When he finally reached the small apartment he called home, it felt emptier than usual. The familiar clutter of books and computer parts seemed less like a sign of a lived-in space and more like a museum exhibit of a life he no longer inhabited. The air was stale, the silence oppressive.
Abraham tossed his bag onto the couch and sat down heavily, staring at his hands. The dried blood had started to flake off completely, leaving behind faint bruises and scuffed skin. He traced the marks absently, his mind drifting.
He thought of Jared again, the way his face had crumpled under the weight of Abraham's blows, the gasps of the crowd. For the first time, he acknowledged the truth: it hadn't just been about Jared. It hadn't even been about the stress of the past few days. It had been about control.
In that moment, he'd been in complete control. No hesitation, no fear, just pure, unfiltered dominance. And it had felt... good.
Too good.
His stomach churned, but not with guilt. It was hunger. Not the kind he could satisfy with food, but a deeper, gnawing hunger that had taken root since the first time he'd absorbed the essence of a creature. It was growing stronger, more insistent, and he knew it wouldn't stop until he fed it.
But before that, there was one last tie to sever.
Abraham stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor as he moved. He grabbed his laptop and powered it on, pulling up the freelance sites he used to earn his income. A few pending requests caught his eye, and he made a mental note to deal with them later. For now, his focus was singular: dropping out of college wasn't just about the physical act of leaving campus. It was about closing that chapter of his life entirely.
He navigated to his student portal and typed in his withdrawal request. His fingers hovered over the submit button for a moment, a flicker of doubt holding him back. But then he thought of the principal's words, the empty promises of a future he no longer wanted.
He clicked the button, the screen confirming his request with a sterile message: Your withdrawal has been submitted. Please allow up to 48 hours for processing.
It was done.
Abraham leaned back in his chair, his golden eyes reflecting the glow of the monitor. The mundane world had tried to pull him back, but it had failed. He was done pretending, done fighting to fit into a life that no longer fit him.
He glanced at his hands again, the faint bruises a reminder of what he was capable of. And for the first time, he allowed himself to feel it fully—the power, the hunger, the inevitability of what he was becoming.
The life he'd left behind was gone, and the road ahead was dark and uncertain. But it was his. And for better or worse, he was ready to walk it.
—
Abraham's increasing power and visible displays of supernatural abilities did not go unnoticed. Somewhere, in the sterile, steel-walled headquarters of a clandestine organization, his name and image appeared on a screen for the first time. A red border surrounded his photograph, his faintly glowing golden eyes highlighted in a way that made him appear almost monstrous.
The organization, known only by their codename Sentinel, had existed in the shadows for decades, meticulously cataloging and eradicating supernatural threats. Their agents were experts in their field—hunters, scholars, and warriors armed with advanced technology and centuries of accumulated knowledge. They had seen the destruction wrought by beings like Abraham before and refused to let history repeat itself.
The orders were clear: Abraham Sterling was to be neutralized. If he could not be contained, he was to be destroyed.
—
The first sign of trouble came two days later. Abraham was in the middle of experimenting with his powers in an abandoned factory on the outskirts of the city, his hands outstretched as he focused on warping the steel beams overhead. He wanted to see how far he could push his ability to manipulate matter, trying to twist the metal into intricate, razor-thin spirals without it collapsing.
He didn't hear them at first. His senses were sharp, but Sentinel agents were sharper.
A flashbang shattered the silence, blinding him and sending him staggering backward. His ears rang as the blast echoed through the cavernous space. The attack was swift and coordinated, agents moving in from all sides with practiced precision. They wore tactical gear designed to protect them from supernatural abilities, their faces obscured by helmets with mirrored visors.
"Abraham Sterling," a voice barked over a loudspeaker. "You are a threat to humanity. Surrender now, or we will use lethal force."
Abraham's vision cleared just enough for him to see the glint of weapons—some conventional, others clearly enhanced with technology he didn't recognize. He took a deep breath, the anger from the funeral and the confrontation with Jared bubbling up again, fueling him. He didn't run. He didn't hide.
Instead, he smiled.
"Let's see what you've got."
And with that, the factory erupted into chaos.
—
The agents moved like a well-oiled machine, coordinating their attacks with brutal efficiency. Smoke grenades hissed, filling the air with a thick, acrid fog designed to obscure vision and disrupt supernatural senses. Lasers danced across the space, highlighting Abraham's silhouette as he stood amidst the haze, his golden eyes cutting through the smoke like molten beacons.
They fired first—rubberized projectiles coated with a sedative compound meant to incapacitate. Abraham barely flinched as the darts ricocheted off the psychic barrier he conjured with a flick of his wrist. The translucent shield rippled under the impacts but held strong.
