[…He steps toward him. Holds out a hand.]
“I’m Michael.”
Jason hesitates.
Still on his knees.
Still soaked in fear.
The hand stays there. Steady.
“And you—what’s your name?”
Jason lowers his gaze.
“…Jason.”
Brief silence.
The garage seems to hold its breath with them.
Jason swallows.
“Why did you help me?”
“Who are you, really?”
Michael leans against the wall. Folds his arms.
A long pause.
His eyes drift somewhere else,
like he’s looking at a place that isn’t here.
Then he speaks.
“Fighting…”
He rubs the back of his neck.
“…was never a sport for me.”
No pride. No nostalgia.
Just a fact.
“It’s something that grabs you.”
“Digs into you.”
He takes a step closer.
“And if you don’t control it… it eats you alive.”
Michael looks at Jason.
“I spent my life looking for people stronger than me.”
“Or crazy enough to teach me something.”
A bitter half-smile.
“I fought where no one asks questions.”
“And where losing isn’t an option.”
His gaze hardens.
“I’ve seen what happens when power shows up before the mind does.”
Pause.
“And what’s left… when no one teaches you how to stop.”
Michael kneels in front of Jason.
Eye to eye.
“I know exactly what you’re feeling.”
His voice drops. Heavier.
“And I know how it ends… if you’re alone.”
Jason swallows. Still shaking.
Michael inhales, then adds—almost like it’s just a detail.
“I was nearby. Walking him.”
He nods at the pit bull, crouched and still.
“He likes the park.”
The dog doesn’t look at Jason like an animal.
It watches him like a sentry.
Michael tilts his head toward him.
“Bronx pulled me toward the park.”
“When he growls like that… there’s usually trouble.”
Then he turns serious.
“I’ve never seen destructive power like that.”
A blunt question.
“What are you?”
“What genetic code do you have?”
Jason tries to smile.
It’s nervous. Incomplete.
A laugh that never quite makes it out.
“Pistol shrimp.”
Michael blinks.
“Pistol shrimp?”
He repeats it slowly, like he’s tasting the word.
“First time I’ve ever heard that…”
“Never seen power on that level.”
This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
He exhales, like he’s trying to fit the word into reality
and it won’t go.
Then his voice drops.
“After something like this… I can’t pretend nothing happened.”
He steps closer.
“If I leave you like this, you’ll cause another massacre.”
“And then they’ll come for you…”
A beat.
“You have power outside any framework.”
Michael runs a hand back through his hair. Breathes out hard.
“You can’t afford to show it in public.”
“Not without consequences.”
His eyes stay on Jason.
“Especially not after what just happened…”
Then—final.
“You’re a walking bomb, Jason.”
Silence.
Jason still feels his arm pulsing. Hot. Mean.
Michael looks at him the way you look at a freshly forged blade—
beautiful, and dangerous.
“And you need to learn control.”
Statement.
“I’ll teach you how to fight.”
Jason stares at him.
Drained. Lost.
That sentence hits him like a rope thrown to a drowning man.
“O-okay…”
Michael turns toward an inner door.
Then stops mid-step—
like he’s only now really listening.
Far away.
Sirens.
A helicopter.
And that thin hum that doesn’t stop,
like an insect inside the city’s skull.
Michael looks back at Jason.
“No.”
Jason blinks. Confused.
Michael points at the stairs with a sharp gesture.
“You’re not going anywhere tonight.”
Jason tries to push himself up better,
but his legs shake and betray him.
He takes half a step—no strength.
His body sinks an inch.
Michael sees it.
Doesn’t comment.
Registers it.
Uses it.
“You threw two hits like that in one day.”
“It’s a miracle you’re still standing.”
Pause.
He tilts his head slightly toward the garage door. Toward the outside world.
“And out there… it’s a mess.”
Jason swallows.
“B-but my parents…”
Michael cuts him off. Sharp.
“You contact them.”
“Now.”
Jason digs into his hoodie,
like he forgot he still owns something of his.
He pulls out his phone.
Wet around the edges. Dirty.
The glass scratched with micro-gouges.
But it turns on.
Black screen.
Then light.
Top corner: battery at 4%.
Jason stares at that number for a second
like it’s another kind of sentence.
Michael nods once.
“Perfect.”
“Message. Now.”
Jason unlocks it with a trembling thumb.
Every tap feels slower than it should.
He types.
His fingers are clumsy. Heavy.
Like gravity just got stronger.
“Mom, Dad. I’m okay. I’m at a friend’s place. Don’t worry. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
Send.
The loading circle spins for a beat.
Then goes through.
Jason inhales without realizing it,
like he’s been holding his breath for half an hour.
The “read” doesn’t come.
But at least… the words are out.
Michael looks at Bronx.
The pit bull is crouched, still,
but his ears twitch at every distant sound.
Sentry.
Michael turns back to Jason.
“Now go upstairs.”
“Wash up.”
“Lie down.”
Jason tries to protest with a thread of a voice,
still half-panicked.
“What if… if they look for me here…”
Michael steps in.
With a quick motion, he adjusts the hood on Jason’s hoodie—
almost fatherly. Almost military.
“If they look for you, they don’t come in here.”
No bragging.
Just data.
Then, cold:
“And if you go out… you get noticed.”
“Patrols. Drones. People who sniff trouble.”
“And you’re the biggest trouble I’ve seen in years.”
Jason drops his gaze.
Shame and fear braided together. One knot.
Michael lets him breathe for a second.
Then his voice lowers. Heavier.
“Tomorrow we talk.”
“Tomorrow we figure out what you’ve got in those arms.”
“And how not to get someone killed… or get you killed.”
Jason nods.
He stands with massive effort.
Climbs the stairs.
One step.
Then another.
Like his body weighs three times more.
Michael stays in the garage.
He shuts the door. Turns the key.
Then a second lock.
Then a third.
CLACK.
CLACK.
CLACK.
Bronx lies down beside him. Heavy. Calm.
Silence.
And in that silence…
it feels like both of them are listening to the city.
Like they already know that somewhere out there,
someone has started looking.
Pistol Boy.
