Three months passed in the orphanage before Michael spoke to anyone his age.
His arrival had been quiet, unnoticed except by the intake clerk and the other children who whispered about him in corners. To them, he was just another troubled kid sent in with a thin blanket and bruises no one bothered to explain. His file said little. His eyes said less. No one pressed him.
But time, like water, wears away even the hardest stone.
It was a boy named Daniel who cracked through first. Scrappy, loud-mouthed, two years older but shorter than Michael by a hair. He came with a mop of black hair and a crooked tooth he refused to fix, claiming it made him look like a rogue from the stories he liked to tell.
"You always stare like that?" Daniel asked one morning over breakfast, plopping down beside him with a tray of soggy eggs and powdered milk. Michael said nothing. Just blinked. "You're like a haunted cat. Creepy, but weirdly regal."
That earned a snort from one of the other boys. And a twitch at the corner of Michael's mouth.
Daniel took it as victory.
From that day on, he attached himself to Michael like a shadow with commentary. He narrated their chores, invented games from scraps, and shared every half-stolen candy bar like it was a sacred offering. He asked questions Michael didn't always answer. But he didn't stop. And slowly, Michael found himself responding—not with words at first, but with presence. He stayed when Daniel sat. Watched when he talked. Listened.
It wasn't friendship in the usual sense. It was survival by proximity. But it was real.
Other kids filtered into the backdrop—Lena with her endless sketchpads, Tomas with his shoe collection, Marcy who claimed to speak to ghosts. They came and went like seasons. But Daniel remained.
The orphanage was not kind, but it wasn't cruel either. It was indifferent. Run by overworked staff and managed by outdated systems. It offered shelter, food, and a library with books old enough to smell like moss and time.
Michael began spending hours in that library. He read about legends and symbols, the kind of stories that blurred the line between myth and forgotten truth. Not science or theory, but fables about places that remembered things humans tried to forget. He traced ancient diagrams and memorized scripts that referenced internal forces—energies within the body, called by many names through the centuries.
Some texts spoke of an inner spark, a dormant thread within the body that could be stirred, refined, guided. Few books agreed on its name, fewer still on how it worked. But the idea clung to Michael. That somewhere inside, there was something more than muscle and thought. Something waiting to awaken.
The library itself became a comfort. The window cast long rectangles of golden light across the floor at dusk. Dust danced gently in the quiet. He'd curl into the same corner with a cushion he stole from the common room, letting time bleed away until Mia or Daniel came looking.
One afternoon, Mia lingered beside the shelf as he flipped through a fragile volume with a broken spine.
"You really like it in here," she observed.
"It's quiet."
"Or lonely."
He looked up, thoughtful. "Both."
Daniel poked his head around the archway, a pencil dangling from his lip. "Told you. Haunted cat. Probably thinks the books talk back."
Michael closed the book with a soft thump. "They don't."
"Yet," Daniel added with a grin.
They sat together a while, the three of them in companionable silence broken only by the rustling of pages. Michael flipped to a diagram showing a tree-like lattice inside a silhouette of a man, lines connecting from the chest to limbs and head. He touched the drawing lightly, feeling the strange familiarity of the design.
Later that evening, after everyone had left the library, he returned alone to copy a passage onto a scrap of paper:
"When the inner flame stirs, time no longer holds dominion—it flows to the rhythm of the bearer's breath."
He didn't know why the words made his fingertips prickle. Only that they felt like a memory waiting to surface.
He gently closed the book and slipped it back onto the shelf.
The next morning, he found Daniel sitting cross-legged in their usual corner.
"I found something," Michael said, reaching for the same book. "There's a line I want to show you. It's strange."
He flipped through the pages with practiced fingers—past the diagrams, past the brittle notes in the margins—and stopped.
Blank.
He frowned. Turned the pages back and forth.
Nothing.
The passage was gone.
Not erased. Just never there.
Daniel leaned in, curious. "You sure it was this book?"
"Yes," Michael replied, eyes scanning every line.
Daniel reached over and flipped a few more pages. "Maybe it got ripped out?"
"No. It was right here. I copied it."
He pulled the crumpled scrap from his pocket and unfolded it, revealing the faint handwriting:
When the inner flame stirs, time no longer holds dominion—it flows to the rhythm of the bearer's breath.
Daniel read it twice, then raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like something out of a fantasy novel."
"It wasn't written like that. It felt... older. Important."
"You ever think maybe you dreamed it?"
Michael didn't answer. He stared at the empty page again, then looked to the books around them. The silence of the library pressed in.
"It wasn't a dream."
Daniel tilted his head, trying to read him. "You're really spooked by this."
Michael hesitated. "I don't get spooked. But... I remember it. Not just the words. How they felt. Like they were meant for me."
Daniel folded his arms and nodded slowly. "Alright. Then we'll find it again. Maybe there's more."
Michael looked at him, surprised. "You believe me?"
"I believe you saw something. That's enough for now."
The page between them stayed blank. But a seed had been planted. One neither of them could name yet.
Daniel scratched the back of his head. "Well, mystery or not... breakfast should be ready."
