The plaque outside read simply: Delong Science Center, followed by Home of Zenith’s Cutting-Edge Research in Bioengineering and Molecular Sciences in that official, no-nonsense type. I shrugged off the minor flash of doubt creeping up and stepped inside, aiming for a look of confidence. If I couldn’t pass for “guy who belongs here,” I’d settle for “guy who’s got somewhere important to be.”

Inside, the building hummed with energy. Students zipped past, bags slung over shoulders, voices merging in the caffeine-fueled hum of academic ambition. The air had that strange mix of burnt coffee and lab-grade chemicals—a concoction oddly invigorating if you ignored the instinct to turn back.

I strolled down the main hall, peeking into classrooms. Lab coats, goggles, whiteboards covered in frantic scribbles—exactly what you’d expect. Not a hint of anything suspicious, though. Just students deep in textbooks, tossing out words like “polypeptide” and “mitochondrial” as if they were discussing weekend plans. Definitely not a scene out of a crime thriller.

I was ready to admit this whole operation was feeling more misguided by the second when I turned a corner and caught sight of a lab packed with students, huddled around a table, their faces locked in collective concentration. The one in charge, clearly the senior geek in the group, had that familiar I’ve lived in this lab for years vibe. Glasses on his nose, sleeves slightly crumpled—he was deep into whatever experiment was unfolding, the look of someone who’d memorized the chemical periodic table ages ago.

Then he glanced up and spotted me—a total outsider hovering awkwardly in the doorway.

“Uh… are you lost?” he asked, his tone both sharp and bewildered.

Not exactly the warm welcome I’d been hoping for. I scrambled for a response, landed on, “Just… exploring,” and gave him a quick nod. Before I could embarrass myself further, I slipped back into the hall, mentally filing science club crash under “bad ideas.”

So much for casually gathering intel.

I stuffed my hands into my pockets and started down the hall, replaying the whole scene. This little aimless wandering idea? Not exactly yielding results. With a sigh, I decided to call it for now and retraced my steps, figuring maybe heading back to the market for a regroup wasn’t the worst idea after all.

As I stepped back into the courtyard, I was already considering regrouping with John and Lydia. This whole needle-in-a-haystack search for clues was going nowhere, and right now, caffeine and a fresh perspective seemed like the better plan.

But my thoughts derailed as I spotted a crowd gathering on the grass nearby, loosely circling two figures at the center of the commotion. I drifted closer, curiosity tugging me in.

In the center of the huddle stood a classic mismatch. One of them—a tall, solidly built guy with shoulders that practically screamed “Varsity.” He wore a letterman jacket and exuded that easy arrogance of someone who’s never known what it’s like to be at the bottom of the social ladder. The other was…well, about as low on that ladder as you could get. Thin, red-haired, and hunched in on himself, he looked like he’d just walked out of a lab and straight into a bad day. His shirt, proudly displaying a faded science pun, marked him as one of the science department’s own.

The jock had him by the collar, practically lifting him off the ground, his grip so tight it was starting to crumple the science kid’s shirt. Scattered books and papers littered the grass at their feet. It didn’t take a detective to piece it together—the kid had accidentally collided with him, sending the jock’s belongings flying. Judging by the look on the jock’s face, though, he wasn’t interested in forgiveness.

“Watch it,” he growled, giving the kid another rough shake.

The kid flailed slightly, struggling to keep his balance. “I—I’m really sorry,” he stammered, his voice wavering. “But, you know… technically, I wasn’t moving, so it was sort of… you who… bumped into me?”

Oh, kid. Timing.

A ripple of whispers ran through the crowd, a mix of amusement and anticipation. The jock’s jaw clenched, clearly not a fan of logic on a good day. His grip tightened, and a vein started pulsing in his neck—the kind of anger that only public embarrassment can spark.

There was something familiar about the red-haired kid, but I couldn’t quite place it. Still, as I watched him dangling there, it hit me that this was more than just a rough encounter. If the jock decided to really escalate things, this kid wouldn’t stand a chance.

The crowd held its breath as tension spiked, like everyone collectively sensed the moment tipping toward something worse. The jock, his grip like a vice on the kid’s collar, looked even more set on making his point. But there was something more to it—a faint, prickling hum in the air. It dawned on me then: this guy was a super, and he was losing control. I felt the subtle pulse of energy roll off him, seeping out as his temper flared.

