"Malik, it's your turn."
The nudge startled him. His thoughts had drifted—again.
He blinked, disoriented, as his name echoed through the vast gymnasium like a judge's sentence.
"Malik Barn!"
He swallowed hard. His legs moved out of habit, not courage. Each step forward felt like sinking deeper into quicksand. His palms were damp. His throat, parched. And his mind—louder than the crowd.
Please... let there be something. Anything, he pleaded silently. Don't let me fail them again.
The testing center was packed. Every seat filled, every inch of wall lined with bodies and breath. Today was the Reckoning—the day every seventeen-year-old in the district stood before the reader. The day their spark—the power born from their mutation cells—was either confirmed or denied.
He stepped up to the platform. The official didn't look at him.
"Place your hand on the reader."
The glass was cold beneath his skin. Malik pressed his palm flat. A blue ring spiraled outward from the center. The machine hummed. Lights flickered. Then... silence.
A pause.
The official's eyes darted to the screen, then down to his clipboard. He scribbled something.
"Go wait for the results."
No reaction. No smile. No frown. Just that flat, mechanical tone—as if Malik were nothing more than another file to process.
He turned and walked to the back of the gym where the others were already seated. Some buzzed with quiet excitement, grinning at their friends. Others wore the stillness of dread. Malik sat alone, his hands buried deep in his sleeves.
He had stood here last year. Same gym. Same scanner. Same hopeful heart. Back then, the words had been clear:
"Your mutation cells are still dormant."
Most kids manifested their spark by twelve. Thirteen, if late. By sixteen, you were either enrolled in elite training academies or washed out into obscurity. Seventeen?
Seventeen was a death sentence.
The principal took the podium. His voice thundered through the gym without the aid of a mic.
"Results will be announced tomorrow. Those selected will be admitted into the Country Academy for training. A few of you may even be chosen by the major companies."
The room leaned in.
"The rest," he continued, "will be considered for County Academy placement."
The crowd broke into murmurs—some jubilant, others hollow.
Malik didn't speak. He just walked home. Gravel crunched beneath his steps like the sound of breaking hope.
The rest, he thought bitterly. The powerless. The discarded. The useless.
---
Dinner was quiet.
His mother, Lucy, placed a steaming bowl in front of him and sat across the table. Her hands rested in her lap, eyes watching him like soft lanterns in the dark.
"How was the testing?" she asked gently.
"They'll post results tomorrow," he muttered, barely looking up.
She nodded and took a bite. Then, after a beat: "Do you want me to come with you?"
He paused, spoon halfway to his lips.
Yes. God, yes.
But he remembered her face last year. When the words "still dormant" rang through the gym, her expression never cracked—but her shoulders fell. Her eyes shimmered, though no tears fell.
He couldn't see that again.
"No, Mom. I'll be okay."
She didn't argue. Instead, she reached across the table and squeezed his hand.
"You'll be alright, Malik. No matter what happens."
He nodded. But inside, a storm was building.
---
The next morning, light pushed at the edges of his curtain, but Malik stayed buried in blankets like armor against the world.
"Malik! You'll be late," his mother called, her voice sharp but loving.
He groaned into his pillow. "Why even go? I already know the answer."
Her footsteps approached. "I'll take you," she said, stepping into his room. "You're already late."
"Mom, I—"
She grabbed his wrist, and suddenly, the wind howled past his ears.
They were flying.
The ground blurred beneath them as Lucy soared above the streets. People looked up, pointing.
Lucy Barn—one of the rare ones. Her power refined, gravity-defying. People envied her.
And Malik... he hated it.
They landed in the academy courtyard to a sea of staring eyes. A crowd had gathered around the announcement board. His heart thudded as the principal stepped forward, a scroll in hand.
"Only five have qualified for Elite Academy this year," he declared.
A hush fell.
"In fifth place: Frank Crane. One hundred mutation cells. Ability—Invincibility."
Polite applause followed.
"Fourth: Peter Green. One hundred and twenty. Speed."
Cheers erupted.
"Third: Xander Rous. Two hundred. Strength."
A roar.
"Second: Margaret Neigh. Two hundred and forty. Ice."
Gasps.
The principal held up the final name.
"And in first place…"
A long, dramatic pause.
"…Malik Barn. Five hundred and six mutation cells. Ability—Dormant."
Silence.
Then the whispers began.
"He has no ability."
"My son can fly—why not him?"
"How can he protect our world?"
The murmurs turned to outrage.
"Useless!"
"Fraud!"
"Seventeen and still nothing?"
Malik's chest tightened. His eyes scanned the crowd—faces blurred, voices sharpened like blades.
Then—.
"Quiet!" the principal bellowed, releasing a pulse that made the air itself tremble. People clutched their ears.
"Selection is based on mutation cell count. Abilities change. Mutation cells define potential. Malik's power may be dormant—but his ceiling is higher than any of you."
A fresh wave of murmurs.
"What if it never awakens?"
The principal's voice darkened. "Then that is fate's choice, not ours."
Malik grabbed his mother's sleeve. She nodded, and together they rose into the sky, leaving the chaos behind.
---
Home was silent.
He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, numb. He had been invisible for years. Now, he was a symbol—one they didn't want.
A knock.
"Malik?" Lucy's voice, gentle through the door.
"I'll be out in a minute."
Five minutes passed.
Then another voice. Teasing. Familiar.
"I've been waiting three years, you know."
He froze.
Dragging himself into the living room, Malik found a boy seated across from his mother—his age, sharp-eyed, too confident.
He sipped tea like he owned the place.
Malik blinked. "Do I know you?"
The boy grinned. "Not yet. But you will."
Lucy stood, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. "Malik, this is Frank Crane."
The boy rose too, offering his hand.
"Top five. Invincibility. Remember?"
Malik didn't take it. "Why are you here?"
Frank's grin widened—more wolf than boy.