Sitting alone on the bed, he glanced at the mirror again.

His reflection stared back—strange, unfamiliar. His hair now had streaks of white running through it, like lightning had struck the crown of his head and burned a pattern into him. He leaned closer. The streaks weren’t random. The way they curved, the way they framed his face—it was almost… unnatural.

He set the mirror down beside him with a sigh.

His throat felt dry. Reaching for the water bottle on his nightstand, he tilted it—empty. He groaned softly and closed his eyes.

But then, something strange happened.

As he held the bottle, it began to fill—clear water rising from the bottom to the top, like it was obeying him. No noise. No flash. Just water, appearing out of nothing. He stared in disbelief, then drank. The moment he finished, the bottle refilled itself again, without hesitation.

He gripped it tighter, disturbed. What was this? A trick? A curse?

Frustrated, he hurled the bottle across the room. It hit the wall and bounced off harmlessly.

He wanted to check the time. Reaching toward the nightstand, his hand found nothing. Scanning the room, he spotted his phone sitting far away on the cabinet.

He sighed. “Of course.”

With a defeated chuckle, he stretched out his hand lazily toward it, half-joking to himself, “Come here.”

The phone jerked, floated… then zipped into his palm.

He froze.

His fingers tightened around the device. A rush of adrenaline surged through him.

“What the hell…?”

Awe. Fear. Disgust. They mixed in his gut, forming a toxic storm.

I’m becoming a monster.

That thought echoed again, louder this time.

Then a memory struck: the mark.

He grabbed the mirror again and twisted, trying to get a glimpse of his back. It was faint, but he could see it.

The mark had spread.

Thick, black tendrils of strange symbols now reached further across his skin, curling like vines, like veins, like something alive.

He whispered, “This isn't the power I asked for…”

His chest tightened. Rage boiled.

With a cry, he hurled the mirror against the floor.

It shattered—glass exploding outward like frozen tears.

Breathing heavy, something dark twisted inside him.

He picked up a shard.

His hands shook.

Then—without thinking—he jabbed it into his throat.

Blood exploded out—hot, fast, violent. He choked, gurgled, gasped.

But seconds later—the wound sealed.

Eyes wide, he stared at the mirror shard, now soaked in red.

He did it again.

And again.

And again.

Over and over.

The wounds closed. The blood poured. The pain remained.

He wasn’t trying to end it.

He was trying to feel something that lasted.

Screaming, he dropped to the floor, sobbing, his voice cracking from agony and exhaustion.

Downstairs, James had just put down a cup of tea when he heard the shatter.

Then the scream.

He froze.

Olivia was already on her feet, the color draining from her face. She bolted up the stairs.

James was right behind her, his heart pounding.

They threw the door open—and stopped.

Blood. So much blood.

On the walls. The bed. The floor.

And in the center of it all—Angelo.

Their son. Kneeling. Trembling. A jagged piece of mirror lay beside him. His throat smeared in red. His hands stained. His sobs like broken glass.

James felt his legs lock. His mouth opened, but no words came.

Olivia didn’t hesitate.

She dropped to her knees, slipping in the blood as she pulled Angelo into her arms.

“Oh my God… Oh my baby…”

He didn’t resist. He just collapsed into her, burying his face in her chest.

James stepped forward carefully, kicking away the other glass shards. He crouched beside them, his voice tight with panic, but soft. “Angelo… why…?”

“I didn’t know what else to do…” he sobbed. “It won’t stop. Nothing stops. It just keeps going and going and I… I feel like I’m disappearing…”

James pulled them both into his arms. “Then we’ll hold on to you. We won’t let you disappear.”

Olivia ran her hand through Angelo’s hair, tears streaming down her face. “You’re not alone. Do you hear me? You are not alone.”

They held him there, soaked in blood and grief, but refusing to let go.

Their clothes darkened as his blood soaked through them. Olivia didn’t flinch when it smeared across her arms, or when it matted into her hair. James’s hands, shaking, were stained to the wrists, but he held on tighter.

They didn’t try to clean it yet. They didn’t move him. The blood covered everything—the floor, the walls, their skin—but none of it mattered.

Not yet.

The chaos inside him didn’t vanish.
The marks didn’t fade.
The powers didn’t stop.

But in that moment, they gave him something the powers never could:

Warmth.
Love.
And something he hadn’t felt in days—
The feeling of being human.