Mitsuki's nose wrinkled as she stepped over the threshold, her eyes darting from the blackened remains of a potted plant to the dark stains on the living room floor. It looked like a war zone, and reeked of charred vegetation and something metallic.
So we only have one paramedic, one forensic specialist, and a junior detective, she sighed. This pandemic has stretched us so thin, it's a miracle we can respond to calls at all.
She snapped on a pair of latex gloves, and as she tugged at each fingertip, ensuring a perfect fit, the paramedic approached, his eyes heavy with fatigue.
"Are you Detective Yamada?”
"I am," she replied, flashing her badge.
“We've been here since dawn. It's... not pretty."
Mitsuki angled her wrist, [8:25 AM]. First case, and it's a bloodbath, she thought. "What can you tell me?"
The paramedic gestured towards the kitchen. "Male, late twenties. Multiple lacerations, one gunshot wound to the arm. But here's the kicker—he's alive."
"Alive?" Mitsuki's tongue pressed against her cheek. "With all this blood?"
"That's not his." The paramedic's voice lowered. "There's another body. Behind the kitchen island."
Mitsuki shifted to the balls of her feet, hands loosely curling. "Show me."
As the paramedic turned, her mind flashed back to the dispatch report. All they had to go on was an open line 9-1-1 call—a man's voice screaming in what sounded like agony, then abrupt silence. The operator had tried to re-establish contact for several minutes before sending units to investigate. And by units, they meant two overworked beat cops, who quickly called in paramedics—volunteers who had to come in their private cars given the scarcity of ambulances.
It was Mitsuki's first week as a detective, and she was supposed to shadow her senior partner. But like so many plans in this chaotic-stricken world, that fell through. Her partner, well…he had too much to drink before the pandemic—a deadly mistake in these times—leaving Mitsuki to learn the ropes all on her own. Despite the grim circumstances, a part of her welcomed this baptism by fire. It was an opportunity to prove herself, to show that she was ready for the responsibility thrust upon her by a world in crisis.
They moved further into the kitchen, stepping around shattered glass and overturned furniture. There, sprawled on the floor, lay a man. Or what was left of him.
"Kuso," Mitsuki muttered, crouching beside the corpse. The man's eye socket was a gaping wound, as if something had been violently extracted. But it was the remaining eye that caught her attention—half-lidded and cold.
"Any ID?"
The paramedic shook his head. "Nothing on him. But get this—the weapon was a chopstick."
Mitsuki's eyebrow arched. "A chopstick?"
"It’s on the victim. Looks like it was pulled out of the wound."
She stood, surveying the room. Blood spatter painted the walls, telling a story of frenzied violence and desperation. But something didn't add up. The precision of the kill strike contradicted the chaos around them.
"Where's the survivor?"
"He's right over there," the paramedic said, gesturing to the other side of the kitchen island. "We sedated him to check him over. Blood pressure's low, but he's stable. Apart from the visible injuries, he's surprisingly okay. There's no need for an ambulance, at least."
"He's lucky, then. With this pandemic, I'd be surprised to see an ambulance in this neighborhood," Mitsuki said while her thoughts churned through the bizarre scene. A fight to the death with kitchen utensils. What the hell happened here?
She made her way around the kitchen island, noting the trajectory of the bullet hole in the living room wall. Shot fired from the kitchen towards the living room. Shooter had a clear line of sight, she analyzed. Her gaze fell on the singed remains of the plant. Attempted arson to cover tracks? Or collateral damage from a struggle? This level of violence suggests more than a simple break-in. Targeted attack, maybe?
Thoughts for later. For now, she filed everything she observed into her mental grid.
"Detective?" the forensics specialist called out. "You might want to see this."
Mitsuki stopped before him. She took a look at the man laying there, his muscular frame barely contained by the blanket draped over him. His eyes were closed, but his face was taut with tension.
"Lance Lawthorn," the paramedic said, handing her a wallet. "Software engineer at Qualtech. No priors, no record."
Mitsuki studied Lance's face. Software engineer takes down an intruder? There's more to this story. She leaned closer, noticing something odd about his arm. "Is that... the gunshot wound?"
