“What do you mean she didn’t come in with me? We were attacked together. She should be here,” I say, my voice heavy with defeat.

“I’m sorry... uh, Tsepho,” the nurse replies, glancing down at her clipboard, probably double-checking my name. “But we have no records of anyone being brought in with you. According to our EMT reports, you were found unconscious on the street after neighbors heard gunshots and called an ambulance.”

I open my mouth to argue but stop, my shoulders slumping as a deep sigh escapes. Did those guys get to her? My mind races, imagining the worst. A wave of dizziness hits me, and my heart pounds in my chest.

“Tsepho, I’m sure nothing bad happened to her,” the nurse says gently. “Maybe she got away when you were injured and found somewhere safe. But right now, I need you to calm down and rest. You were hurt pretty badly.” She gently pushes me back down onto the hospital bed, checking my vitals.

“Oh... okay,” I mutter, not entirely convinced. Maybe she’s right—maybe Brittney did get away after I got shot. Wait... I got shot. The memory hits me all at once, and my hand instinctively reaches for my abdomen, where I remember that scar-faced guy pointing his weapon before I blacked out. Pain explodes across my right side, and I wince.

“Whoa there, calm down,” the nurse says, trying to get me to stay still. “The whole right side of your abdomen is injured—three broken ribs, heavy bruising, and some internal bleeding.”

I grit my teeth and lie back, trying to suppress the pain. She hands me some pain medication before continuing.

“Based on the reports of gunshots and the state we found you in, we assumed you’d been shot. But there’s no evidence of any bullets entering your body—no wounds, not even a graze. But the trauma looks like you were hit by a bullet that didn’t penetrate,” she says, looking at the clipboard before meeting my eyes, letting her words sink in.

Shit. They know. I open my mouth to protest, to deny it somehow, but she cuts me off.

“We know you’re a Smith. It’s already been reported to the authorities. Once you’re discharged, you’ll be taken to Home Affairs to complete the paperwork and enroll in the program.”

“Ah, come on,” I groan, knowing exactly why they reported me. It’s the law. Every super, or 'Smith' as they call us, has to be registered and put into the program to get trained on controlling their abilities. Supposedly, it’s to keep us from hurting anyone by accident. But the truth? This is South Africa, where crime and corruption run deep.

Criminal gangs have found ways to bribe Home Affairs officials, getting info on registered Smiths. They threaten them, force them to work for the gangs, and put their families at risk. Some Smiths fought back at first, using their abilities, but not everyone has the guts to fight, especially with no experience. Now the gangs are stronger, and they know how to intimidate new Smiths into submission.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, higher-ups in Home Affairs are reportedly taking bribes from corporations, selling out Smiths to whoever bids the highest. The government denies it, claiming they only share information with “trusted sources,” whatever the hell that means. Some Smiths say they’ve been recruited into sports leagues or the entertainment industry, but knowing our government, it’s probably the worst-case scenario. That’s why people like me keep our abilities hidden, trying to avoid the program at all costs.

It’s also why I hesitated to use my powers during the attack, and now here I am, stuck in the hospital—and Brittney? She could be in an even worse situation. If I could stop a bullet, maybe I can protect my family and myself.

“Fuck me,” I mutter, feeling the weight of my situation. My life’s been flipped upside down, and I don’t even know what comes next. What about work? Does the program even help financially? Doubt it. I’d probably end up getting recruited by some gang. Hell, I might even have to move back in with my parents. No way. I love my space way too much to go back home. That would drive me crazy.

The nurse gives me another dose of pain meds, and I let them work their magic. As the haze of exhaustion overtakes me, I finally give in and close my eyes.

Days pass since I’ve been admitted and one day and I wake up to the sound of footsteps approaching. The nurse tells me it’s time to go. I’m being discharged. For a split second, I think I’ll finally get to go home and rest, but that hope shatters when I see the police officers waiting just outside the room.

Great. I’m not even leaving the hospital as a free man.

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They escort me out to the waiting car, drawing way too much attention for my liking. The looks people give me as I pass by remind me of just how exposed I feel. I hate it. There’s got to be a better way to handle this whole process, I think. Maybe they could create a secure app, or at least streamline the registration process so people don’t have to deal with this kind of public spectacle. My programming background quickly comes up with a solution—an encrypted system that keeps Smiths anonymous until they’re verified.

But I shake it off. I have bigger things to worry about. Brittney. My parents. Hell, even my job.

I climb into the police car, and the ride to Home Affairs is uncomfortable. The officers don’t say much, and I sit in silence, my thoughts bouncing from one worry to the next. When we finally arrive, they drop me off in front of the building. I’m handed some paperwork to fill out, and they disappear inside, leaving me standing alone.