Michael gave a nod, folding the paper and tucking it back into his pocket.
As they stepped out of the library, soft light filtered through tall arched windows. The walls were a patchwork of aged red brick and faded murals from years past—some painted by the children themselves. The hallway smelled faintly of baked oats and soap.
They passed a small reading nook where a pair of younger kids whispered excitedly over a picture book. A social worker helped a toddler tie his shoes, her laugh echoing gently through the hall.
Daniel talked as they walked. "I swear if they give us powdered eggs again, I'm staging a rebellion. Or a hunger strike. Maybe both."
Michael's lips twitched at the corner.
"Oh, was that a smile? Just admit it—you love the powdered eggs."
"They're abominable," Michael replied.
The word triggered something. A flicker in his gaze, sharp and distant. His mind, uninvited, pulled back—
—to a dim kitchen filled with the smell of bleach and metal. A chipped bowl of watery rice, half-spoiled vegetables, and cold meat scraps scraped from someone else's plate. That had been dinner for weeks by the end of his stay in that house. A punishment, they said, for weakness. For hesitating. For asking questions.
He remembered the nanny's voice, gentle in the early mornings, coaxing him to eat with slices of fruit she hid behind her apron. A rare kindness in a house of stone-cold silence. She'd hum while cleaning, soft tunes that didn't belong in that place. In those small moments, the world felt less cruel.
The powdered eggs were bad—but they were warm. And they were given, not earned with bruises.
He didn't speak the thought aloud. But his footsteps slowed for a breath.
Daniel didn't notice. He was still grinning, eyes forward.
Michael caught up quickly, the memory folding itself back down like an old letter returned to a drawer.
Daniel grinned. "Ha! I knew it. I'm writing that down. First opinion you've ever shared."
They turned into the cafeteria just as a few staff finished setting trays. The smell of porridge and weak cocoa filled the air. Kids buzzed at the long tables, some still half-asleep, others already in the middle of card games or whispered arguments.
Like that, a few weeks passed—filled with bantering, laughter, and powdered eggs. Slowly, the ordinary began to feel almost normal. But peace, as Michael was beginning to understand, was always temporary.
Until the first bruise.
It was midafternoon when Michael found Elliot crouched beside the garden wall, one hand cradling the other, lip swollen and eye watering. No sobbing, just soft hiccups, like the boy was trying not to disturb the ants.
Daniel had been the first to reach him, crouching low. "Who did this?"
Elliot didn't answer, just buried his face against Daniel's jacket.
Michael's hands curled into fists. Something burned at the edge of his vision—not fire, but pressure. Like the inside of his skull was cracking.
He stepped forward. Each step heavier than the last. His presence darkened the air. The temperature didn't drop, but everyone felt colder. Even the laughter from inside the orphanage stopped.
From the balcony above, Sir Edward stood watching, a cup of steaming tea in hand. His gaze tightened as he saw the boy's posture, the tension that radiated off Michael like a ripple in still water.
Daniel stood up slowly, his voice shaky. His hands trembled slightly at his sides, his usual confidence hollowed out by something primal. "Michael… what are you—"
Elliot clung to his injured arm, shoulders hunched and shaking, trying to hold back tears that still brimmed in his eyes. The smaller boy's fear amplified the dread in the air.
Michael's eyes flicked toward Daniel. His face was pale, his jaw clenched, legs unmoving. Fear—not of some external bully, but of the friend standing too close to the edge.
Mia appeared, breathless, her voice sharp with panic. She grabbed Michael's sleeve, pulling at him.
"Michael, stop! Look at me! Even Daniel is scared!"
He turned his head, eyes distant, and saw Daniel—his friend—standing frozen in fear.
The memory of that first bruise. The silence of Sir Edward's shout. The rising tension. It all surged back in one violent ripple.
Then, the voice that broke the haze.
"MICHAEL!"
Sir Edward's voice cut like thunder. Authoritative. Final.
And in that moment, the world truly froze.
But something was different. Unlike Michael's previous time-stops—this wasn't cold, mechanical stillness. This was a moment suspended in weight. Not held by time, but pressed by gravity. The pressure bore down not on the world, but on him.
Michael's magic faltered. Cracked. And broke.
Birds fluttered again. Leaves rustled. Breath returned to every chest—except his.
Michael halted, mid-step. Like a puppet whose strings had been yanked.
His eyes, wide and shaken, turned upward. Sir Edward's gaze locked with his.
And Michael couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. He stood, suspended—not by time, not by fear—but by command.
Sir Edward descended the stairs without hurry, the weight of his presence parting the tense air like a blade through silk.
He walked past the stunned children, gave a slight nod to Mia and Daniel, then stopped in front of Michael.
"Michael," he said evenly. "Come to my office. Now."
Then, addressing the rest: "Mia, Daniel—take Elliot to the infirmary. Get him cleaned up and try to get him talking. The rest of you—back to your routines. The show's over."
The tension broke like glass underfoot. The kids scattered, whispering.
