White walls. Antiseptic clawing at my throat. The copper smell underneath never really left. I drifted somewhere between sleep and drowning when the voice slid in —quiet, patient, like it had been sitting in the corner the whole time, waiting for me to notice.
It didn’t bargain. It didn’t promise. It simply showed me a door with a rose on it.
I walked through.
Just the quiet understanding that staying behind meant bleeding forever with nothing left to catch the drops.
The memory slipped away before I could grab hold. I touched my nose out of habit. Dry. For now.
My feet carried me toward the dented gray door anyway. Head low. A whisper slipped out before I could stop it.
“I have to.”
The first thing the Academy did every morning was lie. It lied with sunshine.
Golden light poured across the glass towers and made everything shimmer like it wasn't just expensive, but holy. Banners snapped in the breeze, each one embroidered with the same crest: a vividly shaped red rose wrapped by two serpents, one white, one black, inside a ring of golden thorns. Dramatic. Pricey. A little compensating.
From the highway people recognised those golden accents as the place that turned teenagers into legends. Up close it mostly produced paperwork, liability waivers, and me.
My alarm had gone off at six sharp. I had set it for seven ten the night before, very deliberately. The central system did not care. Punctuality wasn't upto date with consent here. Typical.
I stared at the ceiling until my brain remembered how to work. The dorm smelled like institutional lemon cleaner and the ghost of burnt toast from whoever had lived here three souls ago.
Today was my first day.
Not my first day at Valeria Academy. My first day in Section F. Not its official name, but it rolls off the tongue better.
The memo arrived with a new keycard and a pointed reminder that auxiliary programs required innovative pedagogy. Translation: good luck, you are on your own.
I felt a deep breath of air escape my lungs.
I rolled out of bed, brushed my teeth in a sink that screamed every time the faucet turned on, as if it was personally offended by the concept of hygiene, and pulled on the uniform that hung behind the door.
Black double-breasted coat, cut intentional. White shirt starched to an inch of its life. Academy pin on the lapel: subtler academy logo, but still burdened with institutional weight.
I clipped back a stubborn lock of dark blue hair with the small beaded trinket I’d bought from that grandma’s shop years ago. The rest went into a ponytail held by the tiny silver snake eating its own tail. I caught my reflection and decided I looked like someone trying very hard to look cool. I was completely fine with that.
Outside, the campus was already showing off, because of course it was. Nothing says “we’re training the future of humanity” like a bunch of teenagers doing aerial donuts for no audience but their own.
One boy in a bright red jacket overshot his landing and plowed straight into a decorative Japanese maple near the central quad. Branches exploded outward in a shower of wooden confetti. Leaves rained down while the kid bounced once, scrambled upright, red-faced but intact. His friends doubled over laughing from ten feet up.
He’d be fine. Kids like him were always fine. They had the loud, visible, photogenic powers that got you Instagram reels and sponsorship offers before graduation. He glanced towards my direction, probably worried about the damage. Yep, you got it kid.
I walked past the scene before I got roped into filing a formal damage report.
Aside from that, the grounds sprawled for miles, manicured lawns giving way to specialized training fields that looked like someone had dropped chunks of nightmare cities into a theme park and called it education.
Urban-combat mockups with crumbling concrete and flickering holographic civilians. Hazard sims cycling through acid rain, zero-gravity pockets, localized time dilation. A deep lake ringed with containment buoys for the aquatics kids, fancy swimming pool more or less, its surface occasionally rippling with things that were definitely not fish —probably just the next generation of government-funded sea monsters.
Everything was engineered with surgical precision to forge gifted teenagers into honor. Or at least into good PR.
I passed a knot of first-years gathered in a loose semicircle around a first-year. She cradled a tiny sun in her cupped palms. Actual plasma, contained, humming with soft golden light that warmed the air around her face. Her classmates stared like she had already signed her first endorsement deal. Maybe she had. Maybe she would next semester.
