[Day 9]
Lance's feet pounded the pavement, each stride propelling him forward with effortless grace. The cool evening air whipped past his face, carrying the scent of blooming jasmine and grass that had been getting a bit too tall—he wondered if he could find a mower and take care of it himself since it didn’t seem like that HOA would be making its rounds anytime soon. Mental note.
His muscles hummed with energy, still buzzing from the day's intense workout and Krav Maga session.
Damn, I feel good, he thought, a grin spreading across his face. The endorphin high from his run mixed with the satisfaction of a productive day. His bank account was looking healthier thanks to some well-timed stock sales, and his body felt like a finely tuned machine.
But a nagging thought persisted, gnawing at the edges of his contentment. Hours spent on bizarre online tests had yielded nothing. No bent spoons, no levitating objects, no sudden ability to commune with houseplants. It was frustrating, to say the least.
There has to be something I'm missing, Lance mused as he rounded the corner onto his street. Those tests can't all be bogus, right? I mean, they're on the internet. That's gotta count for something.
He chuckled, maybe my superpower is awesome jokes.
He slowed his pace as he approached his apartment building, his nostrils picking up on something... off. An acrid scent tickled his nose, growing stronger with each step.
Smoke.
Lance's eyes snapped to his building, scanning for any signs of flames or distress. Nothing obvious, but the smell was unmistakable now. His heart rate, barely elevated from the run, began to quicken. Shit.
He sprinted the last few yards to his front door, taking the concrete steps two at a time. The smoke smell intensified as he reached the entrance, and a tendril of gray seeped out from under the door.
His fingers drifted to the small scar above his left eyebrow while he considered his options. Had he left something on? The candle for the ‘whatever-candle test?’ The stove? No, he was sure he'd checked everything before leaving. His keys jingled in his hand as he cursed under his breath, struggling to find the right one.
The door swung open, and a wall of smoke hit him. Lance coughed, squinting through the haze. The acrid smell was overwhelming, but there were no visible flames.
"Jiro?" he called out with desperation. "Here, boy!"
A muffled whimper came from the direction of the kitchen. Lance moved swiftly, his vision piercing through the smoke with far more ease than he would’ve been able to a week ago. He found Jiro huddled in a corner, trembling.
"It's okay, buddy," Lance soothed, scooping up the frightened dog. "Let's get you out of here."
He turned, ready to make a quick exit, when his eyes fell on the source of the smoke. His potted fern—the very one he'd spent hours trying to "communicate" with earlier—sat on the living room floor, smoldering. The leaves were charred, wisps of smoke curling up from the blackened fronds. Surrounding the plant was a haphazard pile of items: crumpled papers, wooden picture frames, and what looked like the remains of a small side table.
Lance blinked, momentarily dumbfounded. "What the actual fuck..."
Snapping out of his confusion, he shooed Jiro towards the door with a frantic wave, yanked a cushion from the couch and flung himself at the smoldering pile. He landed hard, driving the cushion down onto the fern and its surrounding debris, smothering the last of the embers. The smoke began to clear, leaving behind the acrid stench of burnt vegetation and singed fabric.
As he lay sprawled atop the cushion on his living room floor, while surveying the damage, Lance felt his thoughts begin to whirl with the remaining smoke that had just filled the room.
Only his living room had been trashed, nothing else seemed harmed.
How had a houseplant spontaneously combusted? It defied logic. Unless...
A wild thought struck him. Could this be related to his earlier attempts at discovering his arma type? He'd spent a good chunk of the afternoon focusing his energy on that damn plant, willing it to move, to grow, to do something.
Had he accidentally set it on fire with his mind?
The idea was absurd, yet Lance couldn't shake the feeling that this was more than a coincidence.
Pyrokinesis? This is so much better than Plant whisp—
‘PFFT’
Glass shattered. Lance's head snapped up. Another ‘pfft.’ Bullet whizzed past his ear. Shit.
He dove behind the couch, heart pounding. Jiro whimpered, cowering in the corner. More shots. Fabric ripped. Stuffing flew.
Lance wondered. Who? Why? No time to think. Had to move. Had to survive.
He army-crawled towards the end of the couch. Risked a glance. Muzzle flash. Ducked back down. Fuck.
The shooter was in his apartment. How? When? Questions for later. Now, action. Think! Krav Maga, what to do? What to do? Look for weapons!
Lance's muscles coiled. Ready to spring. He reached for the nearest object. A lamp. Heavy. Good.
Deep breath. In. Out. Now.
He lifted the lamp, ready to throw. A bullet shattered it in his hand. Ceramic shards rained down.