The agents were relentless. A pair of them advanced from his left, one unleashing a burst of electrified netting while the other aimed a rifle modified to emit bursts of concentrated ultraviolet light. Abraham moved swiftly, his body a blur as he dodged the net and sent the UV rifle flying with a telekinetic push. The wielder crashed into a stack of rusted machinery, groaning as he hit the ground.
"You came prepared," Abraham muttered, his voice low but carrying in the confined space. His hands moved in fluid gestures, manipulating the scattered debris around him. Broken beams and shards of shattered concrete rose into the air, hovering like a swarm of deadly projectiles.
With a sweeping motion, he unleashed the barrage. The agents scattered, some narrowly avoiding the makeshift missiles while others were struck and thrown off their feet. One agent managed to deflect a piece of debris with a glowing, reinforced shield, but the force sent him skidding backward.
"Stand down!" the voice from the loudspeaker ordered again. It was more urgent now, tinged with the first hints of doubt.
Abraham ignored the command. He focused on one of the beams he had missed earlier, bending its essence with his powers until it transformed into a coiled whip of shimmering steel. He lashed out with it, striking the ground near a group of agents and sending a shockwave that knocked them off their feet.
But Sentinel wasn't without their own tricks. Another agent, hidden in the shadows above, fired a specialized grenade designed to disrupt supernatural energy fields. The grenade detonated midair, releasing a pulse that sent Abraham stumbling as his psychic constructs wavered. His barrier flickered and dropped for a split second, just long enough for one of the agents to close the distance.
A stun baton crackled with electricity as it swung toward his side. Abraham twisted, the baton grazing him but failing to connect fully. Pain lanced through his ribs, and he gritted his teeth, retaliating with a concussive blast that sent the agent flying.
The adrenaline coursing through his veins was intoxicating. Each attack, each counter, each moment of survival fed the growing fire inside him. He was no longer merely defending himself—he was testing them, toying with their limits.
A second wave of agents descended, their movements more cautious now. They tried to encircle him, coordinating their efforts to divide his attention. Abraham smirked. He raised his hand and froze time on the nearest agent, watching with cold fascination as the man's movements halted mid-step.
"Fascinating," Abraham murmured, stepping closer to inspect his work. With a snap of his fingers, he released the stasis, and the agent stumbled forward, wide-eyed with terror. Abraham didn't give him a chance to recover, sending him sprawling with a telekinetic shove.
The loudspeaker voice came again, more desperate this time. "We don't have to end this here! Surrender, and you'll live!"
Abraham tilted his head, his expression darkening. "You don't get it, do you?" His voice echoed in the factory, calm but edged with menace. "I don't run. I don't hide. And I sure as hell don't surrender."
He raised both hands, and the air around him seemed to warp and tremble. The agents hesitated, their formation faltering as they felt the weight of his power pressing down on them. A chilling aura filled the space, suffocating and oppressive.
The next moments were a blur of chaos and destruction. Abraham unleashed his abilities with ruthless precision, bending the factory itself to his will. Steel girders twisted like serpents, crushing the agents' cover. The ground beneath them cracked and shifted, throwing them off balance. Flames erupted where he directed kinetic energy to combust, lighting the scene with an eerie, flickering glow.
Despite their training, despite their advanced equipment, the Sentinel agents were no match. One by one, they fell or retreated, dragging their injured comrades out of the fray.
When the last of them disappeared into the smoke, Abraham stood amidst the wreckage, his chest heaving. The factory was a ruin, the air thick with the smell of scorched metal and smoke.
For a moment, he was silent, letting the echoes of battle fade. Then he looked down at his bloodied hands, flexing his fingers. The fire inside him burned brighter than ever.
They had tried to stop him. They had failed.
And now, they had made an enemy.
—
Abraham sat cross-legged in the dim light of his apartment, the faint glow of his golden eyes reflected in the blank TV screen. His mind replayed the events at the factory—how his raw strength and agility had barely kept up with the relentless onslaught. For all his abilities, he'd felt the sting of being outmatched, not in raw power but in the kind of brutal efficiency only a lifetime of training or a specialized design could deliver.
The Sentinel agents had been a wake-up call. They wouldn't be the last, and next time, they might bring something—or someone—he couldn't counter. His abilities were vast, but his physical body remained a human limitation. That needed to change.
He exhaled slowly, the room's air vibrating faintly with his focus. He could feel the eldritch energy coursing through him, a firestorm that he had barely tapped into. It was time to turn that fire inward, to refine himself—not just his powers, but the flesh and blood they inhabited.
—
The first attempt was crude.
