A low sound rang through the flat. It wasn't an unusual occurrence by any means, but still memorable. It was his birthday.

As he continued laying on the floor, he began thinking about his life up until this point.

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Humans are hypocrites.

Those were the first thoughts he could remember thinking. It was not a momentous discovery, by any means, but the thought stuck to him, like hot glue on skin, unable to be shaken off.

People created masks to parade around each day, he had quickly discovered, preaching of cooperation, trust, love, and the rules of society, while those creeds would only continue ringing true for so long as their upholding did not mildly inconvenience anyone's comforts or would bring them to face confrontations they were not prepared to take on. It was shameful. It made him angry, but he supposed those were also truths of human behaviour.

Humans were weak, and fearful. He knew this to be true, with the same certainty that he knew a punch hitting his gut to hurt like hell.

Another sound rang out, this time higher and carrying an echo. It was almost scathing and was accompanied by a shout. He continued lying down.

What was the purpose of violence? This was a frequently asked question in his class, and it always confused him greatly. Violence did not need a deeper purpose, some convoluted meaning to validate it. It was nothing but a means to an end, the law of the jungle, a primal desire to assert oneself. 

Though if people talked about the violence inherent in war, he did not have as strong opinions on it, but believed that it would not swerve too far from base instincts.

"Mister Rue, are you listening at all, Mister Rue!?" The reprimanding voice of an older woman rang in his ears. She was wearing a black blazer that accentuated her figure, a tight skirt, and too thick makeup. It was clear to him that she hadn't yet got over the fact that she wasn't one of the 'young'uns' any more and continued chasing a youth that was long gone.

He turned disinterested eyes over to her, paying special attention to the slowness of it. There was no merit to a hurried response, as his father used to say, and Jacob was quick to see the advantages of this bit of wisdom.

"Of course, Miss Walker." Was his lacklustre answer, voice polite, always polite. His blue uniform slid down his wrist, right hand absent-mindedly playing with a previously discarded pen.

The woman grimaced slightly. She didn't like being called 'Miss', much preferring the children put in her classes to call her teacher, he had gathered. Jacob made no effort to accommodate her request. It was the proper way of address, and he always made it a point to follow the proper and polite way. No one wanted to play with someone like him, who was always serious, never a smile on his face, but this was just the way he liked it.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

One time, the leader of another school's delinquents showed up just after class. The boy was a head taller than him, muscles bulging and wearing a uniform that was ripped in some places, a smirk of superiority gracing his surprisingly handsome face.

He hit Jacob a few times, at first, thinking the younger boy would start crying immediately, but true to the rumours, Jacob's expression didn't change in the slightest.

It hurt, but that was fine, pain didn't matter overmuch. He endured a few more hits, never going down, or even grimacing in discomfort. He knew that it would only show weakness. Jacob said nothing, and simply walked away from the scene. 

It was the last time he ever had to put up with a similar situation at school. Some students started calling him 'Crazy', but as nothing similar to this happened again, the name quickly started losing popularity.

"You wouldn't mind coming to the front of the class and giving the answer, correct, Mister Rue?" Miss Walker challenged him.

Jacob sighed, but seeing no reason to refuse, he stood up and moved towards the chalkboard.

His interactions with Miss Walker always went like this, her asking him something, and him answering. Lately, she had even got concerned on his behalf when his father hadn't shown up to the annual parent-teacher conference once again. She asked him if everything was alright at home, to which he would always say that everything was fine. She brought up that his mother had died, but Jacob ignored her. His mother had always been dead after all.

After writing down the answer on the chalkboard, Jacob returned to his seat. He continued sinking into thought.

He looked out the window, fixing a broom with his gaze, and imagining it breaking in two. This would normally not result in any productivity, but this time was different. The old broom started rattling, and finally fell down. 

It was the first time he had come into contact with what he dubbed 'his Power'. That was two years ago.

It continued growing, and with it his conviction that violence was the true face of men. Why would anyone follow rules and regulations, some kind of moral compass, if the Power could make it all mean naught?

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The grinning face of his father greeted him when he came back from his recollection. The man had a belt in his hand, just like every time it was Jacob's birthday.

Daniel Rue was pinning his son, a knee on the child's chest, a deranged grin was playing on the man's face and the stench of alcohol assaulted Jacob.

The boy made no move to resist, just like always, but when the belt came down it came to a halt just above Jacob's shoulder. No sound rang out this time.

"What the fuck? What did you do, you little monster, huh!?" Was Daniel's response, thoughts slowed by his inebriation.

Jacob remained quiet, the Power expanding like never before, wrapping around the man, slowly lifting him up. He struggled and shouted, but it was all in vain, the Power demanded it happen. Jacob wanted and imagined it in his dreams. It was time. 

First, Jacob broke the man's fingers, twisting them in the wrong direction. Slowly, ever so slowly.

Next came the feet. Daniel's shouts of anger turned into pleading, then uncontrolled sobbing. Jacob continued unerringly.

The tall man stopped all sounds when a puddle of scarlet blood had formed beneath the now sitting Jacob. The boy smiled his first genuine smile. It looked crooked, his facial muscles unused to the expression.

This was what the police came to witness when they opened the door of the tiny flat.

A short child of maybe fourteen years with a tiny smile playing on his lips, hoarsely laughing to himself, sitting in a perfectly round puddle of blood, and the mutilated corpse of a grown man lying discarded next to him.