city stretched before them, humming with quiet chaos, and Ren felt… ready. More in control, more observant, more capable than ever.
Middle school wasn't just a stepping stone. It was his playground, his laboratory, and his chance to grow quietly, safely, and skillfully.
And with Nejire slowly becoming a companion on these strange excursions, even the quietest rooftops and shadowed alleys felt a little less lonely.