Nobody ever clustered like that around a kid whose ability was warming leftovers by three degrees without using a microwave, so yeah.
Power here was a popularity contest scored by physics, optics, and how good the explosion looked in slow motion.
The main building loomed ahead, vaulted marble lobby, floors so polished you could check your teeth in them, walls lined floor-to-ceiling with portraits of alumni.
Men and women in dramatic poses: one mid-punch against a collapsing skyscraper, another silhouetted against a mushroom cloud they had just redirected, a third hovering above a ruined city with arms spread like they were conducting the end of the world. Every single one smiling down with the serene confidence of people who had already rewritten history.
None of them had ever set foot in Section F.
My shoes echoed down the quieter corridors. The applause and chatter from the main halls faded behind me. Light dimmed. Air grew cooler, heavier, stale like the ventilation had quietly given up years ago.
Staff passed occasionally, offering the same polite nod they always did. The “we still see you” nod. Ease up, it seemed to say without saying it. You’re not old news. Yet.
Finally I reached the door.
It looked wrong. Everything else in the Academy screamed money and ambition. This door looked like it had been salvaged from a condemned storage closet. Dull gray metal, dented in one corner, handle worn smooth from years of reluctant use. The plaque above it was plain wood. Cheap pine, no gilt.
SECTION X
AUXILIARY EMPOWERED YOUTH
Below that, someone had taken a key or a nail and scratched deep enough to catch the eye from ten paces.
FAILURES
I stopped. Stared. Not offended. Impressed, actually. Efficient. Whoever did it understood branding better than half the marketing department.
I rested my palm on the handle, cold and slightly sticky, and pushed the door open.
Inside was exactly what you’d expect if hope had been evicted and the landlord hadn’t bothered to clean up after it.
Windowless. Folding metal chairs arranged in a loose, mistrustful semicircle with small desks. Air thick enough to chew.
The desk at the front had clearly witnessed atrocities and emerged bitter about all of them. Scratched surface, one leg shorter than the others so it rocked every time you leaned on it. Some flickering fluorescent tubes overhead buzzed like it was dying slowly and wanted company.
Six students.
They sat as far apart as the small room allowed, shoulders hunched, eyes flicking up when I entered, wary, assessing, already braced.
I gave them my best professional smile anyway. It felt like slapping a cartoon sticker over a broken dam.
“Good morning,” I said. “I’m Layhen.”
Silence answered.
I crossed to the desk, picked up the clipboard. Six thin files. Thin files were always a bad sign. Nobody had bothered to write anything worth keeping.
First name: Mitsuo.
He looked fragile enough for a stiff breeze to file assault charges. Pale skin, pale blond hair that looked like it had given up trying to hold a style, eyes that darted anywhere except at me.
(Click on the name or around it, it should open)
FILE: MITSUO HAYASHI – AUXILIARY
Energy flagged three months ago during specialised ordered screening. Manifestation: spontaneous epistaxis. No further testing logged. Mother notified. Subject enrolled immediately without hesitation. Note: Subject appears..hesitant. Shows signs of anxiety.
“Mitsuo, right?”
A quick nod. “Yes, sir.”
“What’s your ability?”
He hesitated. Shoulders rose, held, then dropped. “I can… give myself a nosebleed.”
If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
A thin red thread slipped from his left nostril. No effort. No grimace. Just on cue. The droplet hung for a fractional second longer than demanded, then fell.
A girl with too many ear piercings tilted her head watching it.
“How long have you been dealing with that?”
“Since elementary, maybe.” He wiped at it absently, smearing a streak across his sleeve. “Thought it was chronic. Then the checkup happened, and… here I am.”
Next.
“Hana.”
A girl with long braids and a constellation of silver piercings along both ears straightened up during her call.
FILE: HANA KIM – AUXILIARY
Energy trace noted two years ago. Manifestation: minor electrical discharge. Mother appears to be reluctant, despite being —. Subject compliant. Note: Potential for escalation if unsupervised. Bottlenecked.