A few students who’d been laughing a moment ago seemed to catch it, too. Someone called out, “Johnny, chill! Just toss him and let’s get to class.” But Johnny wasn’t listening; instead, he lifted the lanky kid higher, his fists white-knuckled as he held him in the air by his shirt. The smaller guy’s face was flushed, his breaths coming in shallow gasps as his feet dangled off the ground.

I glanced around, half-expecting a faculty member to step in and break things up, but the courtyard was deserted, save for the students who now looked too stunned to interfere. Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse, I noticed the kid fumbling in his pocket, clearly struggling to retrieve something. My heart skipped a beat when I caught a flash of fluorescent orange—a vial of Courage.

You’ve got to be kidding.

As I squinted at the kid, piecing together the red hair, the thick-framed glasses, the awkward hunch, a flicker of recognition dawned. Power Paladin? It seemed absurd, but I couldn’t shake the familiarity. The same self-righteous kid from the river protest? Couldn’t be. Things just got a lot more complicated.

Then, as if to confirm every suspicion, the kid—still dangling from the jock’s grip and barely able to catch his breath—croaked out a defiant, “Go ahead… do your worst. Justice always prevails over evil.”

Oh, there was no mistaking him now. This was definitely the same kid in the Martha Stewart armor from the riverfront incident with the Merfolk.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

The jock pulled him even closer, practically shaking with irritation. “I am going to make you wish that—”

“Alright, that’s enough,” I said, my voice cutting through the tension like a sharp edge. I stepped forward, making it clear this wasn’t a request. The jock turned, his face twisted with irritation as he registered my interruption, but he didn’t let go.

“Who the hell are you?” Johnny barked, his grip tightening on the kid’s collar.

I shrugged, meeting his glare. “Just someone who knows when enough’s enough.”

Johnny’s sneer twisted, sharper now, each word soaked with contempt. “Mind your own business, old man,” he spat, stretching the “old” just enough to rile the crowd, which hummed with anticipation. The word landed with a smirk and a confidence that screamed he’d done this kind of thing before, probably to an easy crowd.

“Let him go,” I replied calmly, barely glancing at the onlookers. “We don’t need to make a scene here.”

Johnny’s laugh was dark and unbothered, the kind that made you wonder if he knew his audience was wrapped around his finger. “You think you’re gonna make me? Look around, Grandpa. Nobody asked for your help.”

The crowd rustled, more interested now. A few whispers—half excitement, half nervous laughter—rose around us. I met Johnny’s gaze, unfazed. “Trust me, kid. You don’t want this to go the way you think it will.”

His smirk grew into a grin as he squared up, clearly relishing the challenge. “Yeah? And what are you gonna do about it?”

I didn’t bother with a response, just let the silence stretch, holding his stare. Then, moving in a smooth, deliberate motion, I closed the distance, planting my hand firmly on his shoulder. He jerked, knees buckling as the pressure sank in, his hold on the redheaded kid loosening just enough for him to scramble free, wide-eyed and gasping as he staggered back.

“Stay put,” I told the kid, not breaking eye contact with Johnny. “I’ve got a few questions for you once we’re done here.”

Johnny’s eyes narrowed, a muscle ticking in his jaw as he glared up at me. The humiliation seethed in his gaze, and something shifted. His breathing slowed, deepened, and his whole body seemed to tense, as if gathering strength. Then, it started—a shimmer running across his skin, glinting under the midday light as though his veins had filled with molten steel. The metallic sheen crept upward, overtaking his flesh, his skin hardening, transforming into a polished, glistening armor that rippled as he flexed. Muscles seemed to expand beneath it, reshaping him into something cold, hard, and inhumanly strong.

The crowd went silent, the whispers vanishing as they watched him, some stepping back in awe. Johnny grinned, his new, metal-plated form catching the light, turning him into a glistening statue of anger and arrogance. The air seemed to thicken as he squared his shoulders, a metallic glint in his now-hard eyes, daring me to flinch.

Johnny shoved against my hold, muscles tensing under the metallic sheen that had overtaken his skin. He started to rise, pressing upward with all his might. I couldn’t help but chuckle, watching him strain. Metal skin? Maybe this was going to be more interesting than I’d thought.

He sneered, finding his footing. “I’m gonna make you wish—”

But he didn’t finish the sentence, because at that moment, I gave him a quick, firm smack, sending him crashing down into the grass like a human sledgehammer. His body left an impressive Johnny-shaped crater, a more convincing argument than any threat he’d been about to make. I raised an eyebrow, feigning regret. “You know, I’m sorry. You never get to finish telling us what we’re supposed to wish for. Feels like we’re missing out on something big.”

