Powers, once a fictional idea, came to life in the 1800s. At first, the world was thrilled by this new change, but that excitement soon turned to fear. The powers that emerged brought devastation, destroying everything in their path. Those without powers begged for salvation, their prayers answered by the first generation of Heroes. These Heroes restored balance to the broken world and were hailed as saviors.
This is where my story begins.
Growing up, I never had any powers. The doctors called me "unlucky." I hated that term. It made those around me—basically everyone in my family—look at me with pity. Some of my siblings didn't even acknowledge my existence. To them, I was a failure, a loser who was only good for cleaning the feet of these super-powered individuals. My parents, not wanting me to become a disappointment, forced me into brutal training. I learned every martial art, mastered multiple languages, and even how to kill.
Through it all, I lost my sense of emotion. I no longer felt sympathy, guilt, or joy. I was nothing but a weapon—a tool in a world ruled by powers. But I didn't want that life. I wanted freedom. So, at just fifteen, I left home and never looked back. No one cared. Not my parents, not my siblings. I was left to fight for myself in this cursed world.
If you're reading my story, don't pity me. I've had enough of that.
"Breaking news: Scientists have noticed—" I turned off the TV before I could hear the rest. I was sick of hearing about powers. It was everywhere, even at work. I was a geneticist, obsessed with unlocking a way to give myself powers. Many theorists said it was impossible, but I wasn't ready to give up. I was close. So close. My motivation? Her.
A woman who worked as a florist in the big city. She'd been through trauma, just like me. And that's what drew me to her—our shared pain. Today was the day I was going to ask her out. I didn't know if she'd say yes, but I had to try. For once, I wanted something real. Something not defined by powers or failure.