Abraham stood before a full-length mirror, his shirt tossed aside, exposing his lean, athletic frame. He clenched his fists, concentrating on his own essence. The room dimmed as the energy pooled around him, a faint shimmer rising from his skin like heat waves. He tried to guide it, focusing on his muscles, his bones, his very cells.
At first, it felt exhilarating. His muscles burned, expanding slightly as the energy suffused them. His senses sharpened; the hum of the refrigerator in the next room sounded like a distant roar, the texture of the floor beneath his feet became vividly pronounced.
But then came the pain.
It hit like a tidal wave, wrenching his body as the energy turned chaotic, spiraling out of control. His skin flushed red, veins bulging as if they would burst. He stumbled back, gasping, and collapsed onto the floor. The eldritch fire extinguished, leaving him shaking and drenched in sweat.
"Damn it," he muttered through clenched teeth, his voice echoing in the silent room.
—
The second attempt was more calculated.
Abraham sat in his makeshift workshop—a corner of his apartment he'd cleared for experimentation. Pages of notes and sketches surrounded him, each one scribbled with diagrams of the human body and theories on energy manipulation. He'd researched extensively, poring over texts from the supernatural forum he'd joined, scouring for anything related to enhancing the physical form.
One post in particular had stood out: a detailed account from a user who claimed to have augmented their own strength using a combination of focus, precise intent, and external catalysts. The post had mentioned using objects imbued with significance to anchor the energy—something Abraham hadn't considered before.
He scanned his apartment for a suitable object and his eyes landed on a worn set of brass knuckles, a relic from a brief and foolish stint in self-defense training years ago. They were solid, reliable, and carried a weight of familiarity. Perfect.
He placed the knuckles in front of him and began to focus, his hands hovering over them. This time, he didn't rush. He visualized the energy flowing into the knuckles, saturating them with his essence. They began to glow faintly, a soft, otherworldly light that pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat.
When the knuckles were fully charged, he slipped them on and clenched his fists. The energy surged into his body, not wild and chaotic like before, but controlled and deliberate. His muscles tensed, the fire spreading through him in waves. He felt his strength increase, not in a fleeting burst, but as a steady, permanent change.
—
Days turned into weeks as Abraham refined the process. Each night, he pushed his limits further, experimenting with his body's endurance, speed, and resilience. The bruises on his hands and the aches in his muscles became badges of progress, reminders of the transformation he was undergoing.
He started small: increasing the density of his bones, reinforcing them with layers of energy until they felt unbreakable. Then, he turned his attention to his muscles, enhancing their fibers for greater strength and explosive power. Even his reflexes became sharper, his mind and body working in perfect synchrony as he rewired his nervous system for peak efficiency.
The results were undeniable.
One evening, he tested his newfound strength in the alley behind his apartment. A discarded steel pipe leaned against the wall, rusted but sturdy. He gripped it with one hand and squeezed. The metal groaned in protest before collapsing inward, crumpling like paper in his grip. He smiled faintly, satisfaction replacing the ever-present hunger in his chest—if only for a moment.
But the transformation came with its own challenges. His appetite grew insatiable, his body demanding more sustenance to fuel its enhanced state. Sleep became a delicate balance; while his physical needs had diminished, his mind often raced with the implications of what he'd done. The more he improved himself, the more he wondered where the line would be drawn—if there was a line at all.
—
The next test came unbidden.
Abraham was walking back from a late-night excursion when he felt it: the faint prickling at the back of his neck, a predator's instinct warning him of danger. He turned sharply, his enhanced senses scanning the shadows.
A figure stepped into the dim light of a streetlamp. Tall, broad-shouldered, and armed to the teeth, the man wore the telltale tactical gear of Sentinel. But he wasn't alone. More figures emerged, encircling Abraham with practiced precision.
"You've been busy," the leader said, his voice cold and professional. "We've been watching."
Abraham smirked, flexing his fingers. The knuckles of his fists cracked ominously. "Good. I've been looking for a proper test."
Before the leader could respond, Abraham moved. His enhanced speed turned him into a blur, closing the distance between them in the blink of an eye. His fist connected with the man's chest, the impact sending him hurtling into a parked car with a deafening crash.
The fight was short but brutal. Abraham's enhanced abilities made him a force of nature, his strikes shattering weapons and breaking bones. The Sentinel agents fought valiantly, but they were unprepared for the sheer ferocity of his assault.
When it was over, Abraham stood amidst the carnage, his chest heaving as he surveyed the scene. His fists were bloodied, his heart pounding with the thrill of victory.
He was stronger now, faster, more resilient. But deep down, he knew this was only the beginning. The world was full of threats, and he would meet them all head-on, reshaping himself into something unstoppable. Something more.
_____