Fuck, that could’ve been my head. A thought pierced through the turmoil in his mind: This must be that Frank, that Preston-prick kid. Fuck me…
Bullets peppered the floor behind him. Close. Too close, again.
His eyes locked onto a half-eaten carton of Chinese noodles on the floor and the titanium chopsticks glinting beside it, and with a swift and silent motion, he rolled them towards himself, and his palm closed around the metal, and he listened.
Silence. Is he reloading—doesn’t matter—be faster.
His fingers tightened around the chopstick. The apartment was quiet, save for the faint creak of floorboards and the whisper of fabric against skin.
Now or never.
In one fluid motion, Lance sprang up, arm cocked back. Time seemed to slow as he zeroed in on the origin of the sound. The chopstick left his hand, a silver blur cutting through the air.
Pain.
White-hot agony exploded in his forearm as a bullet tore through flesh and muscle. Lance stumbled, gritting his teeth against the urge to cry out. Blood poured from the wound, hot and sticky against his skin.
The sudden quiet was deafening. No more gunshots, no footsteps, nothing. Lance's ragged breathing sounded thunderous in the stillness.
Did I... did I hit him?
Clutching his injured arm, Lance inched forward. His eyes moved frantically around the room, searching for any sign of movement. There was none. The kitchen doorway loomed ahead, a rectangle of darkness.
Heartbeat pounding in his ears, Lance crept towards the kitchen. The metallic tang of blood—his own—mingled with the caustic odor of gunpowder, of smoke, of fear and sweat. And as he eased past the island, his vision, already adjusted to the dark, pierced the gloom.
A figure lay on the linoleum, motionless.
Lance froze, muscles tight, ready to act. Was it a trick? A trap? Seconds ticked by, each one an eternity.
No movement.
Cautiously, he approached the prone form. It was a man, face-up on the floor. The chopstick protruded from his left eye, buried deep.
Holy shit.
Lance's stomach lurched. He'd done that. With a fucking chopstick.
Swallowing hard, he nudged the man with his foot. No response. He crouched down, fingers searching for a pulse…
Dead.
The realization slammed into him like a runaway freight train. He'd killed someone. Self-defense or not, a man lay dead on his kitchen floor. At his feet.
His hands shook as he ran them through his hair, leaving streaks of red. Shit. Shit. Shit. He'd never even been in a real fight before, and now... this. His gaze darted around the kitchen, looking anywhere but at the body. The pristine counters, the cheerful yellow walls—everything seemed obscene in its normalcy. A hysterical laugh bubbled up in his throat. He choked it back down. Get it together, he snarled at himself. He broke in. He had a gun. It was him or you. The thought steadied him, a cold resolve settling in his chest. Yeah. The bastard had it coming.
This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.
What now?
More thoughts tumbled over each other in a frantic jumble. Call the cops? Run? Try to hide the body?
Lance took a deep breath, forcing himself to think logically. Focus. It was self-defense, he entered my home. Don’t touch the gu—
Down by his feet, he saw blood—his blood—mixing with the attacker's. The red liquids swirled together, creating dark pools on the floor. He felt cold, his arm felt cold. He stared at it for a second before everything went dark.
***
[Day 10]
Lance's eyelids cracked open, his vision blurry and unfocused. The cold linoleum pressed against his cheek, while warm stickiness pooled beneath him. He blinked, trying to make sense of his surroundings.
Kitchen. Floor. Blood.
The recent memories came back to haunt him. The intruder. The gunshots. The chopstick.
Lance's stomach churned as he pushed himself up with his left arm, his right oddly unresponsive. He looked down at it, expecting to see the angry red of a fresh wound.
White.
His forearm and hand were a ghastly shade of white, like marble or bleached bone. Lance stared, uncomprehending. He tried to wiggle his fingers, but none yielded an inch.
Panic clawed at his throat. He couldn't feel his arm from the elbow down. It was as if it belonged to someone else, a foreign appendage attached to his body.
Fuck… just fuck.
Inspecting the wound, he noticed the angry red flesh had already begun to knit together, a thin layer of new skin forming at the edges. He pulled out his phone.
[5:31 AM]
It was healing faster than it should, but the unnatural pallor of his forearm remained unchanged.
His gaze shifted to the dead man on the floor. The chopstick that had been protruding from his eye was gone. So was the eyeball. Lance's heart rate spiked. Had he imagined it? Was he losing his mind?
A wet, gnawing sound reached his ears. Lance's head whipped around, following the noise.
"Jiro, NO!"