“I can charge my phone.”
She said it quickly, like ripping a bandage.
“Only your phone?”
“Nah, I guess not. Mom was always on about not messing with it. Said it could go wrong, fire, or worse, always cautious. Kept it quiet until the screening caught it. They talked her into letting me come here, said they’d teach control. For good.”
A boy in an oversized blue hoodie muttered something that sounded like “sounds familiar.”
I nodded, jotting a quick line.
“Corin.”
Boy in the oversized blue hoodie, glasses perpetually sliding down his nose.
FILE: CORIN LANGFORD– AUXILIARY
Energy pinged six months ago. Manifestation: limited telekinesis, color-specific. Subject reports frustration with restriction. Note: Testing halted after minor incident.
“I can make small things float… but only if they’re blue.”
He sounded like the limitation was a personal failing he hadn’t figured out how to apologize for yet.
A girl with hands twisted in her lap flicked her eyes toward him for half a second, then away.
“Elia.”
She looked startled at her own name. Hands closed, knuckles pale.
FILE: ELIA MOREAU – AUXILIARY
Energy faint. Noted four months ago. Manifestation: perceptual lapse in observers. Subject reports social isolation. Note: Difficult to verify in standard testing.
“People forget I’m there. Sometimes mid-conversation. Teachers skip me in attendance. My sister once walked into my room, looked right at me, and thought I was someone else.”
A boy with green hair flopped over one eye glanced at her, in a way it seemed like he was looking through her, then shifted his eyes back.
“Silas.”
Green hair flopped over one eye. Arms crossed, posture screaming “I’m too cool to care” so hard it circled back around to obvious effort.
FILE: SILAS KESSLER – AUXILIARY
Energy subtle. Screened two months ago. Manifestation: heightened intuition in probabilistic scenarios. Subject tested on card games. Results… inconsistent with chance. Note: Subject claims “just lucky.”
“I always know what card someone’s going to pick.”
Prediction? Or adjacent.
“Renard.”
Quiet. Calm. Almost unnervingly still.
FILE: RENARD VENGRID – AUXILIARY
Energy trace recent. Last month. Self-reported. Manifestation: recurrent loss patterns, daily items or so. Subject cooperative but unenthusiastic. Note: Pattern appears convenient. OCD observed.
“I can’t find things I lost.”
When I finished the roll, all six were watching me. Waiting for the verdict they’d heard before: sigh, apology, gentle redirection toward support roles.
Instead I laughed.
Not loud. Not mean. Just enough to crack the expected sigh.
They stared, confused, suspicious, and, dangerously, hopeful.
“Wonderful,” I said, grin sharpening. “You’re all going to surprise yourselves.”
These kids sometimes just needed the slightest nudge to manifest properly. Direction was key. I had something in mind already.
I’d try forcing their manifestation today.
Not exactly within guidelines. First week should take things slow or whatever.
But these kids would need the push if they wanted to keep up.
And for the first time that morning, the room felt a little less like a storage container.
I learned three important things in the first five minutes of this class.
One: folding chairs were never designed for emotional breakthroughs. Every tiny shift made the metal shriek like it was live-reacting the betrayal.
Two: the Academy had zero plans to replace the flickering ceiling light. It buzzed overhead with the exhausted enthusiasm of a guy who had already filed his resignation.
Three: every single student in this room had already decided I was full of shit.
Not in a loud, dramatic way. Just with the quiet, bone-deep certainty of kids who had sat through too many “you can be anything” speeches and knew the punchline was the same: good luck, now go hold clipboards.
These were first-years. Sixteen, maybe seventeen. Fresh off screenings and vetting processes that had caught their powers at the worst possible angles and immediately filed them under “please do not let this embarrass us.”
Thin files. Recent discoveries. Almost no time to poke at anything and moved on to the kids who made good posters.
I picked up the clipboard again, mostly so my hands had something to do while my brain quietly rewrote the next hour.
I can do this. Probably.