The paramedic glanced at his tablet. "Looks like he dug the bullet out himself. With the same chopstick he used on the other guy. What’s weird is that it’s already healing."
Impossible, Mitsuki thought. But the evidence was right in front of her. She glanced at Lance's other hand, clenched tightly around something.
"I’m guessing that’s the murder weapon?"
The paramedic shrugged. "We couldn't pry it loose. Even sedated, his grip is like iron."
“Is he one of those arma users?” Mitsuki asked.
"Hard to tell, but..." The paramedic trailed off, nodding towards Lance. On the floor, the man stirred, his head lolling to one side. “You might be able to ask him.”
Lance Lawthorn's lips moved, soft words escaping. "Don' want... pain n'llification," he slurred, the words floating just above silence.
Mitsuki reached for Lance's hand, her fingers barely touching his when his eyes snapped open. In a blur of motion, he sat up, his hand shooting out to grab her wrist.
"Who are you?" Lance's voice was a low growl, his eyes wild and unfocused.
Mitsuki froze, acutely aware of the crushing strength in his grip. "Detective Yamada. You're safe now, Mr. Lawthorn,” Mitsuki soothed, while inwardly puzzling over his quick recovery. Wasn’t he sedated?
Lance blinked, confusion replacing the feral look in his eyes. He released her wrist, slumping back onto the linoleum. "I... I didn't mean to..."
“It’s okay, Mr. Lawthorn, nobody is blaming you.” She produced a clear evidence bag, holding it open. "But I'm going to need that. Please place the chopstick in here."
Lance raised his arm and his eyes flicked to his hand as if noticing the chopstick for the first time. Mitsuki drew the bag closer, and he let the utensil drop with a soft clink.
The man’s eyes suddenly crossed the entire apartment, then panic rose in his voice. "Jiro... where's Jiro?"
"Jiro?"
"My dog," Lance said, trying to sit up again. "He was with me when—"
A bark interrupted him. A small dog trotted into the kitchen, tail wagging. Lance visibly relaxed. The dog's muzzle was stained with dried blood, dark smears around its mouth and nose.
“I’m so glad you’re okay, buddy—”
There goes my crime scene. Mitsuki snapped her head to the forensic worker. "Secure that dog. We need photos and samples from it."
She crouched beside Lance. “Mr. Lawthorn, I need you to step out of the apartment. Given the state of our hospitals, the paramedic will check you over here. If necessary, we'll take you to the hospital. Once you're cleared, we'll need you to come down to the station to give a formal statement.”
She nodded to the paramedic, who moved in to help Lance out of the home.
“Mr. Lawthorn, do you have somewhere you can stay while we process the scene?”
He nodded.
“Good. Do not discuss this incident with anyone except medical personnel as necessary for your treatment. We'll be in touch soon.”
***
It took Lance a lot of sweet talk to convince John, the paramedic, that he didn't need to go to the hospital. John kept asking how Lance was so calm after what he'd endured. Then, the third time he had asked the same question was when Lance realized his new “Pain Nullification” superpower was still active.
The power worked like an on-off switch in his mind. When on, it blocked all pain signals from reaching his brain. Through quick trial and error, he figured out how to control it. It was like holding your breath—not the physical inability to breathe, but the conscious act of telling your body not to inhale. It was simple, weird, and fascinating and terrifying and exhilarating all at once.
Once he turned it off for good, discomfort from his arm hit him, along with some dizziness from blood loss. But it wasn't too bad; his arm had already started to heal. He asked John for some ibuprofen, which the paramedic seemed ecstatic to administer. Lance tried for a sandwich too, but John didn't bite. At least he managed to stuff himself with protein bars, powder, and amino acids from Titan's Den.
