Aysha Villard had the kind of life most girls her age could only dream of. Rich, admired, daughter of a powerful man, and heiress to a historically influential family. A promising future in professional fencing, with her name already echoing in international circuits.

She had already competed in the Fencing Olympics, bringing home a silver medal. Her precision, lightning-fast reflexes, and focused discipline had impressed the world. Commentators praised her as having “the fastest hands in the competition,” and that single line was enough to launch her into global recognition.

Her future seemed unstoppable.

But no one knew Aysha Villard's greatest secret. A secret that made her not just extraordinary—but dangerous.

For over a century, Brazil had been caught in the middle of a civil war. A conflict born not from nations, but from within. Certain people—called “Inhumans”—had awakened a hidden force known as Isang, and used it to fight a broken political system. They believed corruption had destroyed the country, and took justice into their own hands.

Amidst all this, Aysha lived a "normal" life—or at least pretended to. But the truth was, she too was Inhuman. She just didn’t know how to control it yet.

Her power would manifest only under extreme anger or hatred—random, violent bursts of force she didn’t understand.

That morning, she sat quietly in history class, eyes drifting as the teacher lectured:

_ “Pacheco Pereira set foot in Brazil in 1498, two years before Pedro Álvares Cabral arrived and ‘discovered’ the country in 1500,” the teacher said.

Aysha’s hands started to tingle again—that strange sensation of static, as if something was waking up beneath her skin. Her fingers felt heavier, fuller, like her body was reacting to something invisible.

She stared at them, breathing slower.

The school bell rang.

Her Uber was already waiting outside. She slid into the back seat and rode home, lost in thought.

The war between radical Inhumans and ARGON—the government-backed organization that monitored, trained, and fought Inhuman activity—was getting worse. The news was a barrage of chaos: assassinated senators, city blocks reduced to craters, and midnight street battles between agents and rogue powers.

No one cared about Olympic medals anymore.

People just wanted to survive.

 Is ARGON really protecting us? Or do they just want to control the Isang?

Aysha wasn’t sure. She was part of both worlds. And neither made her feel safe.

When she arrived home, she immediately noticed something was off.

The gate was slightly open.

The doorknob was twisted.

There was… too much silence. That kind of silence that screams.

She opened the door slowly.

The living room was torn apart—pillows shredded, a chair toppled over, the curtain hanging by a thread. There was a metallic smell in the air.

Then she saw it.

Her mother and her little sister were lying on the floor, motionless, lifeless, soaked in blood. The house that had once been full of love and warmth was now a grave.

Her fencing sword slipped from her hand and hit the tile with a dull clang. The kind of sound that feels like a final sentence.

Then she saw him.

A man, dressed as a mime, stood silently in the corner of the room, like a shadow that didn’t belong.

 “So you’re Aysha,” he said, his voice calm. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Before she could think, her rage exploded.

Power erupted from her body like a shockwave. Her aura shimmered with raw, uncontrolled energy.

She lunged at the man, throwing a flurry of punches—but he dodged them with ridiculous ease, moving like a cartoon character in slow motion. She missed every strike, hit the wall, and dropped to the floor.

 “You’re fast and strong,” he said. “But you haven’t unlocked your Isang yet.”

Aysha glared at him through tears, face bruised, hair falling across her eyes.

“There’s no point fighting you like this. You couldn’t even scratch my shirt,” he mocked.

The rage built again. She screamed and launched another punch.

The man simply observed, amused. Like a scientist watching a mouse after an injection. His counterattacks were light, almost playful—barely touches, but they hurt like hell.

He stepped to the side and jabbed her ribs with two fingers.

Pain shot through her like a lightning bolt.

She dropped, gasping.

 “Get stronger,” he said, looking down at her. “Because next time… one of us dies.”

He turned, extended a hand, and a portal opened—swirling, glowing. Through it, Aysha saw a familiar building and a sign.

 I know that place…

The mime stepped through and vanished.

The portal closed behind him.

Aysha lay on the floor, in her mother’s blood, her fingers still twitching.