“Alright,” I said, injecting some cheer I only half felt. “Good news.”
They stared. Nobody buys good news in a room that literally has 'FAILURE' scratched into the door.
“You’re all terrible.”
That one landed like a water balloon.
Hana blinked twice. Mitsuo looked quietly startled, like I had just insulted his favorite houseplant. Corin frowned behind his sliding glasses. Silas rolled his eyes. Elia and Renard had already begun the slow, professional fade into the wallpaper.
I nodded, perfectly serious. “Catastrophic, really. I’m surprised the building hasn’t started divorce proceedings.”
I leaned forward, voice dropping just enough. “And that is exactly why this situation is perfect.”
Now they looked confused. Excellent. Confusion was oxygen.
“Because if you were already good at this,” I continued, “they would have kept you upstairs. Polished you. Turned you into something respectable.” I jerked a thumb toward the ceiling and the shiny world above us. “Respectable is boring. Respectable follows instructions. You lot don’t know how to do that yet, and honestly? Thank god.”
“Which means right now you’re blank slates. And blank? Blank is potential. Everything from here is an upgrade.” I paused, letting it sit. “So, who wants to go first?”
A few chairs creaked in protest, like even the furniture thought this was a bad idea.
Corin raised his hand slowly, as if testing the air for a bite.
I pointed at him instantly. “Corin. Tell me what you think your ability is.”
He hesitated. “…I can make blue things float.”
“Fantastic.”
He stared at me like I’d grown a second, equally disappointing head. “That’s… not fantastic.”
“No, it’s terrible,” I agreed cheerfully. “Completely impractical. Horribly specific. Almost insulting in how petty it is. Which means it’s lying. Or rather, people did, labelled it real quick, called it a day and sent you here. To meet me apparently.”
I gestured at a plain black pen lying on the floor. “Make that float.”
Corin looked at me like I insulted him. “It’s not blue.”
“I’m aware. Try anyway. Pretend there’s no one important watching. Spoilers: there isn’t.”
Corin strained. Face went tomato-red. Nothing happened.
He finally slumped. “See?”
I walked over, picked up the pen, uncapped my marker, and drew a thick, ridiculous blue stripe down its side like I was tagging it for a heist. Then I dropped it again.
“Okay. Try once more.”
The pen wobbled. Lifted half an inch. Clacked back down like it was embarrassed for both of us.
The room went very still.
I crouched beside it. “What part did you think was blue?”
“The… the ink.”
“And didn’t the whole damn pen move?” I smiled. “Oh.”
Corin whispered it with me, half stunned, half delighted. “Oh.”
Hana leaned forward a fraction. Silas muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “weird technicality.” Even Elia’s eyes sharpened for half a second before she remembered she was supposed to be inconspicuous at the moment. Felt cheesy in a way, but apparently it works.
Beautiful.
I stood up before the moment could get too cozy. “Next disaster.”
Hana pointed weakly at herself.
“Phone charger,” I said, waving for her to take it out. “It’s full, I assume?”
She nodded.
“Think you can charge it more?”
She swallowed. “Is that safe?”
“No,” I said, grinning. “That’s why it’s interesting.”
She gripped the phone tighter. At first nothing. Then a faint crackle.
“What does it feel like when you charge things?”
“At first nothing. Then… warmth.”
“Okay. Find the warmth again. Don’t stop until I say so.”
“Are you sure?” she asked, already wary.
“Close your eyes. Slow, deep breaths. Feel it.”
She followed along, reluctant but trying. Her breathing evened out. The crackling grew steadier. The air around her started to hum with a low, electric purr that made the hairs on my arms stand up. A faint blue glow crept under her skin like moonlight.
The whole room had gone dead quiet, everyone leaning forward without realizing it.
Then Hana startled and opened her eyes.
The lights answered like they had been waiting for an excuse.
Crack. Crack.
Shatter.
Glass rained down in the world’s most polite avalanche. Nobody lost an eye. Academy glass was too well-behaved for that.