Lance would be forever grateful to Mark for letting him crash at the gym for a few days. As a thank you, he bought his temporary wardrobe from the gym's merchandise. Now he looked like a meathead in the Titan’s Den signature tank top, and his 'genetically optimized' body sure didn't help. On the bright side, he seemed to be working out a lot recently, so the clothes wouldn’t be wasted.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
Later, giving his statement went smoother than expected. Lance was free to go, thankfully not in any trouble. It helped that the intruder turned out to be Frank, who had a criminal record. Lance kept the knowledge about the little prick, Preston to himself, weighing whether it was a good idea to make accusations without evidence. The last thing he wanted was more assassins paying him visits.
Oh, and he got Jiro back. Luckily, the police didn't have the manpower to keep a dog as evidence and turns out Frank loves dogs—Frank the owner of Titan’s Den, not the killer—or corpse—so that was a win, win, and win.
These were the thoughts that accompanied him as he enjoyed the frigid night air while on his way to 1234 Oak Street.
Fingers huddled in the thin gym hoodie's pockets for warmth. Ears stung from the cold, turning red in the wind. Each breath formed a small cloud in front of his face. Thank god Frank carries hoodies and sweatpants, he thought, ducking his head against the chilly air.
Lance stepped into room 201, the community center gymnasium. The door slammed shut behind him, the sound echoing through the room like a gunshot. Silence followed. Four heads snapped up. Eyebrows raised. Lips tightened. One woman leaned forward, squinting. A man in the corner crossed his arms and pushed back in his chair.
Shhhit.
He shuffled forward, his new gym shoes squeaking against the polished floor. The sound echoed in the quiet room, making him wince. Lance's gaze darted around, taking in the circle of chairs and the small group seated there. Three men, one woman. All staring at him like he was some kind of alien.
Maybe I am.
"Sorry I'm late," Lance said, his voice sounding too loud in the stillness. He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous habit he couldn't seem to shake. "Is this, uh, the Enhanced Individuals Support Group?"
The woman, a petite lady with long black hair and glasses, stood up from her chair. "That's us," she said with a welcoming smile. "I'm Elena, the group organizer. Please, grab a seat and join us."
Lance unfolded one of those ubiquitous brown metal folding chairs, the kind found in every community center across the country. When the legs scraped against the polished hardwood of the basketball court, the noise stretched on for what felt like an eternity as he maneuvered it into the circle. The situation rapidly evolved from merely uncomfortable to painfully, excruciatingly awkward. Just when he thought it couldn't get any worse, he realized the only thing that would amp up the vibe would be if he took off his zip-up hoodie and revealed the Titan's Den tank top underneath, which suddenly felt about two sizes too small in the overly warm gymnasium.
"I'm Lance," he said, clearing his throat. "Lance Lawthorn."
The woman smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Welcome, Lance. As I mentioned, I'm Elena. I facilitate these meetings." She gestured to the others in turn. "This is Simon, Maverick, and Diego."
Lance nodded to each of them, noting their varying expressions. Maverick, a guy with wavy brown hair and glasses, looked nervous. Simon, a slender man with tousled blonde hair, just looked bored.
Then Lance's eyes landed on the last person, and his jaw nearly hit the floor. Unmistakable Aztec warrior tattoos. Diego. Diego "The Beast" Ramirez was here, sitting on the floor instead of a chair. Lance noticed with a start that Diego was wearing the same Titan's Den hoodie as him, making them look like they were part of some weird gym cult. But what really threw Lance was Diego's legs. They looked massive, easily twice the size of when Lance had last seen him.
It wasn't that Diego's legs looked inhuman. They just looked like the legs of a gym bro who'd skipped everything-but-leg-day for a year straight. And then multiplied that by ten. The guy was a reverse chicken leg, all thigh and calf with a normal upper body. Lance couldn't stop staring, wondering how Diego even found pants that fit anymore.
Diego noticed him as well, and they exchanged a down nod.
Elena leaned forward in her chair. "So, Lance, what brings you to our group today?"
Lance opened his mouth, then closed it. He tried again. "I... well, it's... The gene therapy, you know? And now I'm dealing with changes I wasn't prepared for. I've had some... incidents."
First, I broke a man's arm, literally snapped it in two. And then I killed someone with a titanium chopstick, he didn't say.