A few people in the crowd laughed nervously, a ripple of disbelief spreading through the onlookers. Johnny struggled, groaning as he tried to peel himself out of the dent in the earth, his movements slow and labored, like he was trying to lift a car off his own chest.

I glanced over at a line of steel bike racks nearby, sturdy enough to handle college students’ antics but no match for what I had in mind. As Johnny finally managed to push himself up, I grabbed him by the arm and started dragging him across the courtyard, his metal body scraping against the ground with a sharp, grating sound that made the crowd cringe. His face twisted in outrage, his fists clenched in a desperate attempt to regain some dignity. But the ground continued to grind against him, a metallic symphony that echoed through the quad.

The bystanders were glued to the spot, wide-eyed and silent as I reached the row of bike racks and got to work. I maneuvered Johnny’s flailing body into place and, with a series of smooth, deliberate bends, began twisting the racks around him like a piece of impromptu steel origami. The metal groaned as I wrapped it around his torso, arms, and legs, each twist and fold cinching him tighter, his struggles gradually slowing to a still silence.

For the finishing touch, I bent one final piece across his mouth, effectively silencing the string of threats that had been bubbling up since I’d first interfered. I stepped back, admiring my handiwork—Johnny, fully restrained, a picture of shiny frustration wrapped in steel.

The crowd stared, some students with mouths hanging open, others glancing at each other as if trying to make sure this was really happening.

I dusted off my hands, giving Johnny a casual nod. “There we go. Now you don’t have to worry about saying anything you’ll regret.”

As the dust settled, I scanned the courtyard, catching sight of at least two dozen bystanders, all with phones raised, recording every second of the showdown. A few muttered to each other, some looked stunned, and others already had that eager gleam in their eyes that only came with thoughts of viral fame. Perfect—just what I needed.

Suppressing a groan, I cursed myself for making the whole thing a bit too theatrical. I’d intended to keep it low-key, and now I was a few views away from becoming everyone’s latest social media obsession.

Shaking it off, I called out from a few steps away, “You alright there, Power Paladin?” I didn’t bother masking the name.

The lanky student, still sitting dazed on the ground, rubbed his head as he mumbled, “Yeah, I think so…” His eyes widened in horror as he realized what he’d just admitted to. He scrambled to cover, stammering, “I—I don’t know who you think I am. My name’s, uh… Owen. Owen Franklin.”

In an instant, I closed the gap between us, lowering my voice as I leaned in close. “Oh, come on, Owen,” I said, my tone a sly whisper. “You really don’t remember me? After all the ruckus you caused at the riverfront with the merfolk?”

His face went sheet white, eyes darting around like a cornered animal. “Dave?” he blurted out in a panic, the name spilling out louder than he probably intended.

I sighed, amused. “Let’s not draw a bigger crowd here.” But it was too late. The moment Owen shouted my name, a ripple of recognition rolled through the onlookers, and I could practically hear the gears turning in their minds. Then, like wildfire, my name started bouncing around the crowd.

“Dave!” someone shouted, and that was all it took. A chorus of cheers erupted, phones whipped out faster than I could blink. A few students, clearly hyped up by the spectacle, started chanting, “Dave! Dave! Dave!”

Others took it up, jumping around and chopping at the air, each one trying to perfect their “Dave-Fu” moves. It was like an impromptu martial arts class broke out, complete with over-the-top kicks, flailing arms, and more enthusiasm than accuracy.

I leaned down, covering Owen’s mouth with my hand in a barely restrained, mildly annoyed move. “Let’s not turn this into a spectacle, alright?” I whispered, glancing at the sea of phones, all zeroed in like paparazzi at a red carpet premiere.

But the crowd was far too invested, and there was no stopping it. With a sigh, I turned back to Owen. “Alright, we’re done here. You’re coming with me.” He glanced up, confused, and maybe a little unnerved, his mouth opening to ask something before I cut him off with a quiet nod.

“Just, try not to throw up,” I murmured, just low enough that he had to lean in a little to catch it.

Before he could react, I drew him close, my hand firm on his shoulder. In the span of a single heartbeat, everything around us—the courtyard, the gawking crowd, the jumbled noise of whispered questions—seemed to blur and shift. A breath later, we were gone.

The courtyard fell silent, leaving only the startled faces and echo of where we’d just been.