His dog crouched in the corner, the missing chopstick clenched between his teeth. Jiro's muzzle was stained red, his eyes wild and unfocused. He gnawed on the metal utensil with a ferocity Lance had never seen before.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
He needed to get the chopstick away from Jiro. It was evidence. But more importantly, it could hurt him. He tried to stand, but his arm felt so heavy.
"Jiro," Lance called, his voice hoarse. "Come here, boy. Drop it."
The dog's ears perked up, but he made no move to obey. Instead, he produced a deep, resonant growl, a sound Lance had never heard from him before.
What the hell is wrong with him? Forget it.
He probed at his cold, unresponsive arm. Something wasn’t right. His fingers brushed against a hard lump beneath the skin.
Fuck. The bullet. It was still lodged in his forearm, likely pressing against a nerve or something. If he didn't act fast, he could lose the limb entirely. The memory of his brief stint in ROTC training flashed through his mind—the gruff instructor's warnings about field injuries echoing in his ears. Who knew those few months before he washed out for a minor heart arrhythmia would come in handy now?
Okay, okay, think… I should have done this sooner…
9-1-1.
The operator's voice crackled through the speaker, but Lance's words wouldn’t leave his throat. How could he explain this mess? A dead body, a wounded arm, a dog gone feral?
He dropped the phone. They’ll come… eventually—No, they'll take forever. I'll lose my arm before they even get here.
His eyes jumped around the kitchen: his pale arm, the pool of blood, Jiro, and the dead body of the one-eyed hitman casually laying on his kitchen floor.
The dog padded towards him, the blood-stained chopstick still clenched in his maw. Lance's eyes widened as a wild idea took root in his mind.
No. That's insane.
But the numbness in his arm persisted. He touched his arm, and a burst of pain shot up to his shoulder. He glanced at the chopstick again, its titanium surface glinting in the dim light.
Fuck it.
"Here, Jiro," Lance called softly, holding out his hand. "Drop it, boy."
Jiro hesitated, a low growl rumbling in his chest. Lance held his breath, willing the dog to obey. After what felt like the longest time, Jiro's jaw relaxed, and the chopstick clattered to the floor.
Lance snatched it up. He crawled across his kitchen floor, reaching the far-right cabinet and clumsily groped for a bottle of Canadian whiskey, his fingers knocking against glass before finally grasping the right one. Sterilize it, right? That's a thing.
Alcohol splashed everywhere, but mostly on the makeshift surgical tool. With white-knuckled determination, he homed in on the lump in his forearm where the bullet lay hidden.
Just do it.
Lance pressed the tip of the chopstick against his skin, feeling the resistance of flesh. He took a deep breath, steadying himself.
How the fuck did the bullet not go through? Guess I’m semi-bulletproof?
Deep breath. Deep breath. Now.
He closed his eyes. He bit down on a piece of his sweaty, bloody, disgusting exercise shirt and—
I can’t do it.
The held breath escaped in a shuddering gasp. Another inhale, sharp and quick, filled his lungs. Teeth clenched, jaw tight. Fingers trembling around the chopstick. In, out. In, out. Faster now, each breath shorter than the last. Sweat beaded on his forehead, trickling down his temple. Muscles taut, ready—or trying to be. The room swam, edges blurring. Focus narrowed to a pinpoint: the chopstick, his arm, the task ahead. One more breath. Steel resolve crystallized in his gut.
Lance had never been one to shy away from a thrill. As a kid, he'd always been first in line for the scariest roller coasters, scaling the tallest trees, taking dares that made other kids pale. But this? This was different. Self-preservation had always warred with his daring nature, a tug-of-war between excitement and an almost obsessive need to protect himself. It's what drove him to steal the injection, to ensure his own survival at any cost. But now, faced with the prospect of digging a bullet out of his own arm with nothing but a chopstick, that instinct screamed at him to stop. The line between bravery and stupidity had never felt so thin.
This is gonna hurt like hell—No, I can’t fucking do it.
Genetic Optimization: 100%
Evolution Process Initiated
Lance's body seized—from the tiniest twitch in his eyelid to a massive spasm in his thighs. It all lasted less than a fraction of a second, but the sensation was familiar—like that night last week when he'd jolted awake, heart racing, body humming with an inexplicable energy. But this time, it was more intense, more... complete.