Instead, he took a deep breath to reorganize his thoughts and said: "Nothing too serious, but it scared me. Made me realize I need help figuring out how to handle this new reality."
Simon dipped his chin, eyes closing briefly. When he looked up, his face showed he got it. "That's a common feeling around here, Lance. Many of us have struggled with similar concerns."
Elena smiled encouragingly. "Thank you for sharing, Lance. It takes courage to admit you need help. We're here to support each other through these challenges. Would you like to hear how some of our regulars have been coping?"
Lance's shoulders relaxed a bit, relieved to shift the focus from himself.
Elena turned to Simon. "Simon, would you mind sharing your experience?"
"It's been... difficult," Simon said, his voice barely above a whisper. He rubbed his left forearm nervously. "I lost my parents to NARS. They were... they were everything to me."
Simon's words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Lance's chest tightened. He thought of his mom in Florida, one of the lucky veterans who'd snagged an early NARS treatment at the local VA. How close had he come to Simon's fate? His mind flashed to Diego's family, to all the families he'd never thought about before. The treatment had changed him, sure, but for so many others, it had been the difference between life and death. Lance looked at his hands. They shook. Remembering. It seemed so long ago. Without the gene therapy seven days ago, he wouldn't be sitting here now.
Maverick cleared his throat, breaking the tension in the room and pulling Lance from his thoughts. "I know what you mean, Simon. The isolation, the fear... it was like being thrust onto a stage without knowing your lines."
Lance's brow furrowed, one side hitching higher than the other. Theatrical metaphors? Really?
"The genetic treatment hunt was a nightmare," Maverick continued, his hands gesturing expressively. "I spent days refreshing pharmacy websites, calling clinics. It was like trying to score tickets to the hottest show in town, except the stakes were life and death."
Diego bobbed his head up and down, his massive legs shifting. "For real, man. I camped outside the clinic all night. Thought I'd freeze to death before I even got the shot."
"These are all valid experiences,” said Elena. “The pandemic affected us in ways we're still trying to understand. Lance, do you have any similar experiences you'd like to share?"
Lance tensed. He thought about the night he'd injected himself with the experimental vaccine, the desperation that had driven him to such reckless action. But admitting that felt... dangerous.
"I... I was lucky," he decided to say. "Got into a clinical trial early on. But the changes afterward..." He trailed off, unsure how to continue without revealing too much.
Elena perked up, catching Lance's unease. "Change can be overwhelming, especially when it's unexpected. How have you been coping with these changes, Lance?"
Lance rubbed the back of his head softly, buying time. "Honestly? Not great. I've been trying to figure things out on my own, but it's... it's a lot."
Like breaking arms, killing people, he thought grimly.
At that moment, Maverick’s chair squeaked. "Have you tried any coping strategies? I've found that treating life like a performance helps. We're all just actors trying to find our roles in this new world."
Lance resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Not really my style," he said. "I'm more of a... hands-on learner. Thank you, Mav—Maverick, was it?"
“Everyone calls me Rick. But you’re right, each should find what works for them.”
Yeah, I'll stick with the Krav Maga approach. At least I know where I stand there.
"I've been working on accepting that I can't control everything. It's... it's hard, but it helps," said Simon.
Lance acquiesced with his head while thinking about his superhuman abilities. Control was definitely something he needed to work on.
The conversation flowed effortlessly for about thirty minutes, with Simon, Maverick, and Diego sharing stories from their first week of the pandemic. Lance listened intently, chiming in occasionally with a question or comment. The easy back-and-forth felt surprisingly natural—not what he’d expected. He got the feeling that the group was keeping things mild, probably to make him feel comfortable on his first day. He was thankful for that.
Elena glanced at her watch. "I'm afraid our time is almost up for today. Does anyone have any final thoughts they'd like to share?"
The room fell silent. Lance shifted in his chair, feeling the weight of unspoken words pressing down on him. He was disappointed they hadn't discussed superpowers. No one mentioned seeing system messages, a.k.a. BioNova's interface. Maybe their changes were more subtle, less dramatic than his. Or maybe they were just better at hiding them. Lance wondered if the real support happened outside these meetings, in hushed conversations and secret gatherings where people felt safe to reveal their true abilities.
