The world seems ordinary—cities hum with the familiar sounds of traffic, the internet connects people across continents, and life unfolds as it always has. Yet beneath the surface, there exists a hidden truth: rare individuals are born with extraordinary abilities, gifts that defy explanation. These powers are not the product of advanced technology or mutation but something deeper, more primal, tied to the unseen forces of existence.
While powers are incredibly rare, they are whispered about in urban legends and hushed conversations. Governments and secret organizations scour the globe, hoping to harness these anomalies for their own ends. For those who possess such abilities, life is a precarious balance between hiding their gifts and surviving in a world that fears what it doesn't understand.
Amid this hidden tapestry of power, Alex Hartley is an anomaly among anomalies. He doesn't have a power—he has many. Each of his personalities, fractured from his psyche due to an unknown trauma, wields a distinct and terrifying ability. Alex, however, knows none of this.
Alex is, by all outward appearances, a normal man. At 27, he lives a modest life in a quiet corner of the city, working as a freelance artist. He's lean, with unkempt brown hair, tired hazel eyes, and a habit of keeping his head down. He prefers to avoid confrontation, always carrying himself with a slouch that makes him easy to overlook.
But Alex is haunted by strange lapses in memory. Days blur together, and there are moments—hours, even—that he cannot recall. He wakes up in places he doesn't recognize, his hands sometimes bruised or bloodied. He tries to explain it away as stress or sleepwalking, but the gnawing sense of unease grows with each passing day.
One evening, while walking home from a client meeting, Alex's life takes a turn he never expected.
The night is quiet, save for the distant hum of the city and the occasional flicker of a dying streetlamp. Alex walks with his hands in his pockets, his breath fogging in the chilly air. His mind is elsewhere, replaying fragments of his last blackout—vague flashes of shouting, running, and... fear.
He doesn't notice the shadows trailing him until it's too late.
"Hey, buddy," a gruff voice calls out, breaking the silence.
Alex stops and turns to see four men emerging from the darkness. Their faces are partially obscured, but their intent is clear. One of them brandishes a knife, another a length of chain.
"Hand over your wallet and phone," the man with the knife demands.
Alex raises his hands, his voice trembling. "I don't want any trouble."
"You've already got it," another sneers, stepping closer.
Before Alex can respond, a fist connects with his stomach, doubling him over. A boot slams into his side, sending him sprawling to the ground. Pain blooms in his ribs, and the world starts to blur as fear takes over.
As the beating continues, a strange sensation courses through him—like a storm brewing deep within. His breath slows, his vision sharpens, and the fear gives way to something cold and unfamiliar.
When Alex looks up, it's no longer Alex. His eyes, once hazel, burn with an intense, fiery red glow. His slouched posture straightens, and his entire demeanor shifts—from a cowering victim to an unshakable force.
The thugs freeze as the air around him grows heavy, almost suffocating. The leader steps back, gripping his knife tighter. "What the hell's with his eyes?"
Alex—no, the personality now in control—smirks. His voice is calm, laced with quiet menace. "You made a mistake."
The chain-wielding thug lunges, but the new Alex doesn't move. Instead, a ripple of heat radiates outward, distorting the air. The chain glows red-hot in an instant, forcing the thug to drop it with a scream as it sears his hands.
The knife-wielder charges, slashing wildly. Alex sidesteps with inhuman speed, his movements precise and deliberate. With a flick of his wrist, flames erupt from his hand, engulfing the knife in a fiery blaze. The thug yelps, dropping the weapon as Alex looms closer.
The remaining two attackers hesitate, fear etched into their faces. One turns to run, but Alex raises a hand. A ring of fire explodes around the alley, trapping them inside.
"Leaving already?" he asks, his fiery eyes narrowing.
The leader stammers, backing away. "W-We didn't mean it! Just let us go!"
The new Alex considers this, his smirk fading into a cold, emotionless stare. "Mercy isn't my style."
Before he can act further, Alex's body shudders, and the fiery glow in his eyes flickers. The flames recede, the suffocating heat dissipates, and his posture slackens.
Alex collapses to his knees, gasping for air. His eyes return to hazel, confusion and horror overtaking his expression as he looks at the scorched alley and the trembling thugs.