As Michael walked behind Sir Edward, the crowd split to let him pass. No one spoke. No one met his eyes. Their fear wasn't hidden—just quietly acknowledged.
Daniel tried to say something, his mouth half-open, but the words faltered before reaching his lips. His face was pale, eyes wide, shoulders tense.
Mia bit her bottom lip, watching Michael disappear up the stairs, her fists clenched at her sides. Her stomach twisted with the certainty that Michael would be punished—and the uncertainty of whether he even cared.
Halfway up the staircase, Sir Edward spoke without turning. "It's going to be alright."
He didn't say it for comfort. He said it like a warning.
Later, in the east wing's unused study, dust hung in the air like secrets.
"You froze," Sir Edward said, setting down a cup of untouched tea. "But not in fear. In rage."
Michael didn't answer. He stared at the cracks in the floor.
Sir Edward knelt to meet his eyes. "There is strength in you. I won't ask how. But strength without control is just destruction in waiting."
A silence stretched between them.
"I didn't want to hurt them," Michael finally said.
"I believe you."
Sir Edward sat beside him, voice softer. "You reminded me of someone I once knew. Someone who mistook pain for purpose. Don't carry that same burden, Michael. Let someone else help you carry it."
Michael said nothing. But the line stayed with him.
In the days that followed, a cold silence grew between Michael and Daniel. The laughter at breakfast dulled. The library games faded. Where once there was camaraderie, now lingered unease. Daniel kept his distance—not out of anger, but confusion. How did one face someone who made time bend?
Mia, frustrated, tried to bridge the silence. "You should talk to him," she told Daniel one morning, jabbing a spoon into her oatmeal.
"He's the one who went quiet," Daniel muttered.
"He's scared. You saw it in his face."
Daniel looked down, eyes tracing a crack in the bowl. "He had the same cold, bloodthirsty aura as Sir Edward did… that first day he saved me. I'm scared that we're not the same—us and Michael. He saw blood. He saw war. He was groomed by it."
Mia's gaze softened, then steeled. She reached over and placed a hand on Daniel's wrist.
"Then let's show him something else," she said quietly. "Let's make him see light and love. Let him know he doesn't have to carry it alone. Let's be the ones he can rely on."
Daniel didn't reply. But his silence felt less like retreat—and more like the slow beginning of resolve.
They left it there.
The silence persisted—until Elliot was hurt again.
Michael rounded the corner just in time to see him on the ground, arm twisted unnaturally, sobbing silently. The same group of boys laughed as they ran. Daniel reached him first this time, fire in his eyes.
Michael looked at Daniel—and saw it.
Anger.
Real, shaking, unfiltered rage.
Daniel took a step forward, voice trembling as it left his throat. "Michael, wa—"
But the word never finished.
Michael stepped forward, his lips parting.
"So this... is what feelings look like."
Time stopped.
Then he vanished.
Then he vanished. To everyone else, he simply disappeared. But to Michael, the world had frozen again—soundless, breathless, still. Leaves hung in the air. Birds paused mid-wingbeat.
He moved. Down the alley. Toward the voices. Toward laughter that still echoed in frozen time. He positioned himself just out of sight, watching the three boys—smug, oblivious. And then, he let time breathe.
Time resumed.
The first boy turned, just in time to see the blur of a fist. Michael's strike caught him clean in the throat. A choked gasp, eyes bulging—he collapsed, clawing at his neck.
The second reached into his pocket, stunned. Michael swept his legs from under him, stepped in with practiced precision, and drove his knee into the boy's face. Bone met bone. The boy flew backward into the brick wall. His head cracked against it with a sickening thud and he dropped like dead weight.
The leader stood alone, frozen.
Michael stepped from the shadow. The boy screamed and tried to flee, bolting for the alley's end.
But Michael was already there. He gripped the boy's shoulder, breath hot at his ear. His voice was barely above a whisper, but it cut like glass.
"Tell me—what will your father say when he sees you broken?"
The shoulder twisted. A pop echoed in the tight alley. The boy's scream shredded the silence.
The first attacker, now coughing and dizzy, swung a wild punch at Michael's back. Without looking, Michael turned and hauled the leader into the path of the strike. Fist collided with nose. The leader shrieked.
Michael turned fully, driving a front kick just above the knee of the last boy. A crack, sharp and wet. He fell screaming.
And then came the bodyguards. Trained, wary, armored by years of instruction.
But they stopped short. Because what stood before them wasn't a child anymore. It was something ancient. Silent. Heavy with the memory of pain. Something their instincts warned them not to challenge.
Then Michael vanished.
But before the bodyguards could act, a pressure greater than anything they'd felt crashed down on them.
Sir Edward.
His presence descended like an anchor dropped from the heavens. Michael's body hit the ground, his magic stilled—suppressed under a weight that warped the very air.
The guards crumpled, not from harm, but from instinct. They lowered their heads.
Sir Edward sighed, stepping into the alley's mouth, his coat fluttering from the shift in force.
"I was too late," he murmured.
He turned toward Michael, now struggling under the invisible weight.
"You really make this hard for an old man."