First Evolution Achieved
Body primed for advanced energy regulation
Energy Alignment identified: Nullifier
Nullifier: Energy manifests as negation, suppression, or adaptation of various forces and influences
New skill unlocked: [Pain Nullification]
Pain Nullification: Ability to suppress the body's natural pain response
Lance blinked, momentarily distracted by the unordinary system messages. “Nullifier?” He blinked again. “And my superpower is pain nullification? What the fuck, really?” He shook his head. If it saves the arm…
Okay, perfect. It's not gonna hurt, it’s not gonna hurt, it’s not gonna hurt. He bit down on the white shirt again, just in case. Then he took the deepest breath his lungs had ever taken and plunged the titanium chopstick down into his forearm with enough force to break skin, feeling the eating utensil scrape against the bullet.
And it did hurt.
Pain exploded. White-hot. Blinding. A scream ripped from his throat. Muffled by the shirt. Vision blurred. Tunneled. The chopstick shook. His grip weakened. Sweat poured. Tears fell. Every nerve on fire. His body rebelled. Screamed to stop. To give in. But he couldn't. He wouldn’t. He had to get it out; blood was already gushing everywhere, and the system had already tricked him into breaking past the mental barrier that kept him from inflicting self-harm.
Through huffs and puffs and ragged breaths, Lance bit down on that shirt with so much pressure that his teeth made contact, aching from the force—but not more than every tiny movement the chopstick made.
Lance maneuvered the chopstick beneath the bullet. He took a shaky breath, then began to apply pressure, trying to pry the metal intruder upward. The chopstick slipped once, twice, slick with blood. Gritting his teeth, he repositioned and tried again. This time, he felt resistance. A slight give. The bullet shifted ever so slightly. Encouraged, he increased the pressure, angling the chopstick to lift the bullet just enough to get a grip. His other hand hovered nearby, fingers poised to pinch the moment the bullet emerged far enough from his flesh. Every muscle in his body tensed as he focused on this precarious balancing act—applying enough force to dislodge the bullet without pushing it deeper.
However, it slipped again. Tears poured out unchecked. This is impossible, he confessed internally.
He continued to probe, and then the unthinkable occurred: The bullet shifted, its edge scraped against the pinched nerve, and a searing explosion of pain tore through his body. In that instant, Lance experienced agony beyond anything he'd ever known. I’m done. He was pretty sure he would faint right then and there.
[Extreme pain detected]
[Physiological stress levels critical]
[Pain Nullification ability available]
[Activate Pain Nullification? Y/N]
Fucking yes!
In an instant, the agony vanished. The burning, tearing sensation in his arm disappeared as if someone had flipped a switch.
He stared at the chopstick still protruding from his forearm, blood oozing sluggishly around the metal. The sight was gruesome, but the pain... gone. Completely. Lance exhaled shakily, his body trembling from the sudden absence of torment, but his heart and his mind were serene.
Huh.
Holy shit, he thought, a hysterical laugh bubbling up in his throat. It actually worked.
It took almost no time for his breathing to even out.
With newfound clarity, Lance refocused on the task at hand. He gripped the chopstick firmly, maneuvering it beneath the bullet with surgical precision. The metal utensil scraped against the foreign object, and Lance braced himself for pain that never came.
This is surreal, he mused, watching dispassionately as he worked the bullet free from his flesh.
He applied light force, and the metal slid upwards, breaking through the surface of his skin. Blood welled up around it, but he felt nothing. No pain, no discomfort. Just a vague sense of pressure.
The bullet popped free, landing on the linoleum with a soft ‘plink.’
Lance stared at it, then at the hole in his arm. He should be horrified, he knew. Should be freaking out. But all he felt was a sort of mild curiosity, as if he were watching a particularly interesting science experiment.
I should probably do something about this, he thought idly, watching the blood trickle down his arm.
He reached for a kitchen towel, pressing it against the wound with the same casual air one might use to wipe up a spilled drink. The white fabric quickly bloomed red, but Lance found he couldn't summon the energy to care.
The adrenaline crash came, and his whole body felt heavier than his arm did a minute ago.
His eyelids grew heavy, his limbs turning to lead. The kitchen floor suddenly looked incredibly inviting.
I did it, he thought, his lips curling into a smile that felt more like a grimace. I actually fucking did it.
“Here, boy. We’ll take care of the mess in the morning. Let’s rest.”
Jiro ambled over with blood-stained paws and settled on Lance's lap, his muzzle red and wet as he rested his familiar weight against his owner.
Just for a minute, he thought, lowering himself down.
The cool linoleum felt good against his overheated skin. Lance's eyes drifted closed, the events of the night fading into a hazy blur. He was vaguely aware of the blood pooling beneath him, mixing with that of the dead man—Frank?—a few feet away. He should be concerned about that, he knew. But the thought slipped away like smoke, impossible to grasp.
Later, he decided. He'd deal with it all later.
Sleep.