"Well," Elena said, breaking the silence, "I want to thank everyone for sharing today. Remember, you're not alone in this. We're all navigating this new world together."
As the group dispersed, Lance stood up and folded his chair. He felt unsatisfied, but a little calmer. The session had helped, yet left him wanting more. He hadn't found the answers he'd hoped for, but this place might lead to them. He couldn't wait to be back tomorrow.
Diego approached him, his massive legs making his gait awkward. "Hey, Lan. Good to see you here."
"Yeah, you too. I didn't expect..."
"To see me here?" Diego finished with a grin. “Well, bro, having strong legs hasn’t been easy.”
"So, uh, Diego... your legs..."
Diego chuckled, a deep rumble that seemed to vibrate through the air. "Yeah, man. It's wild, right?"
Understatement, sprung instantly inside Lance’s mind.
They made their way towards the exit, Diego's movement noticeably awkward. Lance couldn't help but stare at the way Diego's muscles bulged and shifted with each step.
"How did... I mean, when did this happen?"
Diego's face darkened. "It started that day we met at the gym, man. Each day, my legs got bigger, stronger. By the end of the week, bam! Legs like tree trunks."
Lance winced. He knew all too well how sudden and jarring these changes could be. "That must have been a shock."
"You have no idea, bro." Diego shook his head. "At first, I thought it was awesome. I mean, who doesn't want to be stronger, right?"
They pushed through the double doors into the chilly night air. Lance zipped up his hoodie, grateful for the extra layer.
"But?"
Diego sighed. "But then I realized how dangerous it could be. I... I hurt someone."
A cold knot formed in Lance’s gut. Shit. "What happened?"
"My girlfriend. We were... you know." He made a vague gesture with his hands. "And I... I crushed her pelvis."
Fuck.
Lance felt the blood drain from his face. Just like he'd done to the shoplifter. "Is she okay?"
"She'll recover. Eventually." Diego said. "But she won't see me anymore. Can't say I blame her."
They walked in silence for a moment. Icy wind cut through their hoodies. Streetlights cast long shadows on the empty sidewalks. Lance's breath puffed out in white clouds. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold. The chill took over his bones, making it hard to think. The cold deepened, matching the heavy atmosphere between them.
He needed to clear his mind. He flipped the switch.
[Pain Nullification: On]
And just like that, the cold was gone. Well, not entirely accurate—the sensation of cold remained, but it didn't make him shiver or ache or feel painful. He could focus entirely on his friend.
"How do you deal with it?" Lance asked. "The fear of hurting someone?"
Diego shrugged. "I'm still figuring it out, man. That's why I'm in the group. Trying to learn control, you know?"
Control. That word again. Lance nodded, understanding all too well.
"It's not just the strength," Diego continued. "It's everything. The speed, the reflexes. One wrong move and..." He trailed off, leaving the unspoken consequences hanging in the air.
Everything that had happened last week replayed in Lance's mind. "Yeah, I get it. It's like we're walking around with loaded guns for bodies."
"Exactly!" Diego exclaimed. "And the worst part is, no one tells you how to handle it. It's all 'congratulations, you survived NARS' and then they just... leave you to figure it out."
They reached the corner where they'd have to part ways. Lance stopped, adjusting his hoodie against the cold. “Well, I gotta go that way.”
Diego suddenly stopped mid-step. "Isn't your apartment the other way?"
"Uh, yeah," Lance said, shuffling his feet. "There was a problem with my place. I'm crashing at the gym for a few days."
Diego's face scrunched up. After a beat, his expression cleared. He clapped Lance on the shoulder. “Well, let me know if you need anything, man."
Lance felt a spark of... something. Not quite hope, but close. He wrestled with the feeling, trying to pin it down. Then it hit him.
I’m not alone.
"Thanks," he said. "I appreciate it."
Diego turned to go, then stopped. "Hey, you'll be at tomorrow's meeting, right?"
"Count on it," Lance replied, a half-smile tugging at his lips. Genuine.