I pull out my phone and immediately dial Brittney’s number. It rings... and rings... no answer.

I try again. Same result.

Come on, Brittney. I try one last time, but my heart sinks when it goes to voicemail again. No answer. Nothing.

I lower the phone, trying to keep it together. Deep down, I know she’s in trouble, but I force myself to hold on to hope that maybe she’s okay.

I need a distraction. I scroll through my contacts and dial my parents.

“Hello?” My mom’s voice comes through, and just hearing it makes my stomach twist. I clear my throat, unsure of how to even begin this conversation.

“Hey, Ma,” I say, trying to sound normal, but failing miserably.

“Tsepho! What happened? You told us you were shot!” Her voice rises, and I can practically feel the panic through the phone.

“Yeah... about that,” I begin, wincing internally. This conversation is going to be rough.

“We got the call from the hospital! They said you weren’t even shot, so what the hell is going on?” she presses.

“I don’t know, okay?” I snap, rubbing the back of my neck in frustration. “I... I was sure I got shot, but apparently, it was something else. I’ll explain later. Just... it’s complicated.”

“Complicated? Tsepho, you had us terrified! We thought you were dying!”

“I’m fine, Ma. It’s just... I’m not fine, alright? I’ll explain everything when I get home.”

There’s a long silence on the other end. My mom’s disappointment is almost palpable.

“Fine,” she finally says, her voice tight. “Just come home soon. We’ll talk then.”

“Yeah. I will.”

I hang up, feeling a knot tighten in my chest. Great. This just keeps getting better.

I shove my phone back in my pocket and take a deep breath, knowing full well that once I walk into that building, there’s no turning back.

As I wait in one of the many seats in the wide waiting room, I glance around, trying to spot another Smith who might be here to register. After scanning the crowd for a while, I don’t immediately notice anyone with visible mutations. Bored of people-watching, I take out my phone and start doing some research—something I should’ve done as soon as I discovered my ability. At the time, though, I thought it would be best to pretend it didn’t exist. Too much trouble comes with being a Smith, and I had just started enjoying a steady job after a long stretch of unemployment. Living alone was also a nice change.

Then one day, while reaching for my keys to leave for work, I felt a strange awareness, and the keys shifted out of reach. I thought nothing of it at first, but when I reached again, the same thing happened—this time, the keys slid even further away. It was almost as if my hands were repelling them, like magnets.

Weird, I thought. I kept chasing the keys around the kitchen table, convinced it had something to do with my jacket buttons or magnets in my pockets. But there was no such luck.

Then, a thought hit me. That odd feeling I had when reaching for the keys—what if I tried focusing on it deliberately? I put my hand out and concentrated, reversing the sensation in my head. Instantly, a flash of blue lines appeared, and the keys leaped into my palm from across the table.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” I muttered, a sense of dread washing over me. It was great that I got my keys back, but I had discovered something much worse: I was a Smith. And being a Smith was a burden, especially in this country. Worse still was the thought of how my family would react.

I grew up in a hyper-religious household, and the moment Smiths started coming out, my family labelled them as Satan’s soldiers. "Judgment Day is coming," they would say. The idea of me becoming one of those people was enough to make my stomach churn. Not to mention, I had no desire to risk my life for strangers who wouldn’t even appreciate it. In fact, they’d probably find reasons to make my life miserable just because they could.

Some people are born to be heroes, sacrificing themselves for the greater good. I am not one of those people. I’m just a guy—well, I was just a guy—trying to build a comfortable career in tech, maybe find a girlfriend, and pursue some hobbies. That’s all I wanted. Now, I had to deal with this. Maybe I could find a community of people like me, people who wanted nothing to do with their abilities and just live a normal life. No gangs, no corrupt corporations exploiting us.

Focusing back on the task at hand, I did as much research as I could while waiting for my name to be called, knowing full well that, being Home Affairs, this process could take all day. After a few hours of boredom and a quick nap (thanks to the pain meds I took earlier), my name was finally announced. I jumped up from my seat, relieved that I was finally about to get this tedious ordeal over with.

After what felt like an eternity of filling out paperwork, I was led down a series of narrow hallways into a room. It was bare, with just a desk, a chair, and a massive two-way mirror along the wall. I sat down, waiting, the silence pressing in.

Suddenly, the mirror lit up, revealing a middle-aged Black woman standing on the other side. She had a stern, professional look about her, holding a tablet in her hands. After a few taps on the screen, she looked up at me through the glass and spoke through the intercom.