"What... What did I do?" he whispers, his voice shaking.
Deep inside his mind, the fiery personality retreats into the shadows, waiting for the next time it's called.
Alex stumbles out of the alley, his legs shaky beneath him. His breath is shallow, his chest heaving as if the flames that had erupted from him moments earlier had drained all the air from his lungs. Rain falls steadily, soaking his jacket and plastering his hair to his forehead, but he barely notices. His mind is a storm of fractured thoughts: the fire, the thugs' screams, the voice that wasn't his own but had spoken through him.
His hands tremble as he pulls them into his pockets, clutching the fabric to steady himself. The sharp sting of bruised ribs and scraped palms reminds him that this is real—too real. He quickens his pace, almost breaking into a jog, his eyes darting nervously around the dimly lit streets. Each shadow feels alive, watching, judging.
When he finally reaches his apartment, Alex fumbles with his keys, cursing under his breath as they clatter to the floor. He crouches, picking them up with trembling fingers, and forces the door open, shutting it behind him with a resounding click.
In the Apartment
The small apartment feels colder than usual. The air smells faintly of damp wood and coffee left too long in the pot. Alex flicks on the light, its dull glow revealing an untidy living space—a laptop half-buried under scattered sketchbooks, an empty cup tipped over on the coffee table, and a jacket slung carelessly over a chair.
He doesn't care about the mess. His focus is singular as he makes his way to the bathroom. His steps are hurried but uneven, his boots squeaking against the tiled floor. When he reaches the sink, he braces himself against it, leaning heavily as he catches his breath.
For a moment, he can't bring himself to look in the mirror. He stares down at his hands instead—still faintly red from the heat that had radiated through them. His fingers flex instinctively, as if testing their normalcy, but the memory of fire licking up his palms flashes in his mind.
Finally, he lifts his gaze.
His reflection startles him. Water drips from his hair, tracing jagged paths down his pale face. His hazel eyes are wide, darting back and forth as if searching for answers in the mirror. He leans closer, his breath fogging the glass.
"What the hell just happened?" he mutters, his voice low and shaking.
His reflection doesn't answer, but something in his own expression unsettles him. A flicker of something other—a shadow of confidence and cold calculation—lingers in his eyes. He reaches up, tracing his fingers over his cheek, almost as if checking that it's still his own face staring back at him.
"Who was that?" he whispers.
The faintest memory surfaces—a voice, his voice, but stronger, sharper. The smirk. The fire. The overwhelming sense of power. His stomach churns at the thought, a mixture of fear and nausea rising in his throat.
He turns on the faucet, the water splashing loudly as he cups his hands beneath it. He splashes his face repeatedly, as if the cool water could wash away whatever had taken over him. Droplets cling to his lashes as he grips the edges of the sink, his knuckles white.
In the mirror, his reflection looks calmer now, but his hands are trembling. He tries to steady them, clenching and unclenching his fists, but the shaking only worsens when the memory of those fiery chains replay in his mind.
A muscle in his jaw tightens. His brows draw together, his lips pressing into a thin line. His breathing slows, but his chest still rises and falls unevenly. His eyes dart to the corner of the mirror, almost as if he's expecting to see someone else standing there—a specter of the personality that had taken control.
A flicker of anger flashes across his face, quickly replaced by confusion and fear. His gaze softens, his brows lifting slightly as his expression collapses into one of quiet disbelief.
"I... I killed them," he whispers, barely audible over the sound of the running water. His voice trembles, but there's a heaviness in the words, as if speaking them aloud makes them real.
He stares into his own eyes, searching for something familiar, something reassuring. Instead, all he sees is a man he doesn't recognize—a man capable of violence, of power beyond comprehension.
His breathing quickens again, and he pushes himself away from the sink, shaking his head. "No. This isn't me. This isn't me."
But deep down, he knows the truth: it is him. Or, at least, a part of him he doesn't understand yet—a part of him he can't control.
For now, Alex retreats to his room, pulling off his soaked jacket and collapsing onto the bed. He lies there in the dim light, staring at the cracked ceiling, his mind racing. The thugs, the fire, the other voice—it all replays in a dizzying loop until exhaustion finally pulls him into a restless sleep.