I never expected my eighteenth birthday to change my life—at least, not in a way that felt straight out of a comic book. Sure, I'd fantasized about it. Who hasn't? But for me, it was always supposed to mean a bigger celebration or maybe finally getting to move out and start my own life. Instead, it brought fire.
Literally.
The day started normally enough. My mom woke me up with her usual off-key rendition of "Happy Birthday," and my best friend Marcus texted me a meme about being "officially legal and still useless." I laughed at it then. By the end of the day, it wouldn't feel like a joke anymore.
I should've known something was off when I got a headache so bad it felt like my skull was cracking open. It came out of nowhere while I was eating birthday pancakes. One second, I was fine; the next, I was gripping the edge of the table and gasping for air.
My mom thought it was a migraine, but when she reached out to touch my forehead, her hand snapped back like she'd touched a hot stove. "Ethan!" she shouted, clutching her hand. Her palm was bright red, like it had been burned.
That's when I noticed the smell. Burnt wood. I looked down and realized the table beneath my hands was blackened, smoke curling off the edges.
I panicked.
I stumbled away from the table, my chair clattering to the floor. My heart pounded as heat surged through my veins. My skin felt like it was on fire—but not in a painful way. It was like my body was overflowing with something raw and uncontrollable. And then it happened.
The flames erupted from my hands, twisting in the air like they had a life of their own. My mom screamed, but I couldn't stop it. The fire danced, wild and angry, until I threw myself backward and hit the floor.
The flames vanished as quickly as they'd appeared, leaving scorched wood and a terrified silence in their wake.
"What the hell was that?" my mom whispered, her voice trembling.
I didn't have an answer. How could I?
The rest of the day was a blur. My mom was scared—of me, of what I'd done. I didn't blame her. I was scared, too. I spent hours in my room, trying to figure out how to make the fire come back, but it wouldn't listen. It felt like trying to flex a muscle I'd never used before.
By nightfall, I was exhausted. I thought I could sleep it off, pretend none of it had happened. But then the knock came.
It wasn't loud, but it was heavy, deliberate.
My mom went to the door, but before she could open it, I felt it again—that heat rising inside me. My instincts screamed at me to run, but it was too late.
The door exploded inward, and men in black suits stormed into the house. They moved fast, too fast, pinning my mom against the wall and spreading through the house like a shadow.
"Ethan Ward," one of them said, his voice cold and clipped. He stepped forward, a tall man with piercing blue eyes. "You've manifested. You're coming with us."
Manifested? I didn't have time to process the word. The man snapped his fingers, and two of the others lunged for me.
The fire came back. This time, I didn't need to force it. It roared to life, brighter and hotter than before. The men hesitated, their eyes widening in surprise, and that's when I ran.
I didn't know where I was going. I just knew I had to get out. Flames licked the walls as I pushed past them, my body blazing like a torch. I could hear them shouting behind me, but I didn't stop.
I sprinted into the night, my hands still glowing faintly with embers.
Who were they? How did they know about me? And what did they mean by "manifested"?
I had no answers, only fire and fear.