Darkness dropped over us like cheap curtain.
Hana stared at her hands, now carrying that soft bluish glow beneath the skin. “I didn’t mean to—”
I leaned back against the desk. “Aw. I was hoping for something flashier. Maybe a small explosion.”
She blinked. “You’re… not mad?”
“Why would I be mad? I told you to push it.”
She let out a shaky breath that was almost a laugh. “It felt deeper this time. Like static, but… more.”
“Excellent,” I said, and actually meant it.
I walked over, propped the door open so hallway light spilled in like a reluctant guest, then paced a little while flipping through the files.
“Elia.”
She froze, surprised I remembered her name. (Truth was I had blanked out until I re-read her file, but admitting that would only feed the monster.)
“People forget you exist,” I said.
She agreed, shaking her head firmer this time, arms crossed tight. “Sometimes mid-conversation. Four months since the screening. Nothing’s changed.”
“Brain exercise. Use me as the practice dummy.”
“I don’t really know how.”
“Then we learn. Try to make me forget what we’re talking about.”
Thirty quiet seconds.
The words literally slid out of my mind like they’d been greased. “…What were we just saying?”
Elia’s stomach dropped. “Sir?”
I blinked back to consciousness . “There it is. Just for a moment.”
She exhaled like she’d been holding her breath since yesterday. “That was cruel.”
“A little,” I admitted. “But we found the trigger, even I didn’t realise when I spaced out.”
Just a few more to go.
I turned to Mitsuo. A thin red line was already trailing from his nostril again, like it had its own schedule.
“Your turn. You’ve had this the longest, but barely touched it, right? Only knew after screening or whatever.”
He wiped his nose, as if agreeing.
“Call it out. Feel it.”
The blood trailed down. I kept my voice easy.
“Hold it there. Let it fall, but slow.”
First droplet. Splat.
Second. Splat.
The third one never hit the floor.
It hung six inches below his face, trembling like it was politely asking for permission to exist.
Then it wobbled, rose an inch higher, and dropped with a wet splat.
Mitsuo flinched, but mostly in surprise.
“What did you feel?” I asked gently.
“Like… it answered.”
“Good. Try again. Don’t force it. Just do what you want with it.”
Second attempt. The blood flowed down, slowed, and floated. It shifted left and right in tiny, hesitant movements. Sometimes too fast, sometimes too slow. When it stayed still it was either perfectly motionless or shaking slightly, like it hadn’t decided what normal was yet.
The others watched in silence.
A few minutes passed. Mitsuo was locked in, completely gone. He was gonna get a migraine like that.
I called softly, “Hey.”
The droplet gave up and splattered on the floor.
He sighed, disappointed, but there was a new spark in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.
Silas let out a low whistle from the back. “Great. Now we’ve got a biohazard.”
Renard nodded alongside him, odd pairing but sure.
I looked at the growing crime scene on the tiles and made a mental note to beg maintenance for a mop before someone slipped and played out a true crime documentary.
“Alright. Lesson for today.” I cleared my throat. “Stop assuming what your powers are. You don’t own them. You have a relationship with them. And every good relationship needs understanding.”
Corin muttered from his seat, “But, they are our powers right?”
“They are. But you know almost nothing about them yet. That’s why, stop deciding what they are. Start asking what they can become.”
Their reactions were slightly mixed between, Wow that's profound and Wow that's cringe. The point went across so I had no complains.
Silas cleared his throat from the back. “What about the rest of us? You gonna make Renard lose his keys on purpose or something?”
I chuckled, amusing him. “Patience. Next class I’m bringing some toys. Just remember what I said.”
They glanced at each other —curious now, like they’d just been handed the keys to a slightly suspicious car.
Good enough.
I dropped into the chair behind the desk. Heavily uncomfortable, but it would do. Too many things to brainstorm and too many notes to organise about them.
Oh well.
Five minutes left in class.
I had taught exactly zero approved lessons.
I considered